For ever and for ever when I move

Standing on the slip together
With you in my arms
Watching the waves thunder as they
Draw in from the sea, heavy rolling
To crash with exultation against shore
Before dissipating into bubbles,
Dancing on the surface of the deep.

The seagulls fly over the waves
Small heads craning side to side,
Wings planing gently against the wind,
Their cries echo distant to greet us.

Across the water the shadows
Of the land shrouded in mist.

I feel a tenderness
Melting softly like butter
Across freshly baked bread.
Not that shit margarine
Not a loaf from the shop
But something I kneaded myself
With a dash of pride
From my own two hands.

The mist turns to rain &
We walk home again.

Winter settles in, a quieting of the scene. Days stretch on without disturbance, only the weather to contend with, people miserable and occupied as they bustle from place to place: “It might as well be evening when you wake, dark as it is! Couldn’t let up for a day, could it now? Miserable out there, truly shite!” Shaking the rain from our jackets, burying our heads against the wind, we move along our way.

Storms blow in and last for days, the wind whipping at the trees, blustering over and around our little house. Some days when we wake the streets are flooded, water rushing quickly to the sea. In some towns the rains feed the rivers to rise dark and swollen, flooding the banks, every year the same. Yet we are safe here, sheltered from the storm. Warmly we sleep near the fire, content to rest. The nights are long and with the darkness comes peace. Nature’s roar provides reason for respite, should one pause long enough to listen. In the warmth of each other’s company, by the light of the fire, we steadily seek what so hungrily is sought.

Each to his own. By the scratch of a pen in the slow passing of night, on the pressing of keys whose pitch in searching grows fevered and stops, pauses, shimmers in the light; in the solemn meditation that hums from the great mountains of Asia, every morning the same, the monks in their temples as they open the day. We also seek, in our own way. Constant be the footsteps that tread the path to the light. Quiet dost the heart so rage. Carefully we step on the mossy ground in our climb up the mountain, through the tall thin forest of pines that dance and rage in the wind, creaking in the moonlight, threatening to break.

Yet the forest is old, it withstands the weather. And the crashing of waves upon the shore takes its toll before rolling back to the deep. In the laying of hands and in the solace of nature, so often is it found, so surely do we keep.

Cold redefines itself as January in Minnesota. Five degrees in the sun feels warm; negative five in the dark is bitter. The surface of metal bites back. Lifting a bike with bare hands in the deep cold of January is the equivalent opposite of touching the hood of a car in the sunny, soporific heat of August. Metal burns at both extremes. Our skin has yet to evolve to withstand the intensity of either. Put on your mittens, this is not a joke.

Cutting corners doesn’t cut it. Two weeks ago I thought I would rough it, running late for work, couldn’t find my dork hat, wrapped my scarf around my face and took off. Bitter cold on the bike. The cold first stings and then numbs. Ten minutes later I was indoors. Twenty minutes later, the redness didn’t fade. Just like that. Frostbite on the forehead. Never, ever again. Lesson learned, elements. I will forever respect you. Hat hair is a million times more respectable than frostbite on the face. Be five minutes late. Take it slow. Find the appropriate gear. Nerd it out.

But Minnesotans, ultimately, are nice. They know it’s miserable out there. They know their heated cars are humanity’s greatest gift to humanity. They’ve even got automatic start buttons, to start the car from the comfort of the office, and they’re more than willing to show it off. To share that joy. They’ll lend you a ride, and you won’t even have to sit on a cold seat. The thought of you on a bike makes them miserable. It’s snowy out there, for gosh’ sake! They’ve got butt warmers. There’s heat blasting from the dashboard, blasting over your toes. From the inside of a heated car, the bitter cold is temporarily staved off. A carefully engineered body-enveloping shield. Climb on in!

So I’ve survived nearly half of January. And this weekend, a heat wave, two degrees above freezing! But with the bitter cold there is at least the sun, and the sun is a glorious reminder that somewhere beyond this cold, life still exists. We’re still rotating around the sun, we’re still spinning in orbit, we’re still part of some cycle that will bring us through to tolerable temperatures, Hawaiian shirts, barbecues out on the lawn. Fresh fruit, orange juice. Spittin’ watermelon seeds.