Truly we live with mysteries…

Today, after a long day in a series of very long days, in a series of very, very long months; I sat on my couch and watched the snow float through the March sky. It hardly was there at all, just tiny icy flicks of light; I doubt it touched the ground honestly. But from here, on the 4th floor, it danced past the windows in the early evening light. It was nice to watch it, to have my shoes off and hear myself breathing.

The day I left Portland in November, there was a dusting of snow that was equally as soft and quiet; a promise of winter, a kiss of a new season. That snow felt like a goodbye. As though nature were waving at me as I packed the final pieces of myself and with courage headed south to New York.

Backstage during the show at the very end of the play I would watch the snow machine turn on and smile, though no one saw, at the mechanical cloud that created magic. I felt so lucky, with my hands in the pockets of my green coat, that I got to be there. What joy, to be grateful.

My Grandfather use to be the snow machine in Baltimore for The Nutcracker every year-when Clara would transition from her world to the land of sweets and the snowflakes would swirl her onward in her journey. Perhaps this was a way he was with me, aiding my transitions.

I’ve been thinking of the snow that way lately. That it is, in someway, guiding me. Guiding me to be grateful, guiding me to be present, guiding me towards myself and meeting myself where ever that is.

There are these moments, it seems, when goodness reaches down and touches you. And despite your fear and misgivings, your deep sorrow and broken heart, your loss and hurt and worry–you feel deeply, profoundly un-alone (naked, perhaps, vulnerable for sure, but present). And the comfort of all those who love you swirl around, guiding and aiding where they can, floating just outside your window like dandelion seeds; each with the whisper of a wish, a vow of Spring you cannot even begin to comprehend.

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