Winter Wonderland

I know that I ask too much of you, dear reader, to transport yourself from a sun-warmed beach in July to a snow-covered forest in late-December. Let me offer some assistance. Gently close your eyes. Imagine a hardwood forest where the glossy green leaves of sumer are touched by the cooling breezes of fall. All too quickly these leaves drop their orange-yellow-magenta selves to the ground. Now feel the chill of a cloud-covered day. Then visualize more days when brisk winds carry rain and then bountiful snow to cover the frozen ground.

Eventually the landscape is peopled with dark naked tree trunks and wispy branches that emerge in stark contrast to the overwhelming presence of white. Unexpectedly your eye catches the faintest hint of color: two swaying, yellowy orange leaves that dangle from branches. Were they bells, they might be ringing. It is now past winter solstice, Hanukkah, Christmas. The new year is upon us and it is time to bid farewell to the darkness and welcome the return of the light. The forest, released of its canopy of thick leaves, opens overhead into far reaching sky....

On Christmas Eve--three nights ago--Frances and I donned snowshoes about 8:30 pm to take a moonlit walk. A foot of new-fallen snow blanketed the earth and the full moon beamed like a huge yard light suspended from heaven. We walked deep into the woods past our property line and onto county forest land. With each step we left the leafless maples, poplars, birches, and oaks behind with our footprints. When we reached the snow-filled balsam fir trees, their snow-lacquered branches weighted heavily, we paused, and listened to silence.

We stood quietly for a moment then waited more minutes to hear the hoot of an owl, the howl of a coyote, the tiny footsteps of a mouse, or the faint whoosh of a breeze brushing treetops. We heard nothing. Silence surrounded us, breathed through us, nested into us.

Eventually I asked Frances if she heard the high-register hum of something unidentifiable. "What is it?" I inquired. "Is it the electrical impulses produced by my brain as it communicates with my nervous system? Does it come from inside my body--our bodies--or from without?"

"Perhaps it's the vibration of the trees," Frances responded. "Or maybe it's the earth or ionosphere," she added after more minutes of silence. Eventually we turned and retraced our steps back to the warmth and light of our house where unsplit firewood awaited us.

The next afternoon Frances speculated further about the previous night's moments of wonderment, "Maybe we heard the sound of stars talking to each other."