almost gone...

We had two days in a row with temps in the high 40s (F). Last night, as we walked home from a neighbor's home, gentle rain began falling. And then all night it rained, and now we are back to the 30s and 40s (F). Three weeks ago we were locked in sub-freezing temps and snow up to my waist where it was plowed out. Then dry warm temps more suitable for late spring or early summer. This morning water is standing all over the townlet, along the small ditches and on the main esplanade on the north end our loop.

Much of the earth's color is dry and brown, the leftovers from winter. The utility company's tree people have been out hacking away along the powerlines, and there are lots of dead branches spread out along side the road for later grinding and mulching. The heat (after what we've been having, 76 degrees can feel awful warm), while much appreciated, had a great oddness about it, the out-of-sync feeling of nature's forces not all matching up appropriately. Yet already, bulbs are pushing out, and buds are forming on lilacs and forsythia. Spring is coming. The promise of resurrection, new life coming out of the earth where all is dead.

Yesterday Franklin the dog got his last check-up at the vet, and grooming. He follows us from room to room. We've finished most errands, delivered most things that needed to be delivered, have packed all but a little which we finish today. I am mentally and physically tired, as is partner.

One more day and then we are on the road.

snows and wind

As if on cue, the winds started on the first day of March. This morning, there was a lot of snow (about a quarter of an inch in one hour) and then as the day warmed up, a lot of it melted away.

A member of our parish choir lost her husband unexpectedly last week, and the funeral was this morning, so I re-joined the choir for a day to help sing in the service. My cassack and cotta were still hanging in the locker, and most of the music was familiar, including Webster's "The Dawning," Rutter's "God Be in My Head" and Durufle's "Ubi Caritas." A soloist sang Copeland's setting of "Shall We Gather At the River" and another sang Duruffle's "Pie Jesus." The church was full, and the service was quite moving. I am not sure what it is like for the priests, but singing at a funeral is one of the most difficult roles for a choir. We are human, we grieve, but in singing on behalf of the family and the parish we must put aside emotion.

Funerals, like baptisms, are not just about the families involved, although they are certainly about those grieving over the loss of their loved one. Funerals are opportunities for the parish to comfort and surround the family, to honor the dead, and together to pray through some of the most comforting words in the Book of Common Prayer, words of faith expressing our prayers for the dead, our relationship to God and our hope for the world to come.

But funerals are also about remembering others whom we have lost as well as facing our own mortality. They are part of living out our faith here and now, not coasting on previous generation's faith, but dealing with our lives and losses here and now. And so we all share together in both grieving and the celebration of life among us. We are not on our own -- God is with us, and we are also a part of the Communion of Saints, the long line of folk before us, fellow strugglers, fellow believers.

shrouded air

When temps went to the 20s (F) last night, they froze the clear moisture that had been seeping out from melting snow for the past two days, making a clear sheen on walks and streets in Indianapolis.

I've pulled a muscle in my back trying to negotiate such a patch at the same moment that Franklin the dog jerked on the leash at something he needed to smell immediately. I did not fall, but the sudden jerk, my tenseness at potentially falling, all led to straining the muscle.

Driving this morning, I was surprised at how slippery the roads were. But it was when I got to the northern suburb where I work that the weather changed the most. Fog from the melting snow and cold air had made vision almost impossible. I am unsure what gene is missing from drivers who do not turn on their car lights in such conditions, but this morning they were out on the road everywhere. The further north I went, the more dense the fog. Even after parking my car and getting out at work, I could not see the building until I was within a few yards of it.

There is more light outside now, but the ghostliness over the world is still present, shrouded between white ground and gray-black trees covered in hoarfrost, a cold foggy haze.

almost ...

I felt the warmer air yesterday as I walked across the parking lot at work. There is a big difference between temps in the 40s (F) and temps that are sub-freezing, and after three weeks, we have finally felt some warmth return to Indiana.

This morning, I awoke to 41 degress (F). The snow is melting fast, and we may get rain later today, all worrisome because we could have some serious flooding.

