The Edit
Winter stole the last beautiful moments of my autumn. For one fleeting final weekend, fall skies shone blue and russet leaves fell from branches heavy with acorns.
The squirrels knew that the gentle air disguised an imminent change. Standing boldly, they faced my spaniel and hid nuts in their plump cheeks. There was no chase, no fence climbing nonsense.
Those critters knew that winter was a day away and they chose to edit their course. Tormenting my spaniel was simply not on the squirrels’ agenda that day.
Late November brought snow, freezing the jack ‘o lanterns I meant to compost for our garden, transforming my pumpkins into round snowballs. The garden was not put to sleep with ritual care, but rather with the intent that belongs only to the sudden swing of Mother Nature’s mood.
Inspired by my spring holiday in Amsterdam, I finally purchased a host of tulip bulbs. After the long winter, I intended to welcome spring with delicate, new blooms of violet. Pots of spring flowers lined the cobbled streets along the canals. I so wished to bring this memory to my own spring garden.
Duped by our mild autumn, I waited too long to plant the bulbs. Much like the pumpkins, my blue ceramic pots were iced over.
Even the squirrels would have had a difficult time burrowing into those vessels. Once again, Old Man Winter edited my plans with a roar of icy wind on Thanksgiving night.
Sometimes, you just have to lean into the edit.
After a good few years of mild early winter weather, this December finally resembled the frosty wonderland from my childhood years. Christmas lights twinkled against the snow and delicate icicles dripped from the branches of my lilacs.
Scrooge
I imagined myself Ebeneezer Scrooge on the morning of his Christmas epiphany, “I am as light as a feather, I am as happy as an angel.”
This year, I felt lightness of spirit. I found pleasure in the frigid white dawn and the birds who greeted me each morning as my spaniel bounced through the drifts of snow.
Last December was my first holiday without my mother or father. Even though I baked, hosted, and took part in all the expected traditions, a piece of my heart was missing. In fact, two pieces.
Oddly, despite the grief that hovered over my mood, I also began to heal last December during our visit to Ireland for a family wedding. When I was alone, walking through the empty roads that wound throughout the Irish countryside, I did not have to pretend to be okay, I could simply be.
It was on one of my morning walks that I felt the full power of grace and the knowledge that our life is but a journey and we, the unwitting seekers. Much like Scrooge, I was moved to tears at my epiphany.
The wind picked up and began to blow cold rain into my face, blurring my glasses and lifting my smile. Without anyone to hear me, I began to laugh out loud.
I felt how miraculous it was to be alive in the Irish wind and the rain, to listen to the caw of the Jackdaw and the bleating of the sheep in the bleak, midwinter fields. That night, the shifting winds brought heavy frost throughout the countryside.
The wind howled around our cottage. Unable to sleep, I pulled on a thick coat, my trusty Wellies, and went outside into the lonely darkness.
Again, I stood alone breathing in the pristine air of an Irish winter’s night. It was then that I saw the sheep in the field and a poem began to take shape.
Over the course of this year, I have made changes to this poem, subtle changes that continue to illuminate meaning and sharpen the clarity of the work.
Navigating the unknown is much like editing a piece of writing. At times we need to be objective, to cut that which no longer serves us. We need to know when to add detail rather than to simply remove that which seems superfluous at the time.
Above all, we need to allow ourselves the grace to understand that the outcome may not be perfect, that life is not a script, but rather a glorious opportunity for revision.
