“Until we allow some of Nature’s stillness to reclaim us, we will remain victims of the instant and never enter the heritage of our ancient belonging.”– John O’Donohue
It is so very still this time of year. If one lets it be.
I find myself yearning to jump in the truck and roll up to the retreat, maybe grab a bad coffee and a (good) donut on the way. I unlock the door and shove some cord wood into the potbelly and light it aflame. That’s it. Just sit and be still in that space that we have created as a respite, a sanctuary and a celebration.
Grampa’s snowshoes, wool jacket and a few of his hats hang on the south facing wall of the log cabin, a nod to the memories this place has held over the many years. We collectively, as a family, long for another foot of snow to trod new paths, polish up the skis, and breathe in the winter before it flits away.
I think it is snowing now.
I was 12 years old when I moved away from this place. Coming back was always coming home: in junior high, high school, into college. Back with my sweetheart, then children. So many sweet memories of Grandma and Grandpa tending the land, growing potatoes, feeding us, loving us and praying for us as we grew like the weeds in the field.
This is the heritage of my four siblings and the heritage of my father (and his four siblings). When Grandma and Grandpa had to move from their little log cabin in the woods, we mourned for them, but we now rejoice in the promises to come. And we rejoice that we can share this heritage with others who long for some of Nature’s stillness to reclaim them.