Today I have noted people zipping through the revolving doors into the Box (my work) like refugees, the cold billowing off them in waves. I tried to reverse my thinking to imagine the heat washing them in warmth as they came in, but the cold was undeniable.
This morning, as I was driving Aria to school, she commented that the blowing snow looks like rippling water over the roadways.
There is poetic beauty in this cold. It's harder to see it at times. An autumn leaf demands to be praised. Budding trees wear their glory like starlets at the Oscars. Undeniably stunning.
Whispered blessings, in all their forms, seem to be a life theme for me lately. I'm working on seeing and receiving them, even when they arrive as cold, billowing snows observed from a warm place.
A friend shared this quote with me, and I adore it:
Wishing you blessings, whether whispered or sung.
Ben Harper - Amen Omen
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