But my heart flutters a bit, as if it were spring, this return to warmth, to a world less locked in by ice, snow and zero degree nights.

la blizzard

I could feel myself get anxious on Monday as the weather folk on tv started warning us of impending doom and slaughter, or to be more specific, the onset of a winter storm.

They cried, There will be heavy snow, there will be ice and sleet, and there will be heavy winds.

At some point in the hysteria, I remind myself that weather rarely exceeds their worry. While it is to everyone's benefit to listen when they warn us, I sometimes reactly poorly to that tinge of excitement as they stress how bad it is going to be. I try to hear what they have to say but not overreact myself. Still, I cancelled my appointments for the next day and stopped by the grocery store on the way home.

And yesterday we had a lot of snow, lots of sleet and heavy winds. And because we all listened, almost nobody was out driving through the mess and almost everything in Indianpolis was closed, and we all sat in our homes and watched unrelentless sleet falling for most of the day that had followed a night of snowfall, and on local television, we watched a million reporters scattered on more corners than ones with Starbucks telling us that this was a really bad storm. One young weatherman said as he stood out in the freezing, falling sleet, that we will always remember the really bad storm of 2007. Ok. Maybe. He certainly will.

So I shoveled my walk and drive twice yesterday, once in the morning when it was fluffy light snow, and once again last night when it was hardened packed ice covered snow. And then again this morning, a mere two inches or so from late snowing and from drifting. And I helped cut-out the driveways of a few neighbors -- the snow plow pushes the snow from the street into the driveways, and with frigid temps for the rest of the week, I assumed that to leave the packed snow there was an invitation for sealing off driveways.

So the snow is all here, and only a few came into work today. The week will really start up again tomorrow.

our white earth and singing

We got about a half-foot of snow yesterday. We had a day full of sunshine, reflecting intensely off our white landscape. I shoveled out my walk and drive this morning -- forecasts call for Indy temps rising above freezing by a week from Friday, and what looks nice and fluffy today will quickly turn to solid ice under these conditions.

The high today has been around 5 degrees (F), but the sunshine helps me cope.

Tonight is my last rehearsal with the choir -- we have an ordination on Saturday afternoon -- our Deacon Jeff Brewer will be ordained as priest, the Bishop returns on Sunday morning for her annual visit, and we have a choral evensong service on Sunday afternoon at 3:00 pm. We're singing Gerald Finzi's Lo, the full, final sacrifice at evensong. Finzi wrote this piece for the parish in Northhampton where the Rev. Walter Hussey was the rector. Hussey commissioned several works of art at the parish (Britten's Rejoice In The Lamb was composed for Hussey's parish). And of course, Chichester Psalms by Bernstein was written for Chichester Cathedral when Hussey was its Dean.

tuesday

The snow is falling heavily now. Outside my office window, the sheep move across their pasture in a row. They walk quite slowly, oblivious to the snow and the cold.

I heard this morning that the two goats who shared their pasture this winter were recently killed by coyotes. I've never worked at a place like this, where a staff meeting includes reports on chicken and goat safety.

I will miss the view from my window, a living Currier and Ives scene with old barn, split rail fencing and the sheep.

The snow is falling earlier than predicted, and I am happy about that. Last January, we had a big snowstorm in late afternoon, and it took me nearly 3 hours to drive home.

temps

I am sure that curiousity about Indianapolis day-to-day weather is very limited, but it is the world I inhabit, and I react strongly to what is happening outside, the curse, I suppose of a passion for gardening which is often about tracking daily weather -- even though such tracking is fairly useless right now, in terms of the garden. My weather compulsion doesn't stop because I cannot garden.

Several weeks ago, it rained days on end, and we lost sky and sun. I was in great despair. In the last week, we experienced great cold, about 8 degrees (F)on Friday morning rising to a high in the very low 20s. But the sun shined throughout, and even with bitter cold, I am ok when I get to see and feel sunshine.

Now it is 52 degrees (F). Almost paradise.