The wind is blowing hard, and long arms of snow drifts stretch across the country roads, though the wind itself is not cold, it is a west wind, and with it the feeling of spring.  The sun is bright and the icicles sparkle like hippie crystals in the sun.  The black shadows of trees stretch across the white snow.  The shadows of icicles are like dragons teeth on the blinds.  I watch the deer from the truck  as we drive back from dropping off one of the young men for a date at the movies.  Deer cluster under the green boughs of pines, one paws at the snow as another lies beside her curled.  The dog and I walk slowly around the plowed yard and driveway, calm and quiet delighting in the chopping blades of the windmill and the cardinal birdsong that delights the windy air.

I have butterflies in my stomach as a friend tells me he knows I am happy because I am painting again, he who claims to have but one friend, but I know there are at least two.  He hugs me with genuine warmth and affection as he leaves.  Tom taps my hand in the truck and I put my tiny (so not tiny) hands into his fingers laced together, how such bruised and chapped and calloused and cracked hands can feel so soft and tender and safe makes the butterflies come again.

There is a moment in life when the waves come and knock you off your feet.  The sand slips out from underneath you as the undertow tries to drag you into the deep, a hand in regaining your footing is all that is needed.  You can stand in judgment and think a person weak when they cannot catch themselves up, or you can be the ready and steady that is there to catch someone up when they fall.  It is all about the choices we make.  It is all about the decision to stick it out, or to throw in the towel, and the person sitting on it.

We can choose too to swim in the deep, to take in the intense beauty and awful ugliness, and complete ordinariness that dwells within every being on this earth.  You can choose to embrace the deep, to love the deep or hate the deep.  To take a hand as you float upon the water, and kick your feet in tandem.  Are you floating on the water or is it the clouds, or is it both?

Or we can choose to live saturated in the depth of being.

Or is it all one thing?

There is this pounding surf like perfection though, just in being, just as it was meant to be.

Can you not feel it?

Are you not waiting for the next wave to come and rush your body back to the wet sand at the edge of the sea?  Or to draw you back into the deep.  Does it matter really in the end?


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