Gray light fills the valley this morning. Last night’s rain—two and a half inches by the gauge—has stripped the last leaves from the oaks and maples. They lie thick on the ground, brown and gold, beginning their work of feeding next spring’s growth. The stream runs high and brown, its voice louder than yesterday.
From my kitchen window, where I spend most of my waking hours, I watch morning arrive. The wheelchair that carries me through these days has taught me stillness. What once passed unnoticed now holds my complete attention—a cardinal landing on a bare branch, the precise angle of light through the trees at 7:15, the way mist rises from wet earth.
Spring begins with snowdrops. One morning, their white bells push through tired snow beside the driveway. Within days, purple crocuses follow, then the yellow stars of buttercups. Light stays longer each day, touching new leaves with what seems like recognition. A mourning dove calls from the black walnut. Honeybees emerge, drowsy and gold-dusted, from the first flowers.
Summer arrives in force. The valley fills edge to edge with green—wineberry and snake root crowd the forest floor, fox grape climbs every vertical surface, the old oaks spread their canopies wide. From the patio, I watch deer rest in pools of shade during the hot afternoons. Ruby-throated hummingbirds visit the honeysuckle. Dragonflies patrol the stream for mosquitoes. At dusk, the bats emerge from under the eaves, their erratic flight scripting the air.
Autumn transforms the valley slowly. First, a single branch on the sugar maple turns orange. Then the black walnuts begin dropping their leaves early, as they always do. Red and gold spread through the canopy like slow fire. Each falling leaf catches the light differently—spinning, drifting, sometimes hanging in the air as if reluctant to join the others on the ground. The deer grow thick coats. The last crickets sing from the cooling grass.
Winter simplifies everything. Bare trees reveal the valley’s true shape—the steep slopes, the winding stream, earthy shoulders of loam and clay. Snow softens the harsh angles when it comes. Cardinals flash red against white. The stream runs dark between ice-edged banks. Days are brief, but in the long evenings, I watch the sunset paint the snow pink, then purple, then the blue of deep shadow.
One February morning, the light on my bedroom wall will shift—almost imperceptibly, but I’ll notice. Within a week, the first snowdrops will bloom again, their small white flowers ringing in another spring.
Each season brings its own light, its own lessons. From this chair, from this window, I’ve learned to see them all.
2 Responses
I found you in the middle of the night last night–I have no idea now how–when I was so exhausted but couldn’t sleep because of the pain. After some dipping in here and there, I began at the beginning and have gotten this far. Thank you, Bill.
“Of all my efforts that first year, the true work lay in armoring the mind against a relentless foe.”
Yes.
I think if I were to get another tattoo, it would say, “Darkness and light are alike.” St. Ignatius suggests that the purpose of our existence is “to praise, reverence, and serve God”–and that begins, doesn’t it, with learning to live in awe, in wonder? (Mary Oliver: “just/ pay attention, then patch/ a few words together . . .”)–and that we should therefore strive to remain “indifferent” (the traditional translation) to our circumstances because (a contemporary translation) “everything has the potential of calling forth in us a more loving response.” And that’s where I have gotten to this morning in armoring my mind: darkness and light are alike.
Again, thank you, Bill. I look forward to continuing to read this journal.
I came across your journal while scrolling om Facebook this morning. It’s a rare PTO week for me and I am enjoying the quiet start of my days with my coffee. We moving to this quiet neighborhood in the hills and woods 20 miles from St. Louis. We are learning how to be still, listen and appreciate the beauty around us. To not worry about schedules, plans, or calendars and just BE.
Thank you for putting your thoughts into words and sharing your story. Your writing is breathtaking, a true gift. The therapist side of me (30+ years as an acute care Physical Therapist Assistant) is learning so much about ALS. I have been blessed to care for a handful of folks over the years in varying stages of the disease and have often wondered how much is heard and understood by my endless rambling about mundane things during sessions. I was taught that the mind stayed intact but was never sure that the encouragement and prayers I offered to them were heard. I hope I helped them find some peace, as there is part of me who will not forget their eyes and how they looked at me.
Again, thank you for sharing the most vunerable parts of yourself. We should all be blessed to not not fear death but to greet it as an old friend as Prof. Dumbledore said. I hope to read more of your journal and to one day meet you on the other side.