At home with “Frost”

1920520_761397673880824_227585059_n

It snowed again today. Again.

Hello March 22nd. Sorry, Spring…your brother Winter is a jerkface.

It’s appropriate then that a new connection sent me a quote by Robert Frost. Synchronicity, huh?

“What I am pointing out is that unless you are at home
in the metaphor, unless you have had your proper
poetical education in the metaphor, you are not safe
anywhere. Because you are not at ease with figurative
values: you don’t know the metaphor in its strength
and its weakness. You don’t know how far you may
expect to ride it and when it may break down with you.
You are not safe in science; you are not safe in history.”

Dive into the warm water of metaphor, folks.

🙂

Advertisements

fotos: urban winter

photo

 

“But for me, winter has an even greater gift to give. It comes when the sky is clear, the sun is brilliant, the trees are bare, and the first snow is yet to come. It is the gift of utter clarity. In winter, one can walk into woods that had been opaque with summer growth only a few months earlier and see the trees clearly, singly and together, and see the ground they are rooted in.”
-Parker Palmer, Let Your Life Speak

I’m trying to keep these words of Parker Palmer in mind this week as January wears on. Winter in Chicago can be mild or brutal, sometimes both in the same week. In the middle of the Chicago winter it’s hard for me to recall that feeling, just before the first snow, that feeling of shifting into a new season. In the middle of Chicago winter I get lost in the cold and the calendar. I just want it to be Spring again, now.

This week I’m working on recapturing the gift Winter has for me. I’m working on looking up when they sky is clear and the sun brilliant, and in the midst of the snow and slush I will reach for those bare trees and recall the feel of my fingers in the soil, the ground in which I’m rooted.

Spring will come with time.

fotos: being there

20120608-073407.jpg
This space
I populated
with young plants
in early Spring
ready, and
not quite ready,
to root-
to bloom-
to open their leaves-
to the sun’s hard work
but there it was
within a month,
like breath-
like prayer-
like promise-
a rush of color
on carpet and concrete.