Nature reflecting back at me

When the spring teases for an afternoon, outplaying the winter dullness for a few hours, its prime time to go for a solitary walk. 

In a country like Australia, often at times I have come to dread this part of the year, its not winter like back in NZ where a magical sense is felt with snow falling and sun rays coming to warm the soul. Nor is it like in other parts of the world, where the crisp mornings break open to breath taking days. Rather, its grey, pure grey, reminding one that its not the liturgical season of Lent or the lament that comes along with it that. What now, is the middle part of winter or possibly the end who knows with the effects of global warming, the winter days seem endless, with the novelty of snow and cold worn off if I was back in New Zealand, here the novelty of no sunshine, grey clouds and dullness that seems to seep into everything wearing at the soul. 

This country is made on sunshine, with the orange landscape shining a reflective beam with the rays of light hitting through the trees. Birds, kangaroos and wildlife bath in the sun rays and hide away from the darkness these cold days bring. The sticky leather seats, melting ice cream running to the ground creating a heaven storm for the ants… this country is not made for mute grey tones of winter when everything outside seems dark, dirty and dull. If Ash Wednesday was in this season, it would be a straightforward service to perform, ashes everywhere; so much burning, trying to keep warm, trying to kindle the flame that is burning and dulling at times. 

Through the forest, the wind roars against the trees, the water hangs on the exposed branches waiting for the chill to make them permeant. As I step upon a bridge over a creek, the ice below begins to break. I recall my brothers use to say breaking ice is like campfire cracking mixed in with deep tones. Perhaps as its a shallow creek it is coming undone, and not a large lake…. I think not of campfire  rather a tree falling. 

Stopping on the bridge, leaning over trying to locate the source of the sound; I notice a large hole, like a wound, in the middle of the creek. Water flows freely through it. I am transfixed by the tracks on the ice around the hole, appearing like some creature been tapping away on the ice. Its leaving etchings are beautiful the way brutal natural things can be, giving a small smile at the very fact that rending of one thing should be reminiscent of the other! 

As I stood there glazing at the hole, all I could see was nature reflecting myself back. Layers in life are something to be embraced yet at times when the layers build upon one another and unable to process them, the weight hits hard. My ideal world is not one that is supported by the world… honesty we do not live in a perfect world nor is our homeland Paradise. I came to terms with this long ago when younger. Sometimes it feels to me like justice and righteousness are words only associated with the to come, not the here and now. Leaving a sense that Murphy's Law (Thank you B ancestors) is the norm. "If anything can go wrong, it will go wrong!" This attitude hits my heart cutting it, making me only search for God so much deeper. The world we live in is far from perfect, it is a world where injustices is the norma and unrighteousness prevails. 

I read through Psalm 63, 

I have seen you in the Temple 

and have seen your strength and glory.

 Because your love is better than life 

I will praise you. 

LIfe is a gift, what a gift, its hard at times to get my mind around just how much of a gift it is. Its worth fully unwrapping, taking the perfect bow, the tender protective wrapping paper and exposing that glorious beauty that shines beyond. Some days when there is a growing restlessness in my soul, coupled with a promoting of the Holy Spirit whispering to my heart that I need to pull back, return home to the Lord in that secret place with Him and sit there in my mess and endure the unwinding of my heart knots. There is safety, sanctuary and salvation in finding rest with the Lord… alone with the Lord, I taste the sweetness of GRACE that could not be experienced anywhere else. Its hard to just surrender to the season of hushed fellowship with the Lord, the inner battles are fought that are seldom refined into sermons or books; The Lord continues to probe my deepest thoughts during segments of solitaire, opening my eyes to things that need attention and possibly making awareness of those things I try to hide from others. 

Its here I return to looking back at the hole, thinking how winter and coldness have become cliche metaphors for death. There is indeed some measure of coldness in grief, but grief has its own images apart from winter. The term is so broad and to only limit grief referring to human pasting puts a rather large barrier on processing life. Maybe though, the best metaphor for grief, especially referring to that grief of surrounding, movement - isn't the dead of winter but in the months afterwards, the thaw starts and everything underneath begins to wake up, alive to the sensations, feeling the bitter flowing underneath the hole in the middle! 

The wind hits hard against my skin as my stare shifts to the ice that seems to swirl, focusing on the middle expecting to see the water trickle through, to see it crack out from the edges of the center. 

I wonder if the land at the margins of the frozen water or the creek itself is weary in the way of Psalm 63 - "O God, you are my God, I seek you, my soul thirst for you; my flesh faints for you, as in a dry and weary land where there is no water." 

Does it take effort for the frozen creek to hold itself together? Is it painful when the warmth begins to spread like fingers and toes tingling back to life?

I see where the sound originates; at the side of the creek, near the bank, shards of ice breaking away. The frozen creek and the water underneath are shifting at the edges. Life teaches me, during cold months its warmer underneath but when spring comes the warmth must flow upwards, melting the surface so the entire creek runs like water that flows through the middle. The living water is alive, edges break apart until the creek is flowing warmed by the painful awakening.