Birds and Poems and Cloistered Sledding

Today I sit inside a snowglobe. I'd love to grab woolen mittens and a wooden sled and spend the day sliding until my face freezes and my hair cakes with ice.

Ah... but for me, such activity is no longer possible. For a "not so young woman," attempting anything of the kind would be throwing not only caution, but also sanity, to the wind.

I can, however, toss aside any of my previous posting plans, and invite you to share a few spontaneous minutes of "virtual cloistered sledding."

We can then spend a little time contemplating God's seasonal gifts.

What do you say?  Let's click "Winter Birds (and Nuns too)" to see what cloister gardens (and recreations!) are like at this time of year.

And to settle back in contemplation of God's world, we can click on
"A Winter's Serenade"  
and 
"Winter Poem of Mystical Death and Divine Rebirth"

And we can enjoy!

Paintingt: Adolf_Kaufmann

Photo © 2015 N Shuman

Holding Hope of Green

I want to write a post here today. A "snapshot" of what's happening in my cloister right now. But oh, I feel so lazy. Tired, mentally sluggish, and very, very lazy.

Which IS (when I think of it) a snapshot of what's happening in my cloister right now.

I just saw a thumbnail picture of one of our earlier garden posts, and thought "I could write about gardens!" My enthusiasm for that lasted about nine seconds.

The truth is: I feel lifeless today. Lifeless about writing, lifeless about praying, lifeless about thinking. My tiny burst of enthusiasm seems to have popped out, had a quick look around, and rushed back underground. The "cloister garden" feels bare, unproductive, stark.

Turning my attention to the window beside me, I see that I am surrounded by sticks. Skinny bare branches reach halfway up the glass. In summer we call that clump of dark gray lines a "bush." Today it seems a strange word for what I see before me, a lush green word from an unknown foreign tongue.

If I had not experienced seasons, if I hadn't watched this bush drop leaves and wither every autumn,
and then burst forth with tender shoots each spring, I cannot imagine holding hope of green ... ever again.

But green is there. Life is there. Somewhere deep inside, safe from ice encrusted winter, life is there. Dormant, huddled, swaddled life. Plants need their seasons of dormancy as much as they need the warmth and sunlight of summer. When they seem totally barren, the sticks outside my window are in fact protecting life.

The appearance of lifelessness is far from the truth.

"O my Lord, I am in a dry land, all dried up and cracked by the violence of the north wind and the cold; but as You can see, I ask for nothing more. You will send me both dew and warmth when it pleases You." (St. Jane de Chantal)

Painting: Julius von Klever, 1906