A Quiet Season

It caught me by surprise. A late-January thunderstorm. We don’t get all that many ‘round these here parts about now.

It was a fast and furious affair. Lightning, thunder, rain smashing against windows. All in all, a most curious affair in a season noted for frigid cold and snow.

Though, in fact, there’s been little snow and hardly any frigid cold to speak of. This has been a dodgy season. One filled with day after day after day of damp and drear, dirt, fog and lethargy.

A quiet season.

It dawned on me, just a few days ago, that my days have been silent. There have been no organic sounds. Branches haven’t creaked, winds haven’t whistled. Songbirds fled south months ago.

There’s the sound of the furnace shoving air about. Not much more.

Silence has infused my marrow.

I drift as if a lotus-eater. Each day quieter than the day before. No words.

* * *

Thoughts at Christmas 2011

There’ll be no white Christmas for me. Pity, that. Crystalline sprites chose not to cavort amongst the moonbeams. A bit o’ magic’s missing. All is dreary, damp and puddled (much like my mind). Much like most of this past year.

This has not been an easy year for me. For some I hold most dear, it was tragic.

So it goes. Each life has its seasons and each season is what it is. Some are far harsher than others.

Love and Hope come easily in youthful springtime. We revel in sunshine, bask in the glory of youth. Why not? It was meant to be.

Spring lasts for just a short while, followed by the labors of summer, the rewards of fall...then...winter.

These are the days when we must rely on the reserves that have been salted away in deep places. This is the season when we huddle close to hearth fires, cling to each other for comfort, light candles, decorate trees and throw our heads back to sing our hopes and prayers to Heaven.

This is the essence of winter and the foundation for Christmas. These are the days when we look to our families, friends, neighbors and strangers on the street, knowing we are ALL in this together, grateful for each other as we pray for sunshine.

I am wistful, melancholy, grateful and hopeful this Christmas. Grateful for all the kind souls who’ve comforted me whenever I’ve stumbled and begged. Hopeful, so earnestly hopeful, that your hearts bask in the warmth and comfort so necessary.

May the blessings of the season bring you solace, hope and joy.

* * *

Time Flies

He came knocking Friday dusk. My Father. He said he came to say good-bye. It was true that he and my Mother had been packing their belongings all week to be ready for the moving van due Saturday. I had been helping them. I would be helping them tomorrow. So. It wasn’t that my Father was saying good-bye exactly. He came to say something else, something more.

We sat in my living room. Dusk gave way to night. The lamp from the kitchen bathed his face in half-light as he sat and spoke quietly. The tone was melancholy. It wasn’t a conversation per se. More a soliloquy. He spoke about his life, the triumphs, joys and hardships...and his exhaustion. I saw clearly how a lifetime of manual labor had destroyed his vitality. I had been begging him to retire, daily witness to the damage done.

He didn’t want to leave. Didn’t want to leave his children. But he knew there was little more he could do for us, for we were adults now. I was in my early thirties, well-launched into my own orbit. True, the orbit was somewhat erratic, but I had achieved professional success, so much so that I now supported my parents. He knew his life’s work was substantially complete.

I said little, for I knew he knew how it broke my heart to contemplate the miles that would separate us (though I came to criss-cross those miles often enough). We both knew he desperately needed respite from Life’s travails.

In truth, I don’t remember the specifics of this conversation. What I remember, vividly, was the astonishment in his voice when he said “Time flies SO fast.”

Four years later, he was dead.

* * *

I started flashing on this conversation several months ago. I hadn’t thought of it for decades. Then it came to me one silent night and has lingered ever since. Three decades later, and I find myself exhausted, seeking respite from Life’s travails. Only now, do I truly understand what my Father felt.

* * *

* * *

Heavy Hours

Don't care much for the off-key/bent-string interlude...still and despite that...this song and lyrics do something to me.

Heavy Hours
By Crooked Fingers

Outside your window
Waited for you
You didn't come
You never do

In the city in the winter time
The snow and the rhyme
Cover the isolation

Yesterday, baby, they told you the news
They meant no harm
They never do
You can take it anyway you want
It comes and it goes
Rising in broken waves and dreams

Heavy hours passing by the way
Heaven knows how I am trying, babe

I hear you breathing
So steady and true
The whole night long
The whole night through
Your lungs soft heaving
Slow drunken time
Falling with mine
Forever here

Heavy hours dragging by the way
Heaven knows how I am trying, baby
Heavy hours passing by the way
Heaven knows how hard I am trying, babe

* * *