This morning there is silver on the grass beneath the cedar trees. Cedars remind me of Bible stories and Lebanon—a place I’ve never visited.
They remind me of winter retreats at middle school and high school. A vacant room I’d found. Quiet Time, Talk with God, find a Still Place, our middle school pastor said. I’ve found it: There are cedar trees beyond the window, snow falls. Silence reigns. I draw the stillness into my needy soul and it soothes me.
There is silver on the grass; or at least, I think it’s silver. I look again out my window. There is silver on the grass, but not beneath the trees—not beneath the cedars, not beneath the barren purple tree, not beneath the trees that leave spiky husks of seed pods that crunched beneath my feet on the path to school.
Trees melt frost and snow. When in the mountains, never near a tree—you will fall from the snowtop into the deep ring-cave encircling it. Trees are alive. The grass succumbs to the frost, leaving a lacey blanket of silver. The grass beneath the trees and above their roots is not silver, it is green.
It is morning; the sky is light blue, the sun still rising to stretch its rays across the grass. Squirrels are waiting for the sun, bedded down in their nest snug in a cedar. A white-and-grey winged seagull glides past, but it’s too cold to land and so the bird doesn’t. A few students make their way to and from classes—ants serving the Queen called ‘Intelligence.’
I’m gazing out the window. There is still silver on the grass. I will wait inside.