‘The brittleness of cold’

‘The brittleness of cold’

By James Anthony Curtis

As the seasons shift, and the leaves release their colors in recognition of the fall, I feel the cold reaching into my bones, searching me out in the deep of the marrow. The wind is howling outside, as it blows upon the branches, tempting the trees with foretelling of winter, and the long dark that is coming in the cycle of life’s matter. I have to remind myself, that this is natural, a part of the journey we have contracted, and that all is well, even when uncomfortable feelings grip my soul.

Although trepidation may visit the weary traveler, it is in these times that we may offer the hospitality of our heart to those places that seek to be heard in us. Fear and agitation are only guests in our house, come to reveal those parts seeking faith in the ground of uncertainty, and if we allow ourselves to abide in the discomfort of our relations with strong energy, going inward as the mighty trees do each winter, we find solace in the space of reflection, grasping not upon the sands of shifting circumstances, but holding firm in the form of our divine unfolding.

With the cold comes a natural contraction, a seeming ‘revulsion’ to the outer world, but inward, we know of something different taking place. In times past, we would come together around the fire, tell stories in the shelters we had constructed, paint upon the walls, and commune with our ancestors around the fire of mortality’s privilege. And although it may seem we have lost this connection, the universe beckons us to travel deeper into the cave of our mystery, down sacred hallways, further than we have gone before in our species.

We will find loss, but only in the derision of our unbelief; for each fate is a necessity in our evolution, in coming to realize those places within us that have come forward to be expressed.

Our lineage will not abandon us, both in future realms and those we may have forgotten from long ago, for we are all pilgrims here, spontaneously embracing our rhythms, called out by our desires. So let us gather together, just as in days of old, tell our stories in the deep of cold’s brittleness, as we warm ourselves by the fire. And may we view the pictures we have painted, come to life upon the walls, seeing our depths emerge, serving us, as what we have chosen, in love’s universe, by design.

May it be so, so it is.