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I lay in the dark listening carefully to sounds fom outside my window. I have no idea what time it is; my alarm clock runs slow. Its cute face has turned out to be unreliable and dishonest so I have given up on it. Instead I play a game of trying to figure out the approximate time I’ve wakened by the sounds from outside. If I can hear the not-so-distant flow of commuter traffic, I know it’s close to my waking deadline. Sometimes all I hear is the silence of a sleeping village. This is my signal to listen for a still, small voice whispering a reminder that under the care of an all-aware God, all is well. Despite the roaring of the world, there are still moments of hushed peace. I can go back to sleep.

This time my listening picks up the slow start of the morning commute, an occasional early-riser heading off to work or a flight or whatever is on the day’s agenda. I climb out from under the downy warmth of my comforter and hurry to turn on the heater before fumbling for my sweats and socks and sweater and slippers, layers which will make the transition to a cold early morning a bit more comfortable. 

I climb the stairs to a small bedroom tucked under the eaves of our roof, a place I have claimed as my own. A window faces the ragged little street we live on, though half the year I can’t see neighboring houses as this window looks directly into the tree canopy. With winter in full swing, twiggy branches frame views of mismatched houses squatted in contented comfort; yard work has come to a stop weeks ago and assorted Christmas decorating has taken its place. Clear darkness is a setting to handfuls of twinkling lights— a lovely background to a time of prayer and responsive listening in the quiet of this new day. I begin the practice of paying attention. 

It is up to me to develop sensitivity to the whispered Voice of the Creator by practicing the art of silence. Mind silence. Empty mental space, pure and uncluttered by entertainment and distraction, and even pleasant conversation. This isn’t an easy practice to maintain; I am addicted to distraction and it takes constant discipline to enter into the holiness of rest. The goal isn’t emptiness, as in meditation, but the silence of listening to the One Who created me and desires my attention. Early morning is His prime time.

I continue to take in the simple scene out my window.  This is my Father’s world.

Long arms and fingers of branches and twigs seem to embrace my hunkered-down little enclave. I’m beginning to sense a protective attitude from trees and shrubs, weeds and wildflowers which have been allowed to stay put. Though dried and brittle, they shelter small creatures from winter’s harsh winds and freezes. And I am intrigued by their artistic allure. 

I haven’t always thought of dead plants as artistically beautiful but I have committed to finding and interpreting beauty in an Ohio winter.

This requires seeing. Just like hearing the voice of God requires silence and listening, seeing beauty requires connected looking. What is really there? Instead of a label, “dead weeds”, I can see dancing lines, polka dots, whimsical shapes, and rich, earthy colors. Seeing this way requires looking long enough to notice with curiosity, becoming acquainted with the characteristics of the object or view in sight. It’s letting the mind wander to “This reminds me of something…”

Noticing light.

Staying put while light changes.

Sketching, letting the hand follow what the eye sees.

Engaging both mind and body in the act of observation. 

Allowing the mind to rest long enough to begin wandering down a creative path.

This is becoming a child again.

It is holiness in attentiveness.

The charms of December have opened the door to seeing. I am determined to walk through that door into the monochrome of January, February and March with eyes wide open and mind open-hearted. I will need to let go of limiting words like “dreary”, “miserable”, “gray” as I take time to look at the winter world sleeping around me. Instead, I intend to hope in the future by allowing  the power of creativity to reveal beauty in the present. 

I invite you to join me in minimizing distraction,

taking time to see,

to listen,

to respond creatively, powerfully.

Perhaps changing something in the world. 

Who knows? You may even find yourself responding on a canvas!

The change of seasons in Ohio is a bit like riding a rollercoaster. I feel the physical changes in temperature and moisture and wind which spark emotional feelings as well. The ups and downs are frequent during seasonal transition, especially as we begin to experience more cloudy gray days and the reality of indoor living sinks in. My emotions are connected to nature’s whims and sometimes it’s hard to find equilibrium.

The sky is gloriously blue today, soft white puffs of cloud move playfully in front of friendly gusts of wind. The air is crisp rather than frigid, as it was two days ago. Last-to-let-go leaves shiver and dance as breezes race squirrels through mostly-bare branches. Afternoon temperatures promise to be mild, even warm.

It’s easy for emotions to follow such a lovely scenario even though my body can’t keep up right now. I’m almost two weeks past direct battle with cancer and still feeling stiffness and pain from its direct hits. Other-worldly robotic surgery precisely eliminated the enemy which had trenched into the area between my upper and middle lung lobes. Even though I’m limited right now, I know the future is hopeful and positive, and worth the discomfort. I want to remember that sentence; I think it applies to many of life’s episodes. 

During my recovery, I’ve been reading an oldie I picked up at a used book sale, Betty Edward’s Drawing on the Artist Within. It’s not light reading but goes deeply into the process of learning to draw by engaging the right side of the brain. I probably wouldn’t take time to do the exercises outlined for accessing this emotionally-based source of artistic expression, but right now I have few demands outside of healing. I’ve followed the instructions for creating analog drawings: Insightful marks made by connecting line quality to emotion. For example, a handwritten signature is an analog drawing. The lines used to write your name can reveal information about who you are. You can even find people trained in handwriting analysis if you want to go that far. 

Line drawings provide a visible language that gives tangible form to our thoughts and feelings. Instead of using words to express feelings, lines can illustrate them. Think of how you would use a pencil to express the emotion of anger or joy or peacefulness. Chances are your lines would have some similarities to the marks made by other people.

Edwards leads an exercise in creating a Problem Analog; in other words, a line drawing of some difficulty or problem in life. No pictures or symbols are used, only lines expressing emotion. I chose the subject of Ohio winter.

 Without putting too much emphasis on analysis, I took a look at the resulting abstract drawing. I see a rocket ship blasting past a world and heading for a meteor shower! I know I feel like escaping Ohio once in a while (I think everyone does from time to time…), but didn’t realize how extreme those feelings were growing. Perhaps it’s related to pain meds. Several pages further in the book Edwards suggests turning the drawing upside down to gain any further insight. Remember, an analog drawing isn’t a subject and doesn’t have an up or down. 

Now I see a flower, rooted in fertile soil, just about to break through the surface and into the sun. I’m stunned by this revelation of optimism and growth. Encouraged. Empowered. 

The behavior of Ohio’s weather hasn’t changed but imperceptibly I have. I am strengthened by these winters, despite growing resentment — even despair —  by the time February begins its slow march through deep gray winter. I become so diminished by blasts of relentless wind and endless sky-to-ground grayness that I don’t notice the stirring of growth in my own soul. A decade of winters has pushed my roots deeper, strengthening their fibers, expanding their surface area, making them effecient and effective. 

The function of all root hairs is to collect water and mineral nutrients in the soil to be sent throughout the plant. In roots, most water absorption happens through the root hairs. The length of root hairs allows them to penetrate between soil particles and prevents harmful bacterial organisms from entering the plant through the xylem vessels.[1] Increasing the surface area of these hairs makes plants more efficient in absorbing nutrients and interacting with microbes. (Wikipedia)

The very thing I want to escape has been the source of strength to get through a second battle with cancer, courage to face recovery walks in already-cold wind, tenacity to sit quietly and heal when I’d rather be creating and hiking and riding my bike. And once again, as winter’s grip tightens, I will grow. Only this year, I’m going to look for root hairs, for increased surface area, for the deep growth that makes Spring such a celebration!