During last weekend's six inch snowfall, Ann and I settled in and watched as the snow swirled past the large windows of our apartment. Ann commented once again that it felt like being in a snow globe. Yes indeed. Very pleasant and comfortable.The snow piled up on our deck and nearly buried the Buddha. His snow cap has already disappeared.
I no longer shovel snow since selling our home near Prospect Gardens. Yet, Billy Collins' poem still moves me because his words confirm the majesty and the spiritual nature of winter.
Shoveling Snow With the Buddha
In the usual iconography of the temple or the local Wok
you would never see him doing such a thing, 
tossing the dry snow over a mountain
of his bare, round shoulder,
his hair tied in a knot,
a model of concentration.
Sitting is more his speed, if that is the word
for what he does, or does not do.
Even the season is wrong for him.
In all his manifestations, is it not warm or slightly humid?
Is this not implied by his serene expression,
that smile so wide it wraps itself around the waist of the universe?
But here we are, working our way down the driveway,
one shovelful at a time.
We toss the light powder into the clear air.
We feel the cold mist on our faces.
And with every heave we disappear
and become lost to each other in these sudden clouds of our own making,
these fountain-bursts of snow.
This is so much better than a sermon in church,
I say out loud, but Buddha keeps on shoveling.
This is the true religion, the religion of snow,
and sunlight and winter geese barking in the sky,
I say, but he is too busy to hear me.
He has thrown himself into shoveling snow
as if it were the purpose of existence,
as if the sign of a perfect life were a clear driveway
you could back the car down easily
and drive off into the vanities of the world
with a broken heater fan and a song on the radio.
All morning long we work side by side,
me with my commentary
and he inside his generous pocket of silence,
until the hour is nearly noon
and the snow is piled high all around us; then, I hear him speak.
After this, he asks,
can we go inside and play cards?
Certainly, I reply, and I will heat some milk
and bring cups of hot chocolate to the table
while you shuffle the deck.
and our boots stand dripping by the door.
Aaah, says the Buddha, lifting his eyes
and leaning for a moment on his shovel
before he drives the thin blade again
deep into the glittering white snow."
If you quickly pass on foot through Prospect Gardens on a wintry day or ride by on one of those popular fat-tire bicycles, you might consider the scenery rather ordinary and bland. A slower pass through, as I recently did, reveals the majesty and beauty of prairie plants that have gone to seed. As Collins' poem suggests, when fully experiencing the moment, the ordinary often becomes an extraordinary experience; e.g., shoveling snow with the Buddha.
Here are a few pictures from Prospect Gardens with quotes about winter. They show the beauty of the fading prairie plants, suggest the stillness of winter, and hint at the impermanence of life itself.
"The hard soil and four months of snow make the inhabitants of the northern temperate zone wiser and abler than his fellow who enjoys the fixed smile of the tropics. "
Ralph Waldo Emerson
Definitely true about Wisconsinites. Don't you agree? We are a hardy species.
"I prefer winter and fall, when you feel the bone structure of the landscape--the loneliness of it, the dead feeling of winter. Something waits beneath it, the whole story doesn't show. "
Andrew Wyeth
"In seed time learn, in harvest teach, in winter enjoy."
William Blake
Life now is very different from my childhood and teenage years. You may recall that I was born on a family farm near Pulaski, WI and worked on the farm until my Mother sold it in 1962. I was a senior in high school.
Here's me as a 13 year old. It's September and a turning point in my life. The one room school with all grades had recently closed. No more walking to school. Instead, caught the bus at the end of our long driveway to the Pulaski Elementary School and joined Mrs. Parker's seventh grade class.
We drove ourselves to Pulaski starting a year later and continued throughout my high school years. The driver would be an older sister or brother with a newly acquired license. My turn came when I was sixteen.
Driving made it easier to first do chores and then get to school on time. We would all pile into the car; used and never new. My Mother was reimbursed, providing extra money to a tight budget. Even though my Mother was illiterate, she knew about such programs. She was well informed, relying on the radio, neighbors and her church lady friends
During the summer my Mother washed clothes on the porch. I assisted her; using a wringer washing machine and two tubs for a double rinse. And of course, the lawn was always cut, initially with a push mower and then a gasoline engine with a blue-green deck.
