Winter Wisdom

I am a collector of quotes.  As a teen, I would scotch-tape bubble-lettered deep thoughts to my bedroom walls, and scrawl the wise sayings of others between my own angst-ridden journal musings. Over the years I have tried to preserve favorite quotes in dog-eared books and long-forgotten computer files. A good quote is like an old friend, dancing around the margins of our lives until we need a warm embrace or a kick in the pants.  Whether the originator carefully molded and pressed the words into form, or casually tossed a comment into the wind that was caught and carried by others, an enduring quote captures a piece of wisdom that is unbound by time or circumstance.  

Perhaps it is the raw nakedness of early winter that compels me to hoard stockpiled wisdom like a frenetic squirrel.  Or maybe I have once again become so engaged in holiday activities and planning, despite my annual pledge to “simplify, simplify,” that I reach out for anything of substance that may be floating in the wind.  Or it may be the bone-weariness of a year in review that forces me down in a chair to contemplate my own life and a world that seems poised on the edge of lunacy. 

Even when I do sit still, my mind trickles on like a restless current beneath the river’s frozen surface.  I miss the delight of swirling snow while I am busy creating faux paper snowflakes to plaster over a view that needs no decoration.  It is easy to miss the authentic beauty outside my window while I dupe myself into thinking that careful attention to detail will amount to anything more meaningful than paper snippets I will need to clean up later.

I long for more than shards and bits, even if there is some truth to be found there.  A deeper wisdom and elusive wholeness vibrates beneath my shifting gaze.  Just as the naked trees and frozen earth protect the slow work of transformation within, I also require the stillness of a long winter before I can anticipate the new shoots and growth of warmer, brighter days.  But I do not embrace the cold or darkness. I carry the seeds of wisdom in my cluttered pockets; do I trust myself enough to swallow them whole?

It is difficult to turn off the noise of the world; harder still to quiet a troubled mind.  My training as a healer begs me to pay attention to brokenness; my wiring as a perfectionist will always light up that which will never be perfect.  Passionate voices plead for action to tend to a broken, imperfect world, and always there is a need for more.  I am aware of the risk of inaction that comes with feeling complacent or overwhelmed.  And yet, if my constant motion does not carry the deeper work of contemplation, I only add to the noise of a chaotic world.  Perhaps I am supposed to love the snowstorm, even when it seems wild and uncontrollable, while also tending to the simple tasks of my own imperfect creations. 

The disequilibrium of this kind of paradox sends me on a search for wise words once again. “You do not need to know precisely what is happening, or exactly where it is all going,” wrote Thomas Merton. “What you need is to recognize the possibilities and challenges offered by the present moment, and to embrace them with courage, faith and hope.”  These words born of silence and struggle have survived the ragged march of time.  Enduring still longer are the thoughts of Euripides, who wrote in ancient times that, “Silence is true wisdom’s best reply.”

I love these words that endure, but perhaps the truest wisdom is not found in words, but in silence. The wisest and truest action at times is to be still.  I am not always called to speak in the moment, but to listen for the truth in a small, still voice that may be my own. And perhaps that stillness will give birth to words and actions that, like paper snowflakes, are an imperfect representation of the delight and chaos outside my window.

I may need to learn to sit still, and to love the winter after all.