Sping snow

Last week spring arrived. After what seemed like the longest winter on record, our little patch of frozen tundra began to thaw. The snow that had been our constant companion since late last year disappeared in just a matter of days. Earth was visible. The streets and sidewalks were clean. Birds were singing their delight of sunshine and warmer spring winds. Tra-la! Tra-la! We did it! We’d made it through winter!

But Old Man Winter had other plans for us. With one grand gesture yesterday he delivered six inches of wet, heavy snow. Boots, hats and scarves that were almost packed away were pulled on again as we began to dig out. This morning brought bright sunshine so it was hard to be too crabby about this last hurrah of winter.

It's with a Victorian manner of restrained moderation that I usually enjoy being outdoors. On sunny days I love looking at the streams of light coming in the window but don't often venture out into them directly. If it's winter and I am outside, I'm either on my way to or from the car. If it's summer you might find me on a screen porch or, if it's not too hot or bug-y, under a big shade tree but more often than not I'm indoors until dusk.

Today, in unusual move, I headed out in this fresh landscape of white to see what there was to see. With all that sunshine bouncing off the new snow it was quite bright. In my excitement to get out the door, I hadn't thought to bring sunglasses but they would've been good gear for the walk.

It had warmed enough that, where people had done a good job of shoveling, there were patches of bare sidewalk. Old Man Winter was loosing this battle! I heard robins singing, melt-water trickling down rain pipes and drains and the slosh of my boots as I walked through slush in the streets. It was delightful to be out in the day!

Here are some of the things there were to see:






Tracks in the snow made by some little something. (It was so bright out I couldn't see the photo on the camera when I took this picture!)





The contrast of texture and color of a hedge against the snow.


An iron fence and its shadow.














By this time I remembered why I don’t usually walk outside in the wintertime: it’s slippery and slow-going. I had it in my mind that I would turn back at the next corner and head home and right then I felt a gentle tug to go forward one more block. No reason why, just go one more block.

Wanting to remain in charge, my rational head started in with all the reasons why I should turn back at the next corner as we had planned. It was quick to point out that ‘there’s nothing to see up there that I hadn’t already seen on all the walks I'd taken over the years’. It reminded me that ‘my neck was getting sore from looking down for ice patches’ and that 'it was so awfully bright out' and all sorts of practical reasons to ‘stick to the plan’.

The rational part of my brain almost won out but then I decided to listen to that gentle feeling and here was my reward:



Isn’t that a treat?! Being so petite in stature I didn’t see it until I was on top of it but there it was in all its spring snow glory! It's clear that the creator had fun making it and intended to share that joy with passers-by. What a charming reminder to embrace what life brings! This was the reward for having followed my gut.

Feelings are easy to ignore; I do it much of the time. My rational head has so many reasons why I shouldn’t listen to my intuition, so many lists of LISTS of lists to keep me from paying attention. And in case that isn't enough to distract me it will start in with ‘oh and did I tell you’ and ‘blah blah blah’. If I don’t keep it in check it would go on like that all day. It can be exhausting.

In the past months I've been doing my best to pay attention to what I'm feeling. Right now I find I’m in the noticing stage where I may be aware of but not follow through with what my spirit is asking. But like today when I do take that next step and act on those gentle feelings, there is always--- and I do mean always--- a reward. Though my brain may not logically understand it, my intuition has never let me down.

When I first took a T’ai Chi class a few years ago our instructor would say ‘listen on the inside’ or 'listening on the inside'. I didn't have a clue about what he was describing but over time and with the intent to understand him I began to notice what I was feeling. He was right: when I quieted my head and paid attention, I could hear myself on the inside. It wasn’t the busy chatter that my brain creates all day but a quiet, centered calm.

It’s lovely to be connected!

Listening on the inside,
Karen