The long dead-end road from our farm to the main highway was drafted closed. After several days of being stranded, we heard the roar of the mammoth snowplow as it slowly made its way towards our farm. No easy task as the plow pushed its way into the farm yard.
We were in Pulaski in the early phase of another major snow storm. Maybe at church. Returning home, we parked the car at the end of our dead- end road where it intersected with the main highway. Mother was planning ahead. The car would be available if needed before our driveway was cleared. The highway was always cleared well before our driveway. We made our way home as the wind picked up and the snow began to fall harder.
I still recall how a deep silence and a feeling of comfortable solitude followed once the howling storm winds subsided. Now it's harder to experience deep silence in our noisy world of cell phones, bleeping emails, twenty-four hour news cycles, and unwanted music in shopping malls. During the mid-January meditation retreat at Holy Wisdom Monastery, I felt deep silence, especially on my walks through the snow covered prairies. Throughout the nearly three day retreat we also practiced "noble silence." We did not talk except during occasional question and answer periods, a group interview with the teacher and a short small group discussion. Eating in silence was most enjoyable.
My brother Lou's favorite winter story involves my sister Theresa and her driving to Stations of the Cross on Wednesday evening. This every Wednesday night Lenten ritual commemorated Christ's crucifixion. We all climbed into the car after evening chores. Theresa slowly drove the slippery six miles in the dark night heading to our large Catholic church. On the way, she hit a slippery patch and flew into the ditch. A neighbor pulled us out and we eventually made it to the packed church.
I still hear the deep baritone voice of Father Bernadine, flanked by two alter boys in red and white gowns, making their way through the fourteen stations. Father Bernadine gave stirring sermons. He was known for his blunt speech, especially when he thought parishioners were not financially giving enough. In fact, the exact amount each family gave was stated in an annual report. My Mother never commented on this public disclosure. I don't know what she gave while guessing we didn't meet Father Bernadine's threshold.
Here's one of my favorite and rare pictures of family members enjoying winter. This picture, taken during the winter of 1940-41, surfaced about five years ago during a family reunion, held after Ann and I finished the family research project.
On the sled is my oldest sister, Jenny. Pulling the sled is her new husband, Roman. They eloped and were married in Waukegan, IL on October 14, 1940. The couple lived on our farm for a short while.
The boy swinging the broom is another older brother Leo, who died on January 11th, 2018 at the age of 85. During the 1950s, and after living in Milwaukee, Leo returned to and remained near Atlanta with his Georgia born wife, Kathy, and his two oldest sons. I reconnected with Leo and his family before his death in part because of the family research project. I recently sent nearly three hours of taped interviews with Leo to his son, Vincent. Vincent, his three sons and a great nephew and his son, visited during early December 2018. Family ties were strengthened along with the creation of deep life long memories.
The second boy to the right of Jenny is my brother Mike. This last year, Mike defied odds and survived a serious lower digestive tract operation. He is now a rather healthy 89 year old and will be 90 in April. The other boys in the picture are the Rudnicks and sons of my Grandma Julia's bother, Peter. Julia and Peter had a very close relationship.
The 1940's picture now evokes some sadness on my part as I consider the passage of time. Here's Jenny in her later years. With her death at 93 on April 6th, 2017, a key linkage to my past vanished. Jenny was the family historian. Interviewing her for the family research project was such a pleasure. Jenny's family stories were often confirmed by what I learned through Ancestry.com and other sources.
Jenny and Roman, who died in 1991, were married for 51 years. Jenny was deeply religious, resilient, kind and courageous. I miss her as well as Leo.
Perhaps I have wandered too afar into family history. Winter combined with my own aging are contributing factors. I end with Mary Oliver's words about stillness, which we can tap into regardless of the season.
TODAY
"Today I’m flying low
and I’m
not saying a word.
I’m letting all the voodoos
of ambition sleep.
"The world goes on as it
must,
the bees in the garden
rumbling a little,
the fish leaping, the gnats
getting eaten.
And so forth.
"But I’m taking the day
off.
Quiet as a feather.
I hardly move though really
I’m traveling
a terrific distance.
"Stillness. One of the
doors
into the temple."
~ Mary Oliver
