Winter Berries

A small flash of color catches my eye as I close the front door and start down the steps - a cluster or bright red winter berries on the other side of the railing - just barely visible in the early morning sun.  A good sign, I think to myself, a promise of spring and warmth and better days.  It's time I got back to my life.

First there was shingles - with me since the first week in December and with me still - then the on-again, off-again intestinal bug.  Then the cold that settled under and in and all through this old house and the new ductwork that didn't warm things up.  It's been, as Nana might say, a long case of the miseries.  And for the first time, I couldn't find the strength to fight through it.  Didn't see the point.  I shut down my writing and let my camera gather dust.  Everything I had went into trying to sleep and keep warm while I let myself worry about the taxes, the bank loan, the need for the kitten to see a vet, my less than set in cement job, the bills, the much needed repairs to the fence, the overdue oil change.  I gathered these things to me like a squirrel collects nuts - greedily, tightly, selfishly - as if without them, total despair might triumph. I spent the better part of two and a half months shut down and shut up, feeling the inequity of age and life bearing down on me and not noticing that the berries were there the whole time.  Survivors, these little berries, not giving an inch to the nights of freezing cold, the sleet, the rain that washed away so much topsoil, the icy winds that bent and battered the shrubs.  They gave up their own only to feed the mockingbirds and the cedar waxwings.  

Nature is full of sacrifice and hardship, each season bringing its own special rewards but also its own demands.

I remember many a New England blizzard where the snow was endless and we listened for the heavy tree limbs to suddenly snap like gunfire and crash down upon the roof or the power lines or an innocently parked car.

I remember southern summers so hot and humid that every breath had to be fought for.

And I remember the autumns and springs in between, full of gentle warmth and sweet breezes, coming and going so quickly there was barely time to appreciate them.  They were made of dreams.

And the winter berries bloom through it all, undeterred by time or temperature or season.  A reminder not to give up or nature's stubborn streak, you never can tell.