A streak of sun winks through the cloud, wondering about the white that lingers on the earth into mid March. The thermometer gingerly edges past the thirties, though it does not feel like it when the wind reminds us of winter’s slow retreat.
It is Saturday morning and I feel like spreading my clipped wings. I visualize my body running free. Those days long past…the groans inside my joints too loud to go unnoticed, I think of walking instead.
I think of Walden. My last visit in the midst of winter’s anger. How she whipped up an icy wind as I stood on the shore of Red Cross Beach. I remember inching my fingers loose of my fleece gloves to take photos. White on white. No relief from winter’s monotone, only a darkened tone of subdued grey, and a faint line of tenacious green holding on in the distance. I used to swim to that shore in the long days of summer.
I think of Buddha. For me he resides here. I will my hands to leave my pockets, to stand my booted feet firm on the icy white beach, feeling the breath that warms inside my ribs ebb and flow in a way the water cannot. I visualize His pure calm face. No lines of worry, no images of future flitting along his brow. I try to push them out of mine too.
This is the Walden I think of. The white-on-white, naked of laughter and movement. The heavy sense of winter laid upon her. Air, ice, water I cannot see. This is the place I want to go to, that gives me peace.
I do not go to Walden today though. Despite the air whistling warmth and the sun’s increasing constancy as her journey lengthens across the sky. I stay away while others enjoy her. Tomorrow, when the cold returns and keeps hands in pockets and laughter indoors, this is when I will return to Red Cross Beach. So I may watch the spaces of white empty me of thoughts.