My dog tugs hard at the leash when we step out into the white.
Almost as if she’s never seen the snow before.
There we are, with a small space to walk,
Surrounded by brightness,
Surrounded by the newness of what was left over night.
But as I walk further, I see the heaviness of this great storm.
The weighted trees.
The broken branches with piercing jagged edges.
Branches which are careful not to move an inch,
In fear of loosing a limb.
So much to bear for the delicate and fragile.
When the snow has fallen in great abundance,
I know that I am meant to walk around in it,
To open the door and be like my dog
Excited by the new vantage point.
But ahead of me the branches reach down toward the earth,
Not up to the pale blue grey sky.
And it is then that I see this precarious balance.
The balance of joy and weight
which makes for the wonder of each step
out into the illuminated white snow.
Week 9. Joy and pain.
My dog Paloma is a great barometer for the weather. When it’s raining she looks sad and mopey. When its sunny she's begging to go outside at every chance, and when there is fresh snow awaiting, she’s panting and begging to get out and romp around like a child. The day after the big storm when I took her out I began to notice how many branches were broken from the weight of the snow. There seemed to be such a contrast between the simple joy within Paloma and the weight of the snowy branches. I began to wonder if there could there be a connection between suffering and joy? There seems to be a need for balance in order to live with both. I had to let this idea settle in a bit, so I continued walking and thinking. When I tried to come up with a conclusive thought on the subject the only conclusion I could draw was that maybe our greatest insights are found in the spaces between the two, as we get out and walk around in both places.