The week so far ...

Silence can be an exquisite song.

I spent Martin Luther King Jr. Day cooking for an old friend, driving a couple of hours to deliver the food, then helping him with some computer tasks. Later in the evening, I edited some writing. It took great concentration not to succumb to outrage or despair.

Tuesday I took one look at headlines and hot embers of outrage were again rekindled. Nope. Not today. I grabbed my old skis and the dogs and headed to the hills. Higher elevations are the only place where snow can be found in our unusually warm winter. I started early in the dark, needing light from my phone to step into ski bindings. The dogs moved as shadows against the snow. Within half an hour, overcast skies began to brighten with daylight. The landscape emerged in endless shades of blue and gray.

I skied until my lungs hurt and my legs ached. Physical exertion scrubs out the detritus of thought, counter-thought, and commentary. There has been so much noise these past many months, taking up head and heart space where other things could reside. Silence can be an exquisite song.

As the day broke, the dogs and I heard the distinctive cackle of a flock of willow ptarmigan. It sounded like chuckling laughter, a happy kind of gobble. The dogs dove into deep snow and wallowed in the depths, looking for them. The ptarmigan laughed again and took wing, flying just inches above the ground until the flock disappeared over the horizon. The dogs lost their minds, redoubled their efforts, and began sneezing as snow skewered up their noses. It was my turn to laugh.

Later, we heard a black-capped chickadee. Perched in the alders, it sang a melody that sounded remarkably spring-like for January. A common raven cawed in the distance. A moose stepped high on a distant hillside, took note of us, then relaxed into foraging for breakfast.

I thought about how the most important things in life have no limits. Love. Respect. Generosity. Mercy. These cannot be hoarded, politicized, or protected by fortress or guns. Their abundance is determined by the degree to which they are given away. A bit like laughter.

Cold air on the lungs, the thump of a beating heart, and the grin of dogs enjoying a good romp are all emblems of joy persevering. Here in the wild, time is measured in mountains and millennia, not in the micro-seconds of human empires. What a comfort to know the curve of this landscape stood here long before me and will remain long after. I hope even then, ptarmigan will be laughing.