I visited the flatwoods on campus for the first time in a few weeks and was struck by the understated loveliness of the thin winter light filtering through the leafless trees, standing patiently in the relative quiet of a January afternoon. Temperatures had risen about 20*F since last night, and the mostly frozen mud was just beginning to ooze a bit underfoot as I walked through the woods littered with oak leaves. The day seemed to be a classic January Thaw - a brief respite from the biting winds of winter and a day that seemed to foretell warmer days ahead. But I've lived in these parts long enough to know that this was probably just a minor deviation from the standard midwestern winter script and we will surely feel the cold and see snow again sometime soon.
In spite of the thaw, the spring equinox is clearly is a ways away, because the angle of the sun was still low in the sky and I did not notice much activity from other creatures. Still too cold for insects to be out and about - and no bird songs or frog calls to be heard either - the woods evinced a calm yet secretive quality where I felt like I would need to sit quietly in the midst of the trees for hours before I would sense the myriad lifeforms all around me in a more obvious way. Although I was tempted to linger longer and do just that, unfortunately it was the first day of my "contractual obligation" to get back to work, and my fellow humans' obsession with "productivity" and "measurable outcomes" encroached on the softer, gentler, more liberated parts of my mind and demanded that I give up such a foolish notion of simply sitting in the woods and observing the world around me on a "work" day. I thought suddenly of the ending to Mary Oliver's famous Poem 133 which finishes:
"I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass, how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields, which is what I have been doing all day. Tell me, what else should I have done? Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon? Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?"
That softer, gentler, more liberated part of my mind pushed back on the unwelcome intrusion, momentarily heartened by her words that echoed in my mind's ear, standing there on the edge of the woods next to the parking lot. But the noble resistance was fleeting, the sun soon slipped behind a cloud, and the relative warmth of the thawing January woods seemed to drift away.
Perhaps it was fitting. It was only a January Thaw - after all - and the full title of Mary Oliver's poem was, of course, Poem 133: The Summer Day.
I ambled back to "civilization" and put on the brave face of a respectable working professional only too happy to be back among his people for the afternoon's business on a slightly warmer than normal winter's day.
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