Have you seen...

I can see my breath.
With each step, there is a “crunch.” The air is dry and near zero.
I am alone in our field this morning.

Faded grasses, bent and broken, shade pockets of snow and cast them barely blue in the early light of day.
Weathered bird houses stand still on tall gray poles, empty of life.
The scores of deep brown teasel heads have been picked clean. On top, only a dusting of white remains. The birds have gone elsewhere.
It would seem that I am truly alone.

But on the berm of the old pond beside me, there is a crystal palace.
Where pillars of white have wrapped the strands of grass. And feathery cushions catch the sunlight with a silvery flash.



The muskrat lives beneath.
Safe and warm.
Unseen.
Except for her breath.


"Have you seen...." is an effort to discover the unusual beauty in things not usually appreciated for their beauty.

Click on image for detail

This dense hoarfrost structure grown from her breath was like nothing I've ever seen before.
And, as I lay on the ground trying to take pictures of it, I could smell what first, I thought was a skunk.
It was her--just within the burrow.

Before and after

Have you seen...

Soybeans and corn--the two crops this rural area produces--flank the sides of the road I walk. Every spring, we wonder which will be planted where, and wait to see what sprouts.
Our summer is measured by the growth of the crops, and winter's approach, by the harvest. There's not a tree to break the January wind that howls down this lane--enough to freeze your cheeks and make your eyes tear.
It's not yet time to see the changes spring will bring here--little green onions and the killdeer.
But, every day, I look, hoping.


The frost on the cobs,

and the husks

are its fruits of this season.

"Have you seen...." is an effort to discover the unusual beauty in things not usually appreciated for their beauty.

I’ve never understood the lack of respect for land.
Why it would be considered an act of rudeness to empty a car’s ashtray in someone’s yard, yet the pavement of intersections is deep with cigarette butts.
Why the muddy pond bottoms bear more aluminum cans, than rocks.

Or, why the road’s edge in front of my home is free from trash, while this field down the lane is scattered with beer bottles and the ditch full of discarded tires.

Is it because if no one catches us, it’s ok? Or, are there different rules for our behavior toward someone’s personal property versus “vacant” land?

Because every acre is someone’s property, even public lands.
And, as humans, the impact we leave upon this earth far outweighs our stature in it.

The road we're on

This road I walk, in all seasons, in all weather. I know it will always provide just what I need.

It's the road I've walked with my husband, an after dinner stroll, sharing the events of our days.
It's the road I've walked with my girls, as they grew, hoping to always be the one they'd bring their troubles to.
It's the road I've walked with my dog, to stretch our legs and breathe deeply--2 creatures caged for most of the day.

But when I walk alone, the road is my wide open space. Planted in corn or soybeans by the neighboring farm each spring--in winter, its emptiness allows me freedom from distractions. Freedom to reflect, or wonder, or dream.

If I'm lucky, not a car will pass, as I wander along.
Thinking of this year's accomplishments and hopes for the next.
And marveling that, on the last day of December, when I should be inside, preparing for the evening's festivities, the frosty weeds at the road's edge have me captivated--again.



In this new year, may you see each day as a journey, with hidden respites along the road, beauty abounding to feed your soul.
And may you be rewarded for discovering that it lies, waiting for you, always there.

A winter day

I fell in love with snow as a child.
Bundled in snow pants and the bulky hand-knit hats and mittens that grown-ups chose to do without, as they race from their warm homes or businesses to snowy cars in no more than a sweater and street shoes, becoming miserably chilled from scraping ice off a windshield with a credit card or bare hand—I delighted in the wintry world.
Dragging toboggans or with saucers tucked under our arms, we’d trudge through the woodlots behind our homes and spend the day sledding on the sand hills, covered with snow. For months, every radiator in our house was piled high with a continuous stream of the day’s icy, shed garments. The neighborhood basketball courts would be flooded for ice skating, and every yard sprouted a smiling snowman.

Now, in our more southern home, snow is light and infrequent.
I wait eagerly for the forecast of flurries, hoping it will necessitate a reunion with my favorite woolens—tucked away in a cedar closet for ten months, waiting for their few weeks of service.

The morning light is just beginning to filter through the trees.

Last night's frosty air settled on the few blades of grass and leaves not beneath snow.




And as soon as the ice is thick on the pond, we will hurriedly shovel paths.
There will only be a few days to play Fox & Geese.