Thursday, December 27, 2012


"I can't remember 
Ever falling this hard.
Tell me tonight 
All that we have been.
Was it nothing more 
Than noise inside my head 
Crashing down, crashing down,
 In your avalanche...?" -- David Cook
|Credit: [x]|

How do you keep safe the things that aren't meant for winter? Things that aren't meant to be frozen over and go completely stone cold -- things that can't survive once all the warmth goes away. At first there is rain that is half-frozen. It makes things a bit difficult, a bit miserable. Walking is more of a task. You have to be aware of everything to stay uninjured. Next comes the snow, which will then freeze over as night falls. Unless you're safe in the familiar, you'll freeze just the same.

There's a bit of optimism in the frozen world -- little blades of grass preserved in frost after the snow has been scraped away. We work so hard at trying to remain warm -- persevering in artificial ways until it is actually spring again -- but the grasses fall asleep. They wait, enveloped in their darkness and cold, until the sun warms them again. Until the snow melts. And they wake with a greater understanding of what winter is. After the time spent hidden in themselves, cold and numb -- they are ready once again to spring forth and be their entire selves. They don't die under the snow. They don't die without enough warmth.

The roots of any plant dig down deep beneath the permafrost. That will never change. This is the core of their being. Their core survives everything that would kill a weaker being. Even on the tallest mountains, the strongest evergreens survive avalanches.    


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