View from the back deck. Early in the day Friday. Snowed a lot more than this by the end of the storm. And apparently, another storm is on the way for early next week.

Sometimes, it looks like things outside are dead, but maybe it’s winter, and they are only resting. Bulbs are like that. They bloom and then they hibernate.  Also perennials. Fruit trees. Some animals, too, like bears and (of course) groundhogs.

Sometimes, I feel like things inside me are dead. But maybe they too are only resting? Maybe there is grieving I have to do, and maybe the grieving looks like bulbs in winter. Hard, buried. No sign of growth or flowering. No sign of life. No hope.

Sometimes things do not work out the way you think they will, the way you think they should. If you were in charge of things, they would be not be like this. They would have worked out better!

But.

Of course, you are not in charge of things. You can’t control much of anything, honestly.

(Is there anything we truly can control? Can we keep our hearts beating, our lungs breathing? Our brains synapsing (or something like that?))

In my centering prayer group this week, we talked about the seasons and nature and how the natural world does not exist in a constant state of production, filling, and flowing. These are always balanced with times of rest and renewal, with emptying and ebbing. Most of us humans live our lives trying to be productive and useful. We think that more is always better. (That’s what so many of the social media influencers challenge us to do… have “million dollar morning routines”… set goals and accomplish them… become our best selves!)

But isn’t this a little like always having summer without winter, springtime without autumn? It isn’t possible for the natural world, and it doesn’t seem healthy for us either.

I have had a month of a lot of ebbing and emptying. I have not been a fan of this. I was sick with Covid and lost more than a week of work. I had just started to feel like I was going to catch up when the weather shifted and a massive storm system came our way. The snow level dropped to 1000 feet, and chain controls went into effect in Applegate, a small town miles down the road from me that hardly ever gets snow, let alone enough to necessitate drivers having to chain up there. I live at 3200 feet; we have already gotten a foot of snow.

I had to cancel my work appointments for Thursday and Friday; I didn’t want to be on the road, and my clients didn’t want to be on the road, either. The roads are treacherous, not just because of the weather but because of other drivers who think that their four wheel drive vehicles are invincible in the snow. When I worked at a ski resort years ago, I watched many vehicles slide off the road into snowbanks. “It’s four wheel drive, not four wheel stop,” one of my friends said. She was right.

So I stayed home and watched the snow fall. I put on my snow shoes and walked up to the post office to mail a letter, only to discover a sign on the door that said, “Sorry. No mail today. Trucks can’t get through.” I mailed it anyway. I watched children who were staying at the hotel make snowmen. I made a cauliflower and eggplant curry. I peeled and cooked my butternut squash. I drank all of my sparkling seltzer waters.

I had to stay home a few weeks ago because I was sick. I stayed home these last few days because it was where I was supposed to be. Days of ebb and emptying, of resting and waiting. Learning to relax into the stillness, remembering that the snow will melt, that the work will come, that it’s OK to have a break, even if it’s not a break that I necessarily wanted (but maybe it’s a break that I needed?). Trusting that we are always loved and cared for. Trusting that rest is not failure. Trusting that spring is on its way. Trusting that all will be well. Always.