I took this picture the day before my birthday last week. It was one of the very last days that any of the trees still had leaves on them, and this one was the last lingering bit of gold in an entire field of otherwise bare trees. It had been one of the last ones to turn color and the morning was windy, so I knew it wouldn’t last long. Something about that was so beautiful, and so sad.

Now it’s winter. The trees are bare and we’ve even had a bit of snow. This is always such a strange season for me, and somehow even stranger this year because it took such a long time to arrive and the world feels so … weird. In winter I feel myself slowing down, but in that shift I also feel so many new ideas and plans bubbling up, the next new year ready to be born. I spent the last few days resting a bit more than usual, after a really busy week (semester, year, life), but today I felt myself turn towards Monday. I finally cleaned off my desk after too much time knowing how badly it needed it, and something about that renewed space, clean and free, felt ready for something to begin.

Chicken coop, The Farm, image by my brother

I think I already told you about it, but my friend and teacher Laurie shared a Mary Oliver poem on her blog that I hadn’t heard before, or didn’t remember hearing. It’s such a powerful metaphor for everything I’m feeling, thinking, doing right now, and also everything about where I come from. Then this morning, when I was suggesting to my book club that we change our focus in the next year, I thought of it again, and remembered the picture my brother took of the hen house on my grandma’s farm. The poem is called “Farm Country.”

I have sharpened my knives, I have
Put on the heavy apron.

Maybe you think life is chicken soup, served
In blue willow-pattern bowls.

I have put on my boots and opened
The kitchen door and stepped out

Into the sunshine. I have crossed the lawn.
I have entered

The hen house.

For me, this poem says everything about right now, about the reality of the situation and what has to be done. And there’s something about that little detail, “stepped out into the sunshine” that allows for the tiniest glimmer of faith, trust in the basic goodness of things, knowing that it’s time to get to work and at least for now the sun will keep coming up.