tamarjacobson

As evening falls and the darkening sky settles on the white blanket of snow outside my window, the urge to write rises in me. Not being sure what I want to write about I sit at my computer with only the light from the screen shining gently on the keyboard. Ada sighs and relaxes into a deep sleep seeming satisfied that I will be spending some time near her click clacking at the keys. Shoulders and arms ache – a healthy pain of long, hard snow shoveling with all the neighbors in our parking lot this afternoon. A community of women and men, wrapped in coats, hats, scarves and gloves, shoveling and brushing, maneuvering the cars in and out while helping one another prepare for the regular work day in the morning. 

So much laughter as the sun shone onto car roof-tops and snow blew down on us from the old, huge Chestnut Hill trees. These small moments of camaraderie mean a lot to me. For I have always enjoyed the kindness of strangers. Someone called me a saint as I pushed and lifted huge shovel loads of snow out from under their wheels. I chuckled aloud. "I am not a saint!" I called out, "I am repenting for all my past sins!" Wild shouts of laughter from all around. Scrape, scrape, shovel, shovel, crunch, crunch. As we finished with one car, on we pressed to another and another until all were cleaned up, shiny and wet and ready for the new day ahead. 

I stumbled back into the apartment muscles complaining from areas in my arms and legs I had forgotten about. I took a long drink of cool sparkling water and looked around the kitchen. 

What to do next?

Wild Geese, by Mary Oliver:

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting –
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

A year ago at Mining Nuggets: The peace train