A couple of years ago, my sister gave me a bulky package for my birthday. Inside were a pair of funny looking red snowshoes - vintage. She squealed: "Don't you love them! They're used! I got 'em off ebay!" I thought she was crazy, but every time I use them, I am glad she had vision.
A few days ago, I had things on my mind. Nothing new, really, but the kinds of stupid little things that we all worry about. Small things on their own but they add up to a full brain. I needed a little air. I tucked a snowshoe under each arm and trudged up to Greenway Meadows.
There wasn't a soul there. The sun was bright; the parking lot unplowed; not a footprint anywhere in sight. I strapped on my fancy red shoes, my gloves, my sassy furry hat and marched up the hill. I went the long way round the fields, through the rough grass that refuses to be pressed down by even a foot of snow. So quiet, except for my crunching of the snow. I felt myself breathe easier, the cold air stinging in my lungs, in a good way.
I found myself on Greenway's poetry path and stopped at nearly every one. I walked with familiar friends: Dickinson, Flaubert, and Wendell Berry, who wrote the one below, entitled: "The Peace of Wild Things". (Forgive the photo quality - Blackberry...)
Berry's words reminded me that peace sometimes lies in wait, like the stars behind the day. And sometimes, it lies up a hill, on a path, made by funny looking red shoes.