Listening to the winter quiet

By Carol / December 27, 2009 /

I returned from a pre-dawn walk through three inches of new powder, breathless from the exertion, warm in spite of frigid temperatures, the sound of snow crunching with every step.  The snowplows hadn’t passed yet, so the snow was clean and fresh. Christmas lights left on all night twinkled in the untrampled crystals. This was as pretty as a winter morning gets.ç

Reluctant to bring my morning journey to an end, I stopped outside our door. The crunch under my shoes echoed, then faded. My breathing calmed. The air settled around me, and I listened. Nothing. I heard nothing. There can be nothing so quiet as a winter morning under a snowy blanket. Even the sound of a passing car is muted. Dawn would not break for a few minutes and I soaked in this deep silence.

Seldom do we experience complete silence. Radios, TVs, traffic, phones, lawn mowers, the furnace blowing, the dishwasher cycling, devices of all sorts plugged into our ears. We are wired with sound. And even when everything external is turned off, it’s hard to escape the internal noise  – a remembered tense conversation, a project gone off track, a looming deadline, the mounting ‘to do’ list, a calendar teeming with meetings – all clamoring for mental space. When can we ever just be quiet?

My intent has been to write about my prairie at least once every month. But sitting here in my office, looking out across the area where I so hopefully planted a prairie last spring, all I could see was snow. White, windswept, barren. What’s to write about there?

Last week’s blizzard threw a white blanket over everything. From several hundred yards away, my prairie looked no different than the lawn that surrounded it.

Landscape designers talk about including plants that add ‘architectural interest’ even in the winter. I’ve planted bushes – Brilliant Red Chokeberries and Royal Star Magnolias – in my gardens to do just that. And I leave the blackened seed heads of Purple Coneflowers and Blackeyed Susans standing through the winter both to feed the birds and provide interest against the snow. In the prairie? Well, it was apparently just too early for there to be architectural interest on the prairie. But I miss my walks in the prairie, so I pulled on my boots and waded through the drifts to take a closer look.

Turns out there was more going on than I could see from my office. I found a single sunflower that had been blooming right up until the snow. Less than a foot tall, it braved the wind and cold. A hint to the tall plants that will mark the prairie in future years. Tiny grasses reached above the snow. Probably crabgrass! But I was remarkably glad to see them anyway.

Because crisscrossing the prairie, invisible until I was right on top of them, were tracks of rabbits and squirrels and even smaller animals – field mice? voles? The tracks reminded me that even in its early stages, the prairie is hideaway and home and food store to animals and birds. Who knows what is going on underneath the drifts?

I’ll walk across the prairie again this winter. Often, because even in the winter, my prairie is teaching me to look close.

Winter night is so different than summer evenings when crickets and frogs and cicadas fill the dark with their cacophony. When wind ruffles leaves. When windows and doors are flung open and everyone’s sounds fill the night air.This morning, in spite of a temperature that hovered in the teens, the quiet invited me to stay outside to revel in clean, pure, sweet, quiet. Then to wait and wonder when something would break the silence of the black and white morning.

Finally it came, the clear call of a cardinal.  I looked around, following the sound. There he was, a tiny dot of blood red on a distant limb. Not long after, a junco flitted by. The birds do not sing in the winter as they do during the summer when the competition is on to attract mates, but just as surely, the birds are here, giving voice to the morning.

As the sun rose, so did the birds. Blue jays. Crows. Gold finches turned winter gray. Their calls brought life to the winter morning. Following the lead of the birds, getting busy with the day, I grabbed the snow shovel and went to work clearing the sidewalk.

Those few minutes of pure quiet calmed my mind, refreshed my body, raised my spirits. Pure quiet. What a gift.

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