Sitting at home on Easter Monday listening to the morning snow melting in rhythmic drum taps on the bathroom skylight, I look out at the tree branches gallantly holding another thick blanket, regal and elegant in spite of the weight. Steamed heat in the old radiators blends hisses and bangs with the dripping beat in an unexpected improv percussion jam. A train whistles a trumpet glide announcing a journey, joining in the riff of the moment.
My mind wanders to an earlier conversation with a young person in my life seeking her path, feeling stuck, a bit confused. I wish I had wisdom, but I can only offer love, the promise of a book in the mail that maybe will help, some gentle questions and suggestions, the faith that I am here. I am always here.
I think, too, of a flaming email that arrived on Easter causing sadness over the state of a relationship, a person and his pain, the knowledge that age is not necessarily a shield from our very human emotions. I wish I could erase the pain, that I could clear the bramble and thorns that are choking new growth, that I could bring the thaw. But with every step of our path lately, I see more cloudiness and perhaps a permanent fork in the road. Retreat seems the only way to peace.
I’m invited upstairs for espresso with warm milk and a delicious homemade cookie I don’t need, Easter abundance still straining the waistband of my slacks. Easy conversation roams from our latest dreams and goals to the behavior of our cats. When I get back downstairs the jam session has faded, the cats are curled into C-shapes, content, peaceful.
The snow has slowed its steady fall and through the covered trees I can make out the river beneath the cliff, catching and carrying the melting snow. Sometimes the weather changes with little or no warning. There is grace in gravity, in standing still, relief in letting go, melting like the snow and entering the flow, surrendering what I cannot control.