It was so still and so quiet and so crisp outside that I was literally rendered immobile. My breath had, in fact, been taken away. This awe was unexpected. Something was different. It was so still. Seemingly without a say in the matter, I stood still for a while, gazing at this land that is my home, listening to those sounds that are often missed because the wind shouts over them. A coyote called. L-town glittered in the valley. I looked up at the stars. I was once again stunned at how bright and clear the stars are when you are by yourself, away from the lights, the cars, the noise of town. It was such bliss to lift my head without having to steady myself from the wind.
The landscape imprinted itself on me. In its stillness.
Last night, the dust stirred up by my tires as I drove up the lane to the house blew ahead of me, faster than my car was driving. A few weeks ago, while driving 55 mph on the highway, the truck couldn't keep up with the blowing snow, either. It is a strange feeling, being outrun by the wind. But it is not foreign.
The landscape etched itself on me. In its fierceness.
It is not always easy, living here. In the thick of the winter months I start to struggle with it. It is so cold. So windy. So long. It is so much work just to be in this kind of weather. Currently, at 10:45 a.m., it is an even 0 degrees Fahrenheit. When the wind picks up, it feels more like -15 or -20 degrees. Thankfully, there was just barely a breeze this morning. walking to the car, I forced myself to stop for a moment. I forced myself to appreciate the newly fallen snow, the quiet peacefulness of morning where all of God's creatures are snuggled up, quiet, keeping warm for a bit longer before the business of the day calls them out.
Maybe if I look for and treasure these little moments of grace I will be strong enough to endure another winter. Perhaps, instead of simply enduring I can teach myself to thrive in this fierce stillness.