Tiny snowflakes fall straight down. There is no wind as my feet shush through the blanket that fell over night. My dog adores snow, gets so excited when his nose pushes through to the ground. When excited, he leaps and grabs the leash, tries to play tug. I have to step on the leash and hold him still until he calms down enough to continue the walk.
Now that I am still, I hear the tap of a woodpecker. Looking up, I see the black and white bird hopping up the trunk nearby. I hear its sharp whistle once. A chickadee calls, another answers. The blanket of snow is bright but hides the colours of the ground. The white of winter's rest is all around me. Being still gave me a chance to hear.
The below zero temperatures are new. Water still trickles through the rocks from where it puddled up above, a soft musical sound. When we climb to the top and find those puddles, the layer of ice cracks beneath my feet, a sharp sound that echoes in the silence. Water will not be still.
I walk slowly in this winter world. There is distance here, now that all the leaves have gone, a sense of space that feels restful. Nothing moves.
An apple tree, bare of all its leaves, clings to its fruit, now brown and frozen. The windfalls are all covered. I am sure the deer will find them, though the bears that also enjoyed this feast are huddled away to sleep through this winter.
No animal stirs that I can see, though earlier in the day or night they ventured out. I see where a squirrel bounded to find the acorn it hid before snow buried it. We cross the small paw prints of a skunk. Farther along, we follow the track of a fox. Today, I can see the trails that the dog follows with its nose.
Trees are layered with snow. In the still air, the fallen flakes cling to conifers and even to the narrow branches of maple and birch. It will be shaken loose when the wind rises again, as it will, for that is a characteristic of our winters. For now, snow clothes the trees.
A Facebook post included a quote attributed to Brother David Steindl-Rast, a Benedictine monk. It begins "May you grow still enough to hear the small noises earth makes in preparing for the long sleep of winter, so that you yourself may grow calm and grounded deep within. May you grow still enough to hear the trickling of water seeping into the ground, so that your soul may be softened and healed, and guided in it's flow." Walking that morning I felt that kind of stillness.
Steindl-Rast goes on to speak of even deeper stillness, but that is harder. My mind is bouncing as I walk. To still my thoughts, I return home to tai chi and yoga. With yoga, there are moments of focus as I follow the direction of the online teacher and move as instructed, all my attention on the position my body holds, the way I move. Then, she asks for a pose that I cannot do. I'm not strong enough for side plank. Crow is a pose I can't begin to figure out. My mind starts to work out how to adapt what I am able to do, wonders if with practice I'll be able to achieve the pose, ponders what the dog is up to when his nails clack on the floor upstairs.
Because I've been doing tai chi longer, there is better flow and focus. I know that if I let my mind wander, I will forget where I am in the set. My thoughts stay focussed on the move I am doing with a hint of what comes next. I am sure there are other things going on in my head, but my conscious mind is still.
Cathy Hird lives on the shore of Georgian Bay
