glory.

What is the magic behind snow? Why does it captivate us and give us that little giddy feeling inside? Was it this way for our ancestors, when they were still stalking deer in the bush by foot and spear? Winter was a time of scarcity, of living off whatever you'd managed to save over the summer harvest. True winter is something many of us can't even understand because we have the convenience of supermarkets, with their eye-burning synthetic lights and rows of upon rows of false security. This is why I wonder about Those Who Came Before Us. Did their faces unconsciously move into a smile when they looked out of their tipis or thatched huts to see the first of the year's gentle snowfall? Or did their stomachs turn with worry? I can't help but think they were pleased to see the flakes, drifting down from one continuously white sky, pulling their hides a little tighter around their shoulders.

In at least one native culture that I know of, snow is a powerful thing. It brings the ability to wipe away all things from the previous year (years were measured in 'winters,' months measured in 'moons') - both metaphorically, and literally, by covering everything in a thick layer of powder. Everything vanishes beneath it and the landscape becomes something altogether ethereal and different. When the snow is laid down, our tracks have been obliterated - the water will wash away any print left behind, and in the new snow, we are best able to make new tracks. The snow is a purging - it is pure. It purifies the land in a similar way that fire purifies with its brilliant white and deceptively heavy weight. It brings trees to the ground, it can be melted or worked into an actual dwelling, it displays clearly the blood and meaning of a hunted animal, and it collects in the mountains to feed the valleys when the summer sun melts it away. Small animals actually dig complicated tunneled burrows in the snow and hibernate there, where it can actually be warmer then in the ground or in a tree. It can be melted for fresh water and it can be transformed into breathtaking, sharp icicles that cling vertically to any surface. 

When I was in college, I wrote about the death of the snow. In Maryland, we'd get heaps of it once every four years or so, but there was always a time when the weather warmed slightly and it started to melt. It became slush, and it collected the dirt and grime of the streets. It was so sad to me, this dying - that it became so soiled, its glory taken. In Bend, it's not that way. If the sun is hot enough, it melts the snow before there is time to sully it. If it does not melt, it lays in drifts across the landscape, gently hugging the sharp, dry junipers, pines, and sagebrushes. It is a canvas for bird prints, for the hop-kick-hop of the juncos while they search for food beneath it. If only we appeared to enjoy our work as much as they do.

Winter is a time for going inside - again, both metaphorically and literally. We go inside of our homes where it is warm and safe and there is food and fire, but we also retreat inside ourselves to process the lessons of the summer. This processing becomes wisdom. Winter is a time of wisdom, and a place of the White Buffalo in the Ojibwa way. The North is the place of Winter, and it is a place of Ceremony and Ritual. In this time, it would do us well to be grateful for all that we have - for heat, for food, for clean water, for family. For shelter and safety. These are our most basic necessities and with the eye-burning lights of the supermarkets, we take them completely for granted. Winter is a time of remembering and of being grateful. In the Great Circle of time and the seasons, the Buffalo stands in the storm, protected by his thick coat and his knowing of the ancient ways. Sadly, we no longer practice the ancient ways and so the knowing has been lost to us. One day, I will know these ways and I will teach them to others who have realized the thirst inside of them for something more, for ritual, for marking the passings of our lives. And we will have a reason to rejoice, a way to reconnect, a way of knowing. 

May this winter bless you with all the comfort you want and all the wisdom you need, in a way as gentle as the snow falling on the juncos outside at this very moment.