I feel as though my utter equanimity about who wins this election is a precise inversion to the anxiety of the rest of the nation.

Tomorrow (barring a tie, or some other unpredicted happening) we'll know the name of the new US president, and yet for some strange reason this feels no more urgent to me than learning the weather. I'm not cynical (I think there is a world of significance between the two parties; I think it's naive to ignore the palpable difference between them); it's more as though I've been flooded with a perfectly titrated blend of faith in the inevitable rightness of the outcome and infinite resignation for what would otherwise come, and I'm content to just enjoy that peculiar sense of being. 

Strange.

I'd been idly thinking about joining one of the late-night events in town, and wondering about the viewing parties and community events and whether it might be fun to go. The company, I thought, might be nice. But it's not what I feel I need right now, and not what I want. I think tonight you'll find me outside, watching the stars and the falling leaves and walking and breathing in the crisp eternity of the night. Tomorrow, no matter the outcome, around half the nation will be delighted, and the other half dismayed; will it matter in which cohort I'll fall?

The world hangs in such sweet balance.

I, along with countless others who live along the Front Range, woke up to snow this morning. At last!

It was one of those beautiful Colorado transitions from autumn to winter, too: yesterday had been Indian-summer balmy, but then the full moon rose last night (so full, too, and huge on the horizon as I was driving home) and it was as though the magic of that icy bubble chilled the world.

There was something else that felt poetic about the timing—at least for me. I'd spent a large part of yesterday evening in the lobby of a modest rest home at the border-edges of Boulder. Such a parade of humanity wove in and out through the hours: a few grey-haired children came to visit parents who seemed to no longer remember their names; a woman was wheeled in on a gurney asking, with near teary-eyed concern, "Do I know you? Do you know who I am?"; a man sat facing a wall, interrupting his meditation only to cross himself every few minutes; a cheerful gathering of elderly women wandered by on their way to the dining hall twittering exuberantly about President-Elect Obama; and of course the nurses and caregivers with their inimitable seen-it-all calm. It was such an opportunity for contemplation, those hours, and it was driving home later that night that I noticed the brittle wholeness of the moon, and the chill in the air, and then winter.

I'm not sure how to resolve this little meditation--is it a reflection on the cycle of seasons, or a meditation on the inevitability of ends? I think I'll not answer that. I think I'll say it's both. I think I'll try to practice holding that.


But what about what's ahead? 

This weekend I have plans to visit the new perfumerie of a nearly-as-new friend. This weekend I have plans to gather with a few neighbors for a movie or two and a bottle of wine. This weekend I have plans to write more letters (I've been on a bit of a tear with these; it's been a treat writing with actual paper and ink and there's something sweet about not feeling the immediacy of the e-versions). This weekend I have plans to read, and to nest, and to connect.. and of course I'm leaving parts of it open, in case this weekend has plans for me. 


It's amazing to me that I've been here, in Boulder, in my little house, for over a year already. In some ways it feels like yesterday that I moved in, and in others, as though this has always been home. But perhaps this is just another example of what bubbled up above. Perhaps it's both. I think I'll try to practice holding that.

What's this, you ask? Check out Jessica's Team blog for the background. And if you're reading this, consider yourself tagged. :)

1) What are you thankful for today?
Oh, way, way too much! I'm thankful to you, for popping over to read this, and I'm thankful to the whole beautiful community, for the energy and heart and way you inspire me, and I'm thankful for... for locksmiths. (Yesterday my car key broke off inside the trunk latch, and I was stuck at work with no means of starting—or even getting inside!—my car to get home. Luckily a lovely fellow by the name of Gary was able to retrieve the broken key-piece and make a copy based on the two halves. So thank you, Gary. Hugely.)

2) What do you appreciate about the Earth?
Right now, that it is—in all its sweet, accepting, wild, fierce, beautiful, nonjudgmental fullness.

3) Who is the last person you said "thank you" to?
Jackson. (And you, in question 1. That counts, no?)

4) When was the last time someone thanked you?
I heard a chorus of thank-yous at our Team meeting a few minutes ago. We're big on thank yous. :)

5) What is your favorite way to say thank you?
Spontaneously and sincerely and when it's not at all expected.

It's supposed to snow tomorrow, which will be one more incredible thing to be thankful for (and if it doesn't snow, well, that then will be something to be thankful for as well).

One of my favorite poems in all of poetry is about the snow, or at least bears the title. Read this, please, and then read it again, out loud if possible, and, best of all, to someone else. I love the language of this, and how it overflows with sense and meaning, and how it tries to capture exactly what it shows we can't.

Snow
     
The room was suddenly rich and the great bay-window was
Spawning snow and pink roses against it
Soundlessly collateral and incompatible:
World is suddener than we fancy it.

World is crazier and more of it than we think,
Incorrigibly plural. I peel and portion
A tangerine and spit the pips and feel
The drunkenness of things being various.

And the fire flames with a bubbling sound for world
Is more spiteful and gay than one supposes–
On the tongue on the eyes on the ears in the palms of your hands–
There is more than glass between the snow and the huge roses.

by Louis MacNeice

I remember a line by that glorious philosopher of consciousness William James about the world as "one great blooming buzzing confusion," but this poem, I think, captures so much better the beauty and impossible perfection of how rich and complex and indescribably complete it all is. All that, from snow.

Happy almost Thanksgiving, too. It's going to be a beautiful weekend.