Winter Wonder

Days like today make me wish I were a real writer.

You know, like one who can create forests from fragments and landscapes with alliterations; one whose syllables become seascapes and whose simales just soar. I try. But days like today make me wish that I'd succeed a little more often.

I've never been a huge fan of New England. I'd always seen it as a place of stiff northern folk, and what's worse, Patriot's fans. And there's often so much snow here! But today I took a walk in the frozen mountains of Massachusetts, and I've never seen winter be so beautiful.

You see, I'm not a winter fan either. It's cold, and dead, and lifeless--at least to me. But today it was very much alive.

I walked over an old suspension bridge that spanned a rushing, white-capping river. The tumbling water was lined on either side with stark white birches pointing straight up to a beautifully blue sky. The iceworks, artfully sculpted about the roots of stream-side trees, glistened in the afternoon light. It was as if God had used the river as his fingers to form sculpture unlike anything human hands can begin to create.

And the normally dead, winter wood was full of life today. The bright sunlight made dozens of forest streams appear out of nowhere from the mossy rocks to dash down the mountain toward the river. Even the trees obliged me--where most forests in February are full of brown, here I found evergreen trees and mountain laurel filling the scenery with green.

The Massachusetts mountains today made me realize why people have historically imagined up fairies, lepruchons, and river- and wood-gods. How can we help ourselves but create mystical, magical explainations for such wonder? God is mysterious; I don't think He minds us dreaming about other mysteries as well. Maybe mystic, unexpected beauty helps us remember that we really don't have Him figured out at all.