In praise of radiance

Dreaming out March

It is well known that all of the great lights have their own magic.

Twilight, moonlight, starlight. Dawnlight, daylight, firelight.

And that light that snow creates from its own bright substance.

I lie half-awake in this early snowlight, which shines through the blind with the luminance of twin full moons. I sense the land and sky wrapped in a white silence, dreaming out the last days of March.

All will be will, whispers the falling snow. Snow often says things like this. Hush, hush. See me shift in the wind. Feel me fall upon you like sleep. Dream of dark soil swallowing me up.   

I take my arms out from beneath the covers and let the room’s chill air cool me; a lovely, restorative coldness, like iced lemonade in summer or snowflakes dissolving on skin.

Like the season, now shifting between winter and spring, my consciousness is in a liminal state. My mind tries searching for something to worry about, rummaging at the edges of my attic of anxieties. But snowlight casts its magical powers over me. My mind unfrets itself under that glowing hand, sinking again into the darkness of unremembered dreams.  

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I pile the snow from the walkways onto the earth, where roots thirst and thirst for water. For this late March snow is water-heavy. Against the warm pavement the first layer melted to slush, and the rest has been moistened through with rain — a tres leches snow cake.

My back gives a twinge, I slow down. Still to emerge on this strip of land that lays between the walkway and the street are the native species I planted there: prairie onion, wild lupine, wild geranium, prairie dropseed, purple coneflowers, wild blue indigo, alumroot and blazingstar.

I feel at peace under the heavy clouds, absorbing the ground’s brightness. Perhaps snow carries something unnameable but essential to my well-being; something subtle, discernible only after many months of snowlessness. Something like a balm for snow loneliness, a returning to what is familiar and beloved, like being reunited with kin.

Looking at this white world, I envision the terrible, post-apocalyptic ash snow in Cormac McCarthy’s The Road (another image inhabiting my attic of anxieties). But thoughts of ruin hold little power in the face of this radiance.

Falling flakes melt into my eyes. I wish they could remake my vision, so I could see what to do to always love this Earth as it deserves to be loved.

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Prairie willow (Salix humilis) buds on pause in the garden

Snow falls again a day later — finer, driving flakes that play with the north wind, flickering in drifts, whirling upward into sleet devils. This deep, cocooning snow takes in sound and gives back quiet. I shovel three-quarters of the walkway before running out of energy.

A gray squirrel on the neighbor’s roof eats snow, taking small bites to quench her thirst. Later, a few cars wait as two wild turkeys, splendid tails fanned, strut slowly around in the driving lane in full courtship display. March kicks off turkey mating season — but where are the turkey hens? Do the toms spread their gorgeous bronze-green feathers to impress us? Another driver and I carefully edge our cars around the pair, exchanging smiles.

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A day later, we have already emerged from that pause, the dreamlike enclosure of snowfall. Already snow piles flatten, seeping by drops into the unfrozen soil.

I walk along the creek under the sun, to the interwoven song of red-winged blackbirds, cardinals, woodpeckers, chickadees, dark-eyed juncos, house finches and robins. A raft of mallards and a lone wood drake circle over the recharged water. Many-sheened grackles flutter down to the ice shelves edging the creek to drink their fill.

Maple in flower

Our animistic ancestors believed that all beings have sentience and agency; that the Earth herself is alive and inspirited. My senses, mind, and a soul-level knowing all tell me that this is true. Clouds, mountains, trees, soil, animals, rivers, storms, stones, landscapes — all infused with their own spirit and life force as we are, in a vast, intricate net of connection that unites the entire cosmos.

The bright life force of birds, their sacred nature, shines forth clearly to me. Even when we live in cities away from wild places, as I do, birds still share their presence with us, keeping us from loneliness for our wild relatives.

Birds, like all beings, have their own gifts, ways of being, and sacred purpose. They migrate over the Earth in darkness, navigate by celestial bodies, bear brightness on their wings. Miraculously, each spring they return hundreds or thousands of miles to their nesting grounds.

In the pouring songs of birds, I hear affirmation of the ever-renewing circle of life. Life from life. Rebirth from death — transformation only another word for immortality. The true song of the robin, sung bravely and radiantly in the silent darkness before dawn, makes tears rise to my eyes.

“A bird does not sing because he has an answer. He sings because he has a song.”
—Joan Walsh Anglund

I am remembering my parents today, both now returned to the Earth. I write this on March 27 — the date my father, a whistler of tunes, was born. On this same date, my mother, who taught me to love birds, died.

Wishing you a season of birdsong,

Carmine