Grow old along with me!

The best is yet to be,

The last of life, for which the first was made:

Our times are in His hand

Who saith “A whole I planned,

Youth shows but half; trust God:
see all, nor be afraid!”

—Robert Browning, “Rabbi Ben Ezra”[1]

“Barbara, the snow’s late this year.”

She looks up from her piecrust work. “Yes, it’s only five days ’til Thanksgiving.”

But today, the wind chills. I gaze out the window at the fine flakes falling here in Minnesota, hundreds of miles away from my California childhood. This harbinger snow warns, “Nothing is forever.”

Our first snow is inevitable but still a surprise. We turned the clocks back just two weeks ago (“spring ahead; fall back”), but today, less than a month from winter solstice, the sun appears tardily over the far end of Pleasure Creek pond, rising in its low southern arc only to set early.

We are the shrouded ones, billeted in carpentered cocoons. Mine is a bookish breed. At home, my fingers rest on computer keys, pretending that the seasons never change. At work, I inhabit an indoor world smelling of classroom chalk, students to-ing and fro-ing in the halls, my days seasoned with specialty coffee and good conversation.

The seasons never changed in the California of my childhood with its palms, eucalyptus, magnolia and orange trees. But today, here in Minnesota, the sun hangs low on the horizon and the spruce branches slowly whiten.

Last summer here, at 45^o north latitude, the sun slanted up out of the pond and across our sunroom window bringing slow-motion dawns and leisurely dusks. Now the luminous light of late afternoon dims rapidly, along with my mood.

I didn’t notice winter’s warning—the browning tips of the redtop grass, the drooping prairie flowers. I reluctantly relinquish the long, languid days of summer, but I want to hang on to fall forever—her wild rains and winds, her stratospheric flocks of geese, and her small, furry creatures that scuttle across our narrow strip of pond-side prairie. Last week, the colder winds encouraged the topmost elm leaves to redden, turn brown, then relax their grip, falling to the grass in a burnt-red and yellow oval downwind of the tree, offering their last sweet smell of decay. These days are precious as we all face the south sun.

But fall is fading. I step out the door onto virgin snow that overwhelms the green cut grass. No animal tracks blemish the pristine whiteness—my footprints are the first.

The crystalline flakes arrive mute, indiscriminate, taking their time to land, more comfortable on the skin than fall’s stinging raindrops. I pull my coat around my chin. I need a hat and gloves. Our marigolds glow deep maroon in the lambent light. Their tendrils still climb the iron shepherd’s crook, but with looser grip. The hostas along the house shot out long exuberant spears, but they droop now, their enthusiasm spent. In the garden, the broccoli survives first frost, then fades. The bottoms of the tomato stalks change from green to yellow. Even the deer shun the dying plants.

I lie down spread-eagle on the lawn and stare up into the falling flakes. A light wind blows the snow slantwise through the maple’s witch-finger branches. I cannot feel it as it whitens my hair and clothes, but I taste it and smell its freshness. The snow stifles all sound except the distant cry of geese. I’m glad to be alive today¾to see, to taste, to experience heaven’s bright herald of winter.

Pleasure Creek pond lies still, somehow sensing the season’s shift, anticipates the icy patina that will soon cloud her face. The geese swim carelessly, agnostic about their future, congregating with cocked heads, assaying the season. Snow sifts down into the bordering, browning prairie grass, gilding the tiny husk of each shriveled prairie flower. Milkweed pods burst open and spew their filaments.

The seasons teach me the cycle.

Hopeful spring says, “Start, take heart, scatter abroad, be reckless and wild.”

Ebullient summer says, “Work, sweat, thrive; strive while you’re alive.”

Savory fall says, “Gather, rejoice, revel in the harvest.”

But winter’s annunciatory flakes say, “Get ready! Check the snow shovels. Drain the garden hoses. Secure the patio furniture. The weather is changing. Treasure what you have. Embrace your now.”

Almost for the first time, I realize that the seasons mirror my own life. I have a new appreciation of Woody Allen’s words—”I don’t want to achieve immortality by my work; I want to achieve immortality by not dying.”

My branches are still sturdy, but they feel more the winter’s winds. Some of my life-leaves have fallen. More and more, conversations drift to health matters and health vocabulary—mitral valve, atrial fibrillation, gout, LDL, neuropathy.

The snow carries a severe mercy and an unexpected grace—”I make all things new. I erase the dirt of your past. I shroud sorrows and heal wounds. I redeem. Savor me. I’ll blanket you with bitter white, but I’m preparing you for glorious spring. Trust what you cannot see. Weeping lasts for a time, but joy comes in the morning.”

Can I be thankful for winter’s snows? There’s a light at eventide that illumines winter’s day, that shines deeper, more faithfully. As Gerard Manley Hopkins writes, “And though the last lights off the black West went/ Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward springs . . .”

Winter enforces a pause—”Cease, withdraw, listen, read, pray. You can hear God better in your quiet.” I must let winter do its silent work. The first snowfall helps me focus, makes me grateful for what I have. Like an unexpected illness, it sharpens my joys, spurs me to value life more, helps me to see how precious is life.

I’m so thankful now, in the early winter of my life. I wish to pay attention, to read the seasons, to prepare well for my later years and beyond. Before I return to my fireside, I say, “First snow, I welcome you. Teach me well the wisdom of winter.”

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[1] http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/173031 Accessed 1/3/14.