Reflections after the polar vortex

Last weekend, after the polar vortex had left and the thaw came to our flatland, Marilyn and I went for a walk in Meadowbrook Park. For weeks, the snow and ice had kept us away. But on Sunday afternoon, with the sun out and temperatures in the fifties, the walking paths were busy with runners, strollers, children exploring—“Come down here, Mom!” one boy called from the edge of the brook. “It’s wonderful!”—all of us glad to be moving, to be outside, to be breathing without seeing our breaths.

Almost all the snow had melted, leaving puddles across the paths where the water had nowhere to drain.

I found myself looking down instead of up, seeing the landscape reflected, inverted, in the water. Bare trees and white clouds below me instead of above—a kind of magic. The landscape new again.

At Home Now on This Flatland

I had lived for seven years in a Pennsylvania valley before I moved here to east central Illinois in 1997.  In those seven years I remember watching a sunset once: I was somewhere near the mall at a point high enough that I could see the sun go down behind the mountains.  I don't know if I could have seen the sunrise; besides,  I don't think I woke up early enough very often.

When I moved here for my first (and current) full-time faculty job, I lived in a townhouse that had windows facing east and west.  I lived on the southern edge of town, and from the window of my second-floor study, I would watch the sun rise across a cornfield as I got ready for my long day of teaching.  

Watching the sun come up in that big sky, I felt like a child who had recently been swaddled but was now all limbs.  I missed the embrace of the mountains and felt exposed on this flatland. 

As the years passed, my relationship with the big sky changed.  I became used to the openness and began to think of the sky with its changing clouds and colors as the mountains of the Midwest: a formation of white clouds in the winter might look like snowcapped mountains. The sunsets I often watch as I leave work are part of the familiar delight of the end of the day. 

Earlier this month, on my first day back after the winter break, I noticed the brilliant sunset once again and had to stop and take photos as I left the campus. The campus and the landscape are now home to me.

The Comfort of the Prairie

On two recent afternoons, I walked the familiar path through the prairie in Meadowbrook Park. 

On the first day, the clouds were thick as I parked the car by the popular play structure where a few children played despite the cold.  As I turned off the ignition, the drizzle turned to a steady rain, and parents began hurrying children to the cars, some bundled in their arms.  I had grabbed my raincoat as I left the house; with the hood low over my face, I looked down at the ground and walked on the familiar path.  I was sad, and the weather mirrored my mood.  The rain seemed just right, and the path beneath my feet grounded me. 

Twenty-four hours later, I was back on the path.  The sun was brighter than it had been in days, the air was crisp, and I felt lighthearted and wide awake.  I walked again on the path that has become a kind of meditation for me. 

On this last day of 2014, I am grateful for this prairie to which I return all year round, where I listen for the creatures that share the space, and watch the grass that blows in the wind.  

February Afternoon in Meadowbrook Park

On the Sunday of Valentine's weekend, Marilyn and I took a walk in Meadowbrook Park.  While I, too, look forward to the spring, that walk reminded me again how breathtakingly beautiful the snow is. Despite the below-freezing temperatures, I took my gloves off again and again to take these pictures of the prairie in the snow.  They seem like a good way to close out this snowy February (though I hear we will be getting snow again as March gets going). 

Snapshots of Winter

This winter, the weather has been the story: sub-zero temperatures alternating with frequent snow falls. We joke that 20 degrees Fahrenheit feels warm. The snow cover makes an otherwise dark time of year feel blinding at times. Nothing feels "average."  

Last night, as the local news announced yet another winter weather advisory, I said to Marilyn, "They probably have that recorded and just play it every three days."  

Today, our college, which rarely has a snow day, closed at 1 p.m. because the travel conditions were deteriorating.  

All through this remarkable winter, I have been taking photos.  Here are some of them.

Over MLK weekend last month, we went to Chicago for three nights, to rest, to get away, to read in a quiet room in the bustle of the city. We arrived just as the snow began on Friday night.

 

                 This was our view on Saturday morning.

On Saturday, we walked around in the slushy cold with ice chips flying at our faces  As we ate lunch, we smiled at the snow outside the window, happy not to be driving.  By afternoon, the snow was heavy.  

We finally made it to the Museum of Contemporary Art because it was close to our hotel.  We laughed as we trudged through snow to get there and were wary as we looked up the long flight if stairs leading to the museum entrance. This photo and the next two were taken after we had made it inside.

