Shadows on Snow

Now I know that if a tree falls and I don’t hear it, the tree still falls. In the last blizzard, a majestic spruce that used to graze the sky snapped and toppled over, taking the trim and the windowbox of the garden shed with it. When I ventured out into the way-back of my yard to scatter a scuttle-full of ashes, I saw the downed tree and for a few seconds, couldn’t believe my eyes. Those few seconds are strange and eerie…when what you see can’t be immediately processed by your brain.

The very top of this giant tree used to be a favorite hang-out of the crows, who would perch and sway and survey the neighborhood, all the while chatting about what to have for dinner or where to sleep that night. I used to sit at my desk and watch the white trails of planes over the tree, headed to Paris or San Francisco, and I marveled at the silver cylinder piercing the clouds, the tiny people within drinking bad coffee and reading mysteries on their Kindles.

There was something about this tree that always made me look up from my daily tasks and forget for a minute or two the old ledger full of accountings or the electric bill or that day’s calendar of events. And for that minute or two, I got lost in something much bigger than myself.

On Friday night around nine o’clock, the lights went out, the furnace stopped, and the cold set in. The fierce wind shook the windows and roared down the chimney and the heavy snow fell like a weight on the heart. Saturday morning, my house was 50 degrees, and when I lit a fire, the cold chimney pushed the smoke out into the rooms, making my eyes tear and alarming my already anxious house.

I sat in my chair and watched the little fire flicker…no match for nature’s tempest. As the thermostat dipped down into the 40’s, all I heard was the relentless wind, and all I saw was snow piling up at the windows and doors.

I don’t know when the great tree snapped and fell. I don’t know when it stopped being a haven for crows, an inspiration for me. It’s lying on the ground now, its once graceful branches madly askew, separated from the roots that once held it aloft. I shall find someone to cut it up and carry its pieces away, but the space it leaves is big as sky, the hollowness my spirit felt as the cold turned my beloved house into stone.

The heat and the light came back on Monday night: 72 long, waiting hours. And now I am grateful for the luxuries I enjoy: heat, light, health, family, friends, and trees. Miracles of the daily sort indeed.