Have you ever gone outside, in the deep sleep of night, and listened to the snow fall? Blanket wrapped around the shoulders (slippers printing the snow dust on the porch), and the snow whispers as it glides down . . . not another sound in the wide world. And for a rare moment, the mind sits still and listens in rapture.
Winter has special blessings for those willing to weather the cold.
On my walk the other day, I took my usual route. There’s an old, wooden-shingled building at the base of a hill; and from my vantage, I can only ever see the roof.
But the leafless branches revealed something I had never seen before: steps leading down the hill. They instantly delighted me. The place that has always drawn me to itself—with its lovely moss-laden roof—now feels accessible.
So I ponder: maybe the barren, leafless places are the most revealing. The places that are stripped of the things that cover and hide. The places that invite sight of all things—the heart of the matter.