Seeing so Near and so Far

You could see the air mass coming down from Canada. I couldn’t help but think of this one day, some years ago, when the local TV news channel had to substitute a regular reporter for their meteorologist. She appeared to be familiar with being in front of the camera—but regarding weather knowledge—there was none, no matter how hard she tried. What made me snort tea was that in her stress in relaying what was on the radar, she blurted out on the air, “From the north comes a giant green blob!” (That would be precipitation, Miss.)

I relied on Accu-Cow weather for the drive. He’s the cow that’s perched on top of the diner. No, not a real cow, he’s made out of some rigid material and is life-sized. If Accu-cow is dry, it’s nice out, and if he’s wet, it’s raining. He’s always there as I make my way to church or to run errands. Today, Accu-cow was almost moving in the stiff wind, a cold wind.

When the wind blows down from Canada, Mother Nature pulls the chill deep out of the ground and throws it in your face, daring you to fight back. The winds will soon be strong enough to wake up the dark river water that murmurs along the edge of the Village, sending birds to the sky in search of another place to anchor for the night,

 

As I look out across a flat horizon, I wonder why this view appears so different than when I lived in a city out West. Indeed, I could put on a scientist's hat and say it was the glaciers that moved down from the north in the Cenozoic era, or the giant dust storms that followed, carrying the soil away and eventually replaced by layers of volcanic ash from the West, creating a vista of fertility. The difference was more in how I live in it, as opposed to its geological origins.

There was something about being able to see so near and so far. Some people feel exposed out in flat land, but I don’t. I walked the fields and streets, nothing more than a moving lightning rod for those things that might wish to strike me, but they don’t. I feel a lot out here in the open heartland, my dog often by my side, and it wasn't fear; it was a comfort. It followed me as I walked. The sound of my breath, the whisper of God there on the horizon; in the vista of open miles of ground in which I perceived the absolute truth about the past, a truth beyond the buildings and billboards of illusion.

Trees throughout much of the Midwest are few, taken down so that the soil may be tilled, only a few remaining as protection against the marauding wind that cuts through the land late at night like a Viking horde. The cold presses down, penetrating deep into the layers of topsoil and the bones of invisible deer, which bury themselves further down as if to hide from the wind, creating a stratified layer of bones, life, and death, forming the coal that lies hidden below. Tonight, this close to the window, I could almost smell the cold, the odor of a whetted knife carving shadows into the night. My body responds with a shiver, and I pull my thick sweater across my chest, tight and warm, and turn away from the glass.

“You ought to move further south now that you've retired,” my friends from work would say, “How about Florida?” I enjoyed days of snorkeling, blue water dreams, and warm sun during a long layover in a tropical location, but that was not where I wanted to live year-round. I am not at home in such places all of the time, preferring these months of quiet cold. It gives me time to think, to write, to dream broad dreams. 

The icy fingers down my neck make me shiver, while the warmth from the furnace, as warm as melting marshmallows against my skin, melts me. The lamplight danced along the walls, my shadow following. The dog and my husband are asleep on the couch, their feet up, Sunny exposing warm fur to a remembered August sun, her feet chasing dusk-colored rabbits within a dream. 

I think back to tales of my ancestors on my mom’s side, who came to the United States from Sweden and Norway and settled in Minnesota. There was a story of my grandpa, new to the country, moving a household across miles of land, risking all he had to form a new life out where winters are raw, beating miles of ocean and illness and pain, only to lose most of his money, belongings, and food as wind-swept fire roared through where he lay sleeping one night. My grandfather got out, assessed the damage, gathered the small coins he had left, and moved on to safer ground. 

As I write, the wind sings its siren song against the eaves, daring me to leave, to admit that moving to the Midwest, the land of my ancestors, where I had no family, was not a good idea. I am going to stay. The price that was exacted for learning my way alone out here left my heart an almost empty purse, with just a few scattered coins tinkling in the bottom. I know it was a journey I had to make. You make decisions based on what is in your heart at the time, and when the chill wind blows, you take stock of your life and your decisions, seeking shelter elsewhere, or you stand and fight for your life, your heart, and what fuels it. To do otherwise is to wither and die. Out here, the price of innocence is high.  

Outside, the wind picks up, mute in its anger, with no breath now but a sigh as the dog and I make one last trip out to the yard. We then flee inside with drumming hearts and warm breath, hoisting a challenge to the cold as the fire ignites the night. Down the street, faint windows glow, while the trees outside lay their shadows across my shirt like scraps of black velvet. I close the curtain, pour our tea, and listen to my heart. 

They say the Rockies are God’s country, but so was this, a small juncture of trees and grass in a vast city; an old easy chair inside a warm house. This place is a small point in space among a great expanse of glory, where the Trinity is intact because it had never been otherwise, simply tested by the fragility of youth and the passion of yearning. God was lost and then found, postulated here in the open miles of our faith and need. I think I now understand why my great-grandparents settled here, and I find that I am becoming more and more like them. I belong to this cold landscape, surviving like the small creatures outside, by wit and heart, love and faith.

As I turn away from the window, I listen to the wind, tapping the glass with the resonant sound of a few small coins that are left in my heart, ready to be spent. There's no longer the desire to hold on to them. The winter's cold reminds me that my days on earth grow fewer and fewer. But I savor each one, this moment, this stillness, a perfect immobility. No stepping back, no worrying about that step forward, just this moment held in God's Trinity.  When my time comes, my heart slowing, like a well-worn clock, the darkness will fall silently as the last bit of starlight fades.  The end of all earthly worries and fears will leave with a sigh as I step into the light.

For now, for these remaining days or years if I'm so blessed, I know that I’m where I need to be, with whom I need to be.  As flakes of the first snow brush the window like a kiss, I wait for the knock of the wind at my door and smile.  - Brigid