Sometimes it's not goodbye, it's see you soon

My Great-Great Aunt Beatrice died last week. The world seems dimmer, somehow less magical than it was before. She was my last Great-Great relative. I've always wondered how people bore the passing of everyone before them, since such grief would only be exaggerated in time. Now I know, or at least I think I do. As the years in front of you become fewer than the years behind, it becomes less "good-bye" and more like "see you soon". And if there is dancing in Heaven, then I'm sure that is what she's doing. She was a dear, dear woman. Sweet and warm, with laughing eyes and a twinkling soul. The type of person that makes you certain you won't meet another of that kind again. Unique not in the snowflake way, but rather, in the way of the big bang. So while the lives of those around her were marked by her kindnesses, now there is only a darkness where her light once shone.

Cannot keep my loves ones from me....

Some long years ago, my great-grandmother sent me a letter which had a snippet of another poem in it.  Although I didn't know it at the time, it came from the following poem.  Reading this poem as an adult has stirred me so much that I wonder if I have misjudged my great-grandmother, who was a very complicated and strong woman.

For those who don't know (I did not), John Burroughs was a romantic poet and considered secondary only to Thoreau in terms of naturalist sensibilities at the turn of the last century (according to various websites). 

WAITING

by: John Burroughs (1837-1921)

SERENE, I fold my hands and wait,

Nor care for wind, nor tide, nor sea;

I rave no more 'gainst time or fate,

For, lo! my own shall come to me.

I stay my haste, I make delays,

For what avails this eager pace?

I stand amid the eternal ways,

And what is mine shall know my face.

Asleep, awake, by night or day,

The friends I seek are seeking me;

No wind can drive my bark astray,

Nor change the tide of destiny.

What matter if I stand alone?

I wait with joy the coming years;

My heart shall reap where it hath sown,

And garner up its fruit of tears.

The waters know their own and draw

The brook that springs in yonder height;

So flows the good with equal law

Unto the soul of pure delight.

The stars come nightly to the sky;

The tidal wave unto the sea;

Nor time, nor space, nor deep, nor high,

Can keep my own away from me.

Source: Poetry Archive.  The Little Book of American Poets: 1787-1900. Ed. Jessie B. Rittenhouse. Cambridge: Riverside Press, 1915.12 Jan. 2011. Web.  http://www.poetry-archive.com/b/waiting.html

Digging Out

Strange things about a winter storm:

1. The world becomes black and white and gray
2. Any messiness is covered with a blanket of purity
3. It's hard to tell how deep you will sink upon taking the first step into the snow
4. There seems some type of magic inherent in the first flakes spiralling down
5. Even the animals love to jump and fall into snow
6. Everything seems quieter

And finally,

7. The expression, "snug as a bug in a rug" makes sense when you are curled up in your favorite chair with a mug of cocoa staring out into the snow-globe world.

And now, I must go dig out!