Deep Winter Whispering

"Grandmother", clay, wool & feathers

The snows have come like an ancient, 

whispering grandmother, silent and powerful.  

Walking through the cold crunch of snow, 

listening to cracking trees and high, 

whistling winds, I hear winter stories 

from deep within my bones. 

Deep dreaming brings me always to my ancestors. I 

wonder about those ancient ones who survived winters

in the Northern lands of Latvia and beyond. There were 

ancestors who came from Bohemia and others from the 

Celtic lands. Still others from Georgia, so my father heard.

Though I wish their stories had been handed down like 

the silver, the story-chains have broken. It is in these times 

of deep dreaming, that something of them rises to the 

surface and broken threads are mended through my 

remembering of them. 

As a granddaughter of northern folk,   

I wonder if it is woven into me to love the 

quiet whispering of winter, and to feel 

the ancestral stories pulsing through me 

as I sit at the fire. 

Winter has blessed the forest with light and fluffy 

snow so far, with cold days and bitter nights.

Pasha and I find ourselves warming by the 

fire long into the morning. I enjoy daily 

walks in the forest or along the road, 

but Pasha is finding it just a bit too cold 

to sustain a long walk.  

Before the snows were too deep, 

I could convince him to join me for a romp 

around the yard, but as more and more 

snow has fallen, and temperatures dip 

way below freezing, I find myself 

keeping company with the puffed-up 

birds and burrowing red squirrels. 

(Do click to see the tunneling red squirrel, above)

The last storm dumped over two feet of snow, 

making getting out the back door a challenge!

The snow piles and banks along the paths grow 

steadily higher. Tonight we are expecting 

another four to eight inches. 

The snow has found itself a lovely throne in the 

winter garden, Pasha's spot for an

afternoon nap in summer. 

On my snowshoe through the forest, 

I am captivated by the simple lines of a

delicate branch, starkly contrasting with the 

white field of snow. 

Deep in the woodlands, the snow has 

decorated the trunks

with stripes. 

There is a magical beauty in the winter light, 

and a mysterious comfort I feel when the house 

is all tucked in with snow. 

Pasha questions my decision to stay out hours at a time, 

here he has crawled through the secret passageway 

to the porch and pleads with me to let him in, 

he has had enough!

On my way home from an afternoon errand, the sky

was full of winter fire in the west, 

while behind me in the east, the waxing moon rose 

 in the cool, blue sky. 

 I watch the moon glowing through the hemlocks 

as I write. Still no sign of the storm they say is coming, 

but my larder is stocked in case 

I'm house-bound tomorrow. 

Classes begin for me on Wednesday,

and another rhythm to my days.

The deepest of winter dreaming 

fades as the days grow slowly longer. 

With the slight lengthening of daylight, 

so, too, some shift in me. I feel a 

new inspiration, and look forward to 

seeing what stories emerge as 

I turn once again to my work.