For lack of attention, a thousand forms of loveliness elude us every day. ~ Evelyn Underhill

When I was a young boy growing up in Seattle, nothing thrilled my brothers, sisters and me more than the possibility each winter of snow and, heavens willing, the first sight of snowfall. To be a winter child in Seattle was a unique experience. To grow up in the wet but temperate climate of the Northwest was to spend winters taunted by the possible improbability of snow, dizzied from the dreamy thought, “Maybe, just maybe, maybe today.” I remember kneeling at night on the couch in the dark living room in front of the large picture window of our house, poking our heads out between the closed curtains like giddy thespians checking to see if their parents had arrived for the grade school play. Only we weren’t looking for folks but flakes, and we didn’t squeal, “They’re here!” but screamed, “It’s snowing!” on those rare, memorable occasions when white sheens of winter manna floating slow motion earthward to feed our wild dreams were illuminated by the streetlight outside our house. The sheer delight of this sight and the resultant cry of ecstasy were surpassed only by that even more raucous and rare exclamation, “It’s sticking!”

Despite temperatures that only rarely made it cold enough for precipitation other than the notorious rain, we were unapologetic wishful thinkers who had a special hankering for snow. And not just snow – but snow that stuck, snow that stuck around, snow that stayed. And not just on mailboxes, back fenders, front lawns, and rooftops, but snow that stuck specifically on the gray cement streets that on special winters formed the sacred, slick, glossy labyrinth of our lives. You see, even though the winters are not severe in Seattle, the hills are. This, combined with the fact that it makes little sense to invest taxpayer’s money on unused snow equipment, meant it only took an onslaught of dry flakes stacked three inches high and a child-friendly descending Celsius to close schools and paralyze the city for a few glorious, Edenic days of winter grace.

Just as listening to boredom can help us hear a muffled discontent in our life, or to face our unidentified fear of death in order to discover our deeper yearning for meaning and significant living, so too listening to times of excitement when we were profoundly or unexpectedly moved can reawaken us to the simple gifts life serves up so freely and to the sheer gratuitousness of being alive for which we have the opportunity to give thanks and praise.

Sitting at the kitchen table with a late night cup of tea, or soaking in the tub– eyes closed head back– or lying in bed at night after an exhausting day just before falling asleep, we wander the hallways of the days of our lives, listening. What do we hear when we eavesdrop, when we listen for the excitement in our seemingly unspectacular lives? How many of the thousand forms of loveliness that visited us this day did we notice or hear or taste or smell or feel? From where do the sounds of delight come?

PRACTICE & REFLECTION:

Let us remember ourselves to those manna moments (in our lives or in our day). Listen loudly, deeply. Where do we hear the resonance of joy or pleasure or laughter or wonder?

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