Snow's quiet, river dreams, and a new year, just born
Musings, questions and revolutions from my treehouse among the maples.
Snow speaks to me as I make my way to the ski trail—the hard-packed snow crunches and skreeks when my ski boots press against it. Ice on the river is broken apart by past thaws, then frozen over like wounds healing poorly. Perhaps under the uneven ice, its waters dream of spring: a river reverie. My cheeks tingle, the space between my eyebrows aching. Snow glints on the ground before me as the sun splinters from behind the high branches of a dead oak. I imagine the glimmering particles of snow as moments of my life.
After my ski, I face the sun, heat washing over me. I consider the quiet created by snow. I’ve read that fresh snow absorbs sound by trapping air between snowflakes. Snow’s quiet rubs me of my thoughts and plans, leaving me clean. Perhaps that’s why I feel at home in this landscape. Noises seem to bother me more than other people, especially since my fatigue issues. In the quiet I can stretch out as on a hill in summer, allowing the silence to clear away my troubles.
It’s tempting though not to fill the quiet with noise of our own making: worrisome thoughts, regrets, to-dos, BIG plans for the future. What would happen if instead, we leaned into its expansiveness? Like a new year, just born.
Also, snow-related, I’ve been translating poetry from Rita Mestokosho, an Innu writer and poet. Her book of poems ATIK U UTEI / LE CŒUR DU CARIBOU (THE HEART OF THE CARIBOU) only exists in French and Innu-aimun. I’ll leave you with an excerpt:
Difficile de traduire le mot liberté je dois t’emmener sur le territoire marcher dans la neige
le froid sur tes joues
Hard to translate the word freedom I must bring you on the land walk in the show the cold on your cheeks
toucher l’eau de la rivière lever ton regard vers l’infini parler aux ancêtres
les approcher tout près sentir leurs rêves
touch the river water lift your gaze to the infinite talk to the ancestors get close to them feel their dreams
mon frère chasseur privé de son air
my hunter brother deprived of his breath
privé de sa soif
deprived of his thirst
la faim d’être un Innu
the hunger to be an Innu
Mindful writing exercise
Gather your notebook (or a piece of paper) and a pen. Find a comfortable place on a sofa, a chair at your desk, or on a cushion on the floor. Make sure that the location is relatively quiet and free from interruption. See that your back is supported, or at ease and that you are sitting upright. You may cross your legs if you wish or sit with your feet planted firmly on the floor.
Take a few moments to sense the inflow and outflow of breath. Allow your awareness to follow the breath as it expands your lungs and abdomen and exits through your nose. With each breath begin to let go a bit more, releasing any tension or pain in your neck and shoulders, your arms, back, hips, and legs. Sense the inflow of the breath as it fills your lungs, and then sense the outflow as you slowly let go and begin to relax.
Listen to the audio recording for guidance. The sound of the bell will signal the end of the writing meditation.
You’re walking outside one day when a shimmering silk ribbon falls from the clouds. You walk up to it and give it a tug. You notice that it’s very strong and will probably take your weight. You tug on it to make sure it can hold you and begin to climb. You find it surprisingly easy to climb and its softness is inviting and luxurious. You continue rising until, at last, you’re high above the clouds.
Write for two minutes about this experience and how it feels to you. Listen to the audio for guidance. The sound of the meditation bell will signal the end of the meditation.
I hope you enjoyed the mindful writing exercise. Wishing you a joyful, mindful year!
Yours in Ink & Earth,
Lissa
I am grateful to live, work + play on the unsurrendered traditional lands of the Algonquin people.