Back home again, I woke to this sunrise on a weekday morning.

I laughed when I saw this sign as I drove home from downtown on a recent  Saturday morning.  The temps were in the single digits.  I was wearing long johns again--long johns that I used to wear a few times a year but which I have had to wear several times a week this winter.  Still, it was a reminder that summer will come.

On Valentine's Day, Marilyn left this plant for me on my desk at work.  It made me think of our rose bush in the back garden, of walking along the path lined with ajuga and daisies.  Yes, summer will come.

In the meantime, staying inside means plenty of time for knitting.  I recently went on a retreat where I learned to cable.  This is the hat I'm making now, one of the few things I knit that I will keep for myself.  I look forward to working on it every evening.

A Reflection on the New Year

Rilke once wrote, "And now let us welcome the New Year full of things that have never been." I often stamped that quote on New Year's cards, finding in it an open and optimistic message. After the tragedies of last year, Rilke's words now seem almost ominous. What will this year bring that has never been, and how will we and those we love survive it? 

So far this year--and it is only four days old--Marilyn has had the stomach flu, and I have felt unable to get warm some days.  Starting tomorrow, the temperatures are going to fall again--to the coldest the Midwest has seen in decades. 

This afternoon, though, we had a respite. The sun came out, and the temperature was a relatively balmy 32°. I took a walk.

I listened to the rhythm of my boots thumping on the sidewalk, crunching through the snow.  As always, walking steadied me.  

Nearly home, I looked down at the snow and saw this leaf. For some reason, its beauty gives me hope.  

The Comforts of Snow

Last weekend, as I finished up grading final papers and exams, the snow began to fall. That last stage of the semester is a kind of turning inward anyway; the snow made me feel even more like I was tucked into a quiet place where I could focus just on the task in front of me, instead of juggling the many that usually confront me.

During breaks from grading, Marilyn and I watched one of our favorite movies, White Christmas.

These photos were taken on Saturday morning from inside our house.

Early the next week, after I had submitted final grades and the sun had come out again, I went for a walk in the neighborhood.

Snowy evening

In front of a crackling fire, and grateful to be here.

Immersion

Settling down with coffee, biscotti, and books.

I've been studying hard these past few days, buried in books as I prepare to teach Introduction to Poetry for the first time and to teach from a new textbook in my Humanities course on South Asia. I park myself at Cafe Kopi for hours at a time, and it feels like pure luxury to read and think and plan and then read some more.

Occasionally, I look up and notice that different people are now seated at the table next to mine. At the end of the day, I pile up my books, put them in my backpack, and walk a few blocks to my car.

The cold air on my face and the rhythm of my feet hitting the sidewalk take me back to my years as a student. I would focus for hours at a time on writing a paper and then clear my head on the walk home, feeling the satisfaction of having worked hard.

A few days from now, I'll return to faculty meetings and then to the busy pace of teaching five days a week. This immersion will become a pleasant memory. For now, though, I am enjoying diving into my books.

I have always loved being surrounded by books, pens, notepads--all the tools of my trade.  This photo was taken when I was several hours into my work.

Seen from Another Angle

Last week, I walked my friend Anora to her truck, which was parked on the street near our house.  On that clear night, the sky was intensely black, and the stars seemed etched sharply onto its surface.  Anora saw a shooting star when she looked up, and after that we both stood there in the cold looking up, hoping for more, and trying to name the stars we saw above us. 

I glanced over at the house as we stood there.  The bare rose of Sharon bushes in front were strung with large, multicolored lights, and the lamppost in the yard twinkled with tinsel garlands.  On the gate to the backyard, a wreath made of twigs and small white lights lit up a red bow.  Inside, Marilyn awaited. 

I was struck then by a familiar feeling of gratitude and comfort that returns now and then when I look at the house, a feeling often accompanied by surprise and awe:  “I live here.  This is my home.  I am rooted here.” 

Just a little earlier, other friends who make up our writing practice group had left the house after a holiday potluck that has become an annual tradition.  Inside Anora’s truck, her baby was asleep, tucked under a blanket I had knitted while we waited for her to arrive nearly a year ago.

Looking at my life in that moment, from that angle, I felt enveloped in its warmth and was a little humbled by my good fortune.

On a hike with my friend Patti last week, I once again saw my world from another angle.  As we walked in the forest preserve less than a half hour from where I live, the land dipped and rose: