Episcopal Diocese of Minnesota

Toby led the way in.  Both of us were packed full of expectation as we pushed our way through the new powder  snow.  Toby would race way out in front only to stop on the horizon to look back, then turn around and bound back to his slower partner, then to stop just out of arm's reach, and then turn around again and race off to the hill line.  Even though he was the runt of the litter, Toby was still a good-looking Brittany, and in the woods with his grace and fluid lines freed of fences and leashes, he took his place in the landscape of unbounded beauty.  This was the right time and the right place.

And it was perfect snow.  I double-poled my way even up some slight grades.  It was fast; it was easy, and it made for a very short trip.  Actually, it was too short, because I found myself regretting arrival at the cabin.  Something like this has happened before. On Look Out Mountain, Big Aspen, or Giant's Ridge, there were spots just created for stopping and staying for awhile.  Usually it was high ground with a view that spread down and across the miles. I have stopped at those place, but not for long; instead, I would move on through the beauty and obey the Robert Frost refrain, "miles to go before ..." that played persistently in the back of my mind.

I think it was T.S. Elliot, who wrote that "man can not stand too much reality".  Too much beauty is not so easy either; and if beauty and reality are of the same thing, then it really is a heavy load to take in.  And now looking back, I  know that during my trip into the cabin, I sought relief from the power of the presence of beauty by diverting my attention to mundane things – like looking for deer signs, making plans to heat up the cabin, feed the birds, and shovel snow.  And I know this about myself: that life is much bigger than my mind or feelings can handle and in defense, I frequently retreat to simpler, safer things.

That wasn't possible a year ago, when three of us skied the New Year in at Big Aspen.  It was a dark night during the dark time of the year, and it was snowing.  We had head lamps to help us find the trail and they gave us three to four feet of visibility – if we directed them on the trail.  If we pointed them off into the night or over a ledge on a hilltop, the blackness only gave up minor reflections of light off the falling snow.  The snow quickly reclaimed the trail behind us so that, even though we were moving through, there was also a sense of an eternal presence, of being without a beginning or an end.  Also, I remember that while I was skiing, I kept on thinking, "This is just like swimming."  Not that we were getting wet, but the whole thing was like an immersion.  We were immersed in the cool black night air with freshness of snow flakes gently landing and moistening our faces.

That journey was over a year ago, and now it was time to pack up and head back to Virginia.  I wasn't in a hurry to leave, and Toby, ever ready for another run wasn't really thinking of where we were going.  I looked over my notes for a last time before putting them away and thought: "You know, it is one thing to plant a rose, a beautify rose, to nurture, to prune and protect it, and then to sit back and soak up its beauty.  It is another thing to be so caught up in the beauty itself that it totally surrounds you and bathes you in its own essence."

I packed my notes, locked up the cabin, put on my skis and headed back.  As I crested the hill climbing up from the cabin and stood somewhat breathless in the middle of the snow-covered balsams and birches, I though, of all things, of Dante.  It didn't seem strange at the time.  It just followed from the rose.  Dante used the rose as a metaphor or image for the divine.  the "multifoliate rose", what a spectacular image it is!  There's more, and this is most important.  Dante placed the vision of God at the very heart or center of the Rose, and now I know why.  The vision of God isn't so much what or who a person sees, but it is the discovery of where you are.

Other titles in this series:

• Fall
• Spring
• Easter
• Easter II

• American Widgeons, originally written 1997 for the East Range Epistle.
• Clearing Land, originally written 1997 for the East Range Epistle.
• Dogs, originally written in 1999 for the East Range Epistle
• Good Friday and Trees, originally written in 1998 for the East Range Epistle
• Michigan Sand, originally written in 1998 for the East Range Epistle
• Rivers, originally written in 1996 for the East Range Epistle.
• Skiing Burntside, originally written 1997 for the East Range Epistle.
• Snow Trails, originally written 1997 for the East Range Epistle.
• The Singing River, originally written 1996 for the East Range Epistle.
• Winter Trails, originally written 1997 for the East Range Epistle.

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