Snow fell in the dark hours before dawn. We woke to find the world had stepped back into winter’s stark palette.
My son’s careful fence of twigs lies buried, the promised crocus now sleeping beneath fresh powder. Snow traces each budding branch, writing winter’s calligraphy against the steel-gray sky. The bamboo grove bows beneath its burden, forming an icy shelter where hungry deer pause in their ceaseless wandering. White blankets drape the patio chairs where, just yesterday, we turned our faces to the strengthening sun.
We had already welcomed spring’s whispered promises—green shoots piercing dark soil, buds swelling with possibility, buttercups painting the stream bank gold, life stirring in winter-quiet waters. Now, each snowflake falls like a broken promise; each drift buries another hope. The mind protests—seasons should follow their ancient sequence, winter yielding to spring’s gentle advance.
That is how the story goes.
We have no shortage of such stories—maps of how things are supposed to be. Relationships are meant to deepen like tree roots. Careers should grow like steady oaks. Children ought to flourish like garden flowers. Parents should age with autumn’s grace.
But reality flows wilder than our careful charts hope. Divorce shatters bonds we thought eternal. Careers vanish between heartbeats. Hospital rooms hold impossible news. After decades of meticulous eating and exercise, my body will fail before I reach sixty. Spring flowers crush beneath late snow.
We might rage against these violations of our expected order, feeling betrayed by an indifferent universe. Yet perhaps the real betrayal lies in our endless attempt to impose tidy maps on a world that flows like water, finding its own wild way through stone. Our suffering comes not from the world’s wandering path but from our clinging to how things “should” be.
Beyond our maps and measurements, beyond our stories of proper progression, beyond should and shouldn’t, a single cardinal lands on a snowy laurel branch outside my window.
He pauses—red feathers bright against white snow, brown branch.
Then, he flies off.
6 Responses
A beautiful reflection. Anyone who pays attention knows that things don’t usually go as planned. The practice is not to greet that as a betayal or failure but as the flow of life, which is so much bigger than our plans. Paying attention. Your practice is beautiful, and your sharing it is generous.
What an incredible read, equally beautiful in its wisdom and poetic imagery.
It can be so easy to live life always trying to “speak” to the world, to try and impose our will and shape it how we see fit. But, as we so often find out, it is many times a futile and even oppressive action. Your words speak to the immense peace and clarity that come when we instead choose to simply “listen” to the world, to flow with its wild waters and take in all the wonders and lessons of life.
Thank you for sharing such fantastic writing!
Such a good reminder of how easy it is to fall into the easy (to me) trap of expectations. Thank you.
Our suffering comes not from the world’s wandering path but from our clinging to how things “should” be.
I’m printing that line and putting it on my computer. I need this every day. Thank you for your continued posts Bill!
So beautifully put ! Yes life has its own flow.
Yes, and isn’t it wonderful?
To add to the conversation, here are lyrics to the 1990 Poi Dog Pondering song, “Thanksgiving.”
Somehow I find myself far out of line
from the ones I had drawn
Wasn’t the best of paths, you could attest to that,
but I’m keeping on.
Would our paths cross if every great loss
had turned out our gain?
Would our paths cross if the pain it had cost us
was paid in vain?
There was no pot of gold, hardly a rainbow
lighting my way
But I will be true to the red, black and blues
that colored those days.
I owe my soul to each fork in the road,
each misleading sign.
‘Cause even in solitude, no bitter attitude
can dissolve my sweetest find
Thanksgiving for every wrong move that made it right.