arrival

Melting snow darkens as it turns into slush. Otter Creek flooding in the usual places. Manure spreaders out on the roads. Another spring arrival, Girl Scout cookies!

One cannot be certain of living
even into the evening.

In the first dim light
I watch the waves
from a departing boat.

Shinkei
Zen page-a-day calendar

singing

Signs of spring. Robins gathering in nearby fields. Sump pump singing from the basement.

So many things become beautiful when you really look.
Lauren Oliver
Zen page-a-day calendar.

morning light

Driving into Rutland early in the morning for meditation, reflexively turning on the lights in the car and then realizing I didn't need them. There was enough morning light to see and be seen. Turning them back off.

spring training

14 degrees this morning, but temps in the 50's coming. Spring training has started in warmer climes.

I hear the wind blow, and I feel that it was worth being born just to hear the wind blow.
Fernando Pessoa
Zen page-a-day calendar

carve

Mark Twain said, "If you don't like the weather in New England, wait a minute."
Saturday morning the temperature was 12 degrees, by noon it was 48 degrees. It went from feeling like the dead of winter to the beginning of spring. Snow is melting quickly. Snow melt crossing roads, sound of water underneath the tires. Wind and sun "carve" at the snow that remains.

out here in the sticks

Yesterday I headed out to work and it was snowing again, but to just say that it was snowing doesn't come close to capturing the moment. The snow was coming softly but steadily out of the gray sky, straight down, like feathers, no wind, no sound. This is a beautiful photo, but, again, doesn't come close to capturing the muffled, silent majesty of just snowing.
I drove into Rutland filled with wonder and gratitude. It was snowing in Rutland as well, but it was no where near as compelling as those ineffable moments here on the other side of the creek. Ira is not a happening place. There's nothing going on here except the turning of the days, of the seasons, one after another. I'm so grateful to live here. Thornton Wilder puts it so well...

Artistic Lady in a Box. Mr. Webb!

Mr. Webb. Yes Ma'am

Mr. Webb, is there any culture or love of beauty in Grover's Corners?

Well ma'am, there ain't much, not in the sense you mean. Come to think of it, there's some girls that play the piano over at High School Commencement; but they ain't happy about it. No ma'am there isn't much culture; but maybe this is the place to tell you that we've got a lot of pleasures of a kind here: we like the sun comin' up over the mountain in the morning, and we all notice a good deal about the birds. We pay a lot of attention to them. And we watch the change of the seasons: yes, everybody knows about them. But those other things-you're right ma'am-there ain't much-Robinson Crusoe and the Bible; and Handel's Largo, we all know that, and Whistler's Mother-those are just about as far as we go.
Our Town
Thornton Wilder

whoosh

Another dusting of snow last night. Snow is starting to pile up along roadsides and in parking lots. Supposedly the eskimos have 100 words for snow. I don't have that many, but I have a few. The quality of the snow on my windshield changes from day to day. Sometimes it's crusted on. Sometimes  it slides of like a fried egg from a teflon pan. Sometimes it rests lightly on the top of the car, like powdered sugar or talcum powder. It blows away in a whoosh when I start down the road.