Winter Limbs – by Tommia Wright
“Show me Thy ways, O Lord, teach me thy paths.” ~Psalm 25, verse 4.
Yes, last week was Father’s Day. I’m of the mindset that it, along with Mother’s Day, are really 365 (or 366) days a year – a celebration, remembrance, a blessing. So, while some may think this post is late, I’ll state that it’s right on time – anytime.
While nearing the end of the first full week of Summer, the above verse (and a couple of sermons) came to mind about the topic of paths and such. I thought back to a winter walk long ago:
Staying in bed because I can get away with it is defeated by staying in bed because I’m paying for it – awake too late at night, sleep alluding me. It makes a difference as to the motive of remaining in the cocoon of comforters, blankets and quilts. On a winter day like this, it pays to not have to travel today.
The brisk day outside helps me push away the fatigue of only five hours of sleep inside. A day like today is too good to waste. Sure, school has been canceled and for some, work’s out of the question. But having the advantage of a braver driver than I (who will never trust me in a small car with the so-called medians so high), I could get to work just fine.
I want to get out in the snow, not for sledding, skiing, boarding or building of snowballs, snow-forts or snow-people. The trail calls me, the trail that’s mine- all mine. No one can get to the trailhead, so there’s no one I have to share it with.
Of course my mother calls it madness. Calling in sick and staying at home would be more sensible, sane. That makes me want the rebellion more.
The white blanket with its crisp peppermint snap, cool taste, the crunching of crispies underfoot, the ‘wrap’ of ice in the air against the skin and the peppery scent of the evergreen needles beckon me. There’s plenty time left for walls.
Layered in every sweatshirt I own under a coat I could dismiss the fate about, the jeans and three pairs of socks are the last of the armor before the walk. Then again, there’s the dual-sided wool cap – turned to the preferred gray, all the better to blend in with the sky. And the clown-sized boots seldom worn. No, that’s a lie – the latter items of the ‘armor’ were the norm to get between home and school, quickly discarded upon arrival. This time, they’d be needed for a longer trek.
Madness is how my mother calls the morning once more – between the winds, the limbs, the smoke-blending clouds as tires scream in the distance, stuck in driveways yet to be shoveled or plowed. Secure in the ‘nest’ is her preference.
Dad tells me about the walk, the perfection of it, the picturesque quality of it. He has already gone out just as the sun began to rise. The ‘report’ includes the following: Low-hanging limbs, a few broken branches, the creek icier in spots. “Don’t worry,” he tells me, his encouraging words wrapping me better than the moss-colored scarf does now, “just follow my footsteps.”
He repeats this to my mother, “Don’t worry; she can follow my footsteps.” Whether it’s limited to the ‘folly of following a frozen path’ or the fact that I still follow his example in faith, I’m not sure – but a slight frown can be seen on her face for a flicker of a moment.
No worries. I pull on my gloves – the ones befitting the weather, not requiring manipulation of a steering wheel or tiny knob or turning pages in a book. There are only a few tracks on the road – dog-prints, elk-prints. Only one other pair of footprints that go beyond the mail boxes, the ones I intend to follow as the falling snow threatens to fill these temporary caverns in.
The trail itself doesn’t have its tell-tale marks of a bus turning round. Skiis skimmed the surface, pole-markings leaving a deeper impression of encircled stars like a cookie press against shortbread dough. Bike marks sink in a bit further like an inverted braid but turn around sooner than expected.
Other marks worth noting are the v-shaped hops of the rabbits, the occasional markings of the elk, and – still present, a deer. These markings register in mind, but my focus is on finding and following my father’s footsteps. The only boot-prints on the path, his sturdy staff spacing out the time – these are the ones I set my own boots into, balancing myself to keep from falling into the snow, onto the ice, into the creek.
His steps now found, I inhale the cool air, see the slide-marks of branches breaking way, dare to dart my tongue out ot catch a snowflake or two. The snow is compacted with slush underneath – the closer one steps towards the creek. A robin flies from one tree to another, the piles of snow falling to the ground, a soft ‘plop’ muffled by the ground. Many reasons why my father never misses a walk; a major reason why I’m glad I indulged in mine.
The footsteps facing the water cascading over the wood, blanketing the boulders, cleanses the mind and spirit. This is as far as my father walked today. It’s where he made my trip possible this way.
Retracing the steps, there’s slush to contend with, the hazards of ‘double-stepping,’ the flip-side of the beauty, a second time to reflect. Just as my father paved the way for me here, he’s prepared me to follow another path ‘home.’ So, yes, I’ll follow in my father’s footsteps as well as my Father’s footsteps to find a sure, solid way home.
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