Snow Day Musings

On a snowy East Coast day here in beautiful Bucks County, PA, I am in pjs and cozy turtle neck. A fuzzy blue blanket is covering my lap and my mid-back length hair is cascading down my shoulders. It feels like a blanket I have wrapped around me as well. The last time it was that long, I was in college, back in the late 70s-early 80s. The me that I was, was a wide-eyed indulger of adventure, uncertain what awaited me in the decades that followed. Now, old enough to be the grandmother of that version of myself, I gaze back from this vantage point and think that either she was naive or on to something that I would be well served to remember. She was nearly fearless about taking physical risks, including an Outward Bound Course in 1981 that had me camping, cross country skiing and freezing my tush and other assorted body parts in New England. I was 22 at the time and will never be that young and crazy again. These days, I find myself needing to be cautious about how I move. Some mornings, I wake up creaky and stiff. When I play with my two-year-old grandson, and we are situated on the floor, it takes a bit for me to stand up as he grabs my hand and directs me where he wants me to go. Usually it’s to another toy or into the kitchen for a snack. I feel a bit like my own Bubbe whose name was Rebecca (Rivkah in Yiddish)  oy-vey kvetchy and always seeming older than she really was. In this photo, that I am guessing one of my parents took, I was likely 12 and my sister was 9 or 10. She would live another year or two after this. I can’t pinpoint the date she died, but she was buried in the dress she wore at my Bat Mitzvah. I had already surpassed her height and I am pretty sure that my grandson will tower over me by the time he is that age. He is already 3 1/2 feet tall at his last check up. My grandmother came here at age 16 with her parents, as immigrants from Russia before the pogrom. If not for that decision, our family might have been in Europe during the Holocaust. I am grateful for my great grandparents’ forethought and the urgency they felt to flee their native land.

When I consider what awaits, I am far more uncertain about the future than I was when this photo was taken. Five decades have passed and we are in the midst of a pandemic. The planet is crying out for its very life. Hatred has sunk its skin shredding claws into our schools, institutions and government. Books are being banned. Teachers are being told what they can and can’t teach. The remnants of the previous administration are still swirling about like the howling wind outside my window.

At the moment, I feel like I am standing on the bridge between past and future, being lured backward by the sneeringly seductive voice of fear that hides in the shadows telling me to remain safe in the past and what I have already experienced and the wind chime clear, twinkling bright voice of love beckoning me into an uncertain future. Feeling courageous and vulnerable even as I know the correct direction to turn.

The flakes are wafting and dancing outside my window. There is no need to go anywhere. My neighbor will shovel my drive and walkway later today. My son called last night and cautioned me not to do it myself. I assured him that it would be taken care of. Standing somewhere between wishing that I could and grateful that I don’t need to. Since a heart attack in 2014, I was cautioned to shovel with care. I have snuck in a few snow scooping experiences since then. Then back in August, COPD was diagnosed and I would prefer not to be whistle-wheezing while clearing a path for myself. A walk in the neighborhood will suffice for a wintry interlude. I am listening to my favorite radio station, WXPN. The Spinners are serenading with Mighty Love.

All feels well for the moment. The fridge and cabinets are full, since I did a pre-storm-pre-emptive quick trip to the grocery store. French toast this morning with vegan sausage patty and immune boosting tea. As I was shopping, I was thinking about how grateful I was that I could afford food and that the shelves were amply stocked. I was appreciative that I have all the creature comforts I could desire. My car is filled with gas and I topped off the windshield washer fluid in anticipation. There are so many people who don’t have those luxuries. I grew up in a family with abundant love and no abuse or addiction. My parents had a loving relationship and provided for all of our needs. I should not be the exception in either case. Everyone should have their needs met and every child should be cherished and cared for. My job as a therapist puts me in daily contact with people who missed that boat and now are struggling to reclaim their birthright.

Much of what I contemplate as I write and provide counsel and comfort has to do with the injustices I observe.

What ever, ever, ever in a million years gave anyone the idea that is acceptable to do harm, to kill, to hate, to take what you want because you want it? Who gives ANYONE the right to do that? And then to compound it, how dare anyone use religion as justification? The God of my understanding isn’t about fear and retribution, but about love. As my mother would have said, “Knock it off!” If we all did that, imagine how the world would change. Offering a hymn for January.

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This post is republished on Medium.

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Photos courtesy of the author.