Frozen

Choosing to resist or respond to the ever changing world of Mother Nature— My Sunday Best #45

Yesterday, I spent most of the day outside trying to thaw frozen water pipes under my mom’s travel trailer. I knew it was bound to happen. Even with a heated water hose and thin foam board skirting around the bottom of the trailer, it wasn’t enough to ward off the single-digit temperatures. After several frustrating hours trying to loosen frozen fittings with a cut on my finger that made a mess of everything, I retreated to reassess the situation over a warm cup of hot chocolate.

This morning, I was reminded that this isn’t as big a deal as it seems. It’s frozen water. Yes, it’s an inconvenience, and the odds are high that repairing broken water pipes is in my future. But right now, there is much to be thankful for, including heat, the help of good friends, electricity, food, good health, happy dogs, and bottled water.

When my children were young, we lived on a ranch about two miles outside of a small mountain town in the Colorado Rockies. Across the road, there was another ranch. From my house, I could see the roofline of the original homestead. No one lived there anymore. However, the owner, Horace Button, still kept a small misfit herd of cattle that consisted of an old crippled bull, two or three worn-out cows, and a few of their inbred offspring.  Every day, Horace would walk the long mile from town and back to feed the cattle.

Grand County Colorado pioneer Horace Button. Photos courtesy of Grand County Historical Society.

Horace was once a champion skier, and years of Colorado winters had left him with frostbit fingers and toes. Cataracts concealed most of his vision, and he wore dark sunglasses to cover his eyes. The daily trek took him most of the day. His feet never left the ground. He shuffled his way along the snow-covered gravel road and through the pasture, leaving a zig-zag trail in the snow. When I saw him on the road, I noticed his boots were never laced. I’m guessing he couldn’t tie the laces with his arthritic hands. I always knew when he was coming because the cows across the road would all be standing at attention as he slowly shuffled toward them.

Occasionally, I would offer him a ride. One morning, when the wind was blowing across the road and the temperature was well below zero, he accepted my offer. A week later, he knocked on my door. When I answered, he reached into the pocket of his ragged and torn jacket and handed each of my boys a piece of hard candy. Throughout the winter, when a big snowstorm covered up his trail, someone from town would come out with a snowplow and clear a path to the haystack.

In the five years we were neighbors, he rarely spoke. Once when I asked him if we could feed the cows for him, he said no, feeding them every day kept him alive. I still offered him a ride whenever I could, but after that, I understood the gift of those misfit cows. They took care of him. They gave him a reason to get up in the morning, get dressed, get some fresh air, and keep his body moving.

The cold will pass, this I know. However, I don’t want to wish it away. In every moment, there is the opportunity for gratitude, and that changes everything. I can’t do anything about the weather. But I can soften, and instead of resisting what is happening outside, I can choose to respond with my full attention.

Last night in the sub-zero temperatures, the stars were crystal clear and seemed to shine brighter than usual. The cold air brings a flash of brilliance to everything—like polishing a diamond.

This morning, while I was discussing the perils of freezing temperatures, with my mom, a beautiful Cardinal made its first appearance at her bird feeder. We could see the flash of red color through her frost-covered windows.

If there’s one thing I learned in living through decades of long Colorado winters, it’s how important it is to bundle up and get outside. There is so much else happening when I take time to look at the bigger picture—a hawk in the bare branches of a tree, a chickadee with its feathers all puffed out, tiny tracks in the snow, or the mind-blowing geometric designs of an iced-over mud puddle. Even if it’s just for a few moments, it’s enough to fill my heart with gratitude for what I have and what is happening here and now.