Winter Weather, Infertility and Inspiration
It’s time for a winter weather blog. Yes, it is.
I love observing the weather; it’s my way of looking outward to the world and inward to myself and my own life. Infertility made me look more carefully out. And more seriously in.
Early winter is hard for me. I love the cold once I remember that moving around in it is an utter delight. My running partners used to laugh at me when they saw me all bundled up for an early morning, sub 15 degree weather run. No matter how many times it happened exactly as they predicted, I never believed it would.
That moment, about five to ten minutes into the run, where I was stripping everything off. My body all warmed up, no longer needing those extra layers. Still, I wanted the warmth for those first several minutes. It was comforting to go out warm, despite the overheating such a short time later.
Bare trees depressed me then, when I was yearning for my baby. The skeletons made me feel they were no longer alive; imagining them bright and green again pushed my imagination skills past their limits, just as having hope was a distant memory. Fall reminded me of what I didn’t have, with the memory of my pregnancy losses in sharp detail. Those babies that never came to be.
Winter whispered softly what I would never have. So many months, hoping and trying. Disappointment after disappointment. After disappointment after disappointment.
The skeletons of the trees in winter echoed what seemed like barren ground. With little memory of warm growth and with so little hope. The grey of winter sunk me deep down.
I look carefully now as I looked carefully then at the perfect honesty and integrity of the trees without any adornment. Winter reveals the truth of a tree, a forest, a landscape. Winter reveals the truth of me as well. The need for warmth, but not to the degree I think is necessary. The level of my fears about what is not to be, heightened by stripping away everything that often obscures the dreary view.
The trees in all their glory, inspire me, lift my eyes up, and allow me to see the foundation as well as their soaring heights. When the trees are in their most honest state, so can I be.
No umbrella of green to hide the sky, the clouds, the stars.
My hope soars with my eyes.
My babies yet to be. I have hope.
The winter, in its exuberant rest, gave me hope.
Follow Lisa on Google+