A Big Surish Day

Kitty just ran by and up the stairs as fast as any roadrunner. It might appear she really is losing her kitty mind as nothing I can see or hear precipitated this action. Now she is rearranging something in the loft, at least that’s what it sounds like. Jumping from some undisclosed height I wonder if its something in the new food we are giving her. ‘Who knows where she takes her cues from’ I decide. A quote from a cat book floats into my mind “Sometimes I can’t explain myself.” This sums up the situation.

Today is a Big Surish day outside. A misty fog, except instead of moisture of the misty kind we have dry snowballs of the teeny tiny kind. raining from its density. Kitty now sits watching the early birds arrive as first signs of light penetrate the thick fog, just enough to subtly illuminate the deck and pine trees, letting us know how thick this soup is. It the kind of morning I long for. I realize this only now that it is here. It wraps around me as the fog wraps around our home. It holds me and lets me feel what’s inside my inner soup, the comfort of warmth, of pulling in, of being held. Of letting all the inner ingredients stew. Best not to have to many cooks around when stirring inner concoctions.

Kitty switches to her other favorite place-my lap-and begins kneading with head tucked in under my armpit. The small beads of snow turn to flakes as if an order was called out, somewhere up there, to “Roll-em” and now they are flattened to reveal their infinitely one-of-a-kind patterns. The birds sit and eat anyway, snow falling all around and covering the treasure of seed they seek. For a while they will carry on through it.

Maybe we all start out looking like those same-little balls- but our balls are made of light-our soul. Then when the show starts, conception and birth, someone says “Roll-em” and out we come, turning into our unique selves. Instead of the crystalline assortment of snowflakes, we have DNA that dictates our one-of-a-kindness. And though we often think of our lives as taking these long and various roads in the larger arena of our life, it’s as short as a trip from the heavens as a snowflake has to the ground, to merge and melt, into earth and each other. Maybe that’s why we hold a secret love for these beautiful crystals, we see ourselves, our short-lived lives in their pure journey. And as much as we’d like to attach a whole lot of meaning and purpose to our tumbling through time…its really could be just for the trip, for the beauty of the trip. Is that what they show us?

Kitty’s back to the glass door peering at all the feathered varieties gathering. She is crouched low waiting for her moment and she’ll take it even though the glass door will stop her. The fog has lifted a bit, I see the hillside across the canyon again, dotted with pine trees, rocks and snow. The rail around the deck fills with pine siskins mostly, though a few nuthatches, chickadees and juncos are squeezing in. I feel the trees rejoicing for any bit of moisture after their long dry spell. Their needles almost sparkle, whispering Yes! They don’t really complain when they don’t get it. They’ll pull in and get quiet, conserving what they have, they have been through those long dry spells and survived, most of them anyway But, if any water falls the needles will sing. It is how they take in moisture. If you listen closely you’ll hear their song, a rejoicing of sorts.

Do you think snowflakes have a song too?

The snow has stopped, a grey day remains and Kitty has found her latest resting spot. A shoebox, tipped on its side, a perfect size to squeeze into and melt like the remaining snowflakes. Watching birds is big work. Rest is needed.

Me, the moment of fog and it’s gifts has dissipated. I’m grateful for it’s visit, short lived and all. I nestle in with a song of my own, quietly humming….

Mary