In The Quiet Dark of Winter
It’s snowing today. Light fluffy stuff that’s easy to move around and looks pretty on the trees. Although I like having distinct seasons, I find that every year gives the arrival of spring more weight and relief. The lifting of the dark of winter is a palpable physical and emotional moment that I anticipate with growing passion each year. Meanwhile, I find that I am more interested in hibernating each year as well. No doubt this is a widely shared outlook.
With that in mind, we elected to close down The Forst for the month of January. This has the benefit of giving Catherine and I some needed time to recharge, plan and renew. As a part of that planning process, we are looking forward to our first board meeting of the year and the introduction of some new board members. We are also enjoying the involvement of new voices in creating plans for many aspects of what we do. This is all much needed and good. Still, it is strange to sit in the pub looking out at the winter in a building that is largely cold and still. Over the past year and a half it has been such a vibrant hub of activity and energy.
The quiet does provide some time for reflection. We have gone a long while without posting new musings…it’s hard to muse when you are neck deep in the intensity of the doing. So, while the cold and dark might inspire melancholy at times, it is also a fertile space to ponder and reflect and, voila, a musing emerges.
There is much I could muse upon; the challenge of doing so much with limited resources; the joy of seeing audiences enthused and inspired; the satisfaction of the slow and steady growth in attendance; the relief of receiving important patron support at year’s end; the growing community of artists and volunteers…it’s all worthy of consideration.
Gratitude and hope come to mind as obvious things to reflect upon. A little cliched perhaps, but still these are the two strongest threads in this morning’s thinking. The scope and nature of gratitude is pretty obvious here. I am grateful for the good fortune that has led to this moment, to the hard work of those around me, to the dedication of Catherine Egger in joining in this crazy adventure, to the support of the community, to the positive events that have allowed us to manage to pay the bills as we go…all of these things have allowed me to immerse myself in an adventure that I can be nothing but thankful for having. I am thankful.
Hope is more complex. While the first phase of the project has gone well, there is much to do in order to ensure the continued survival of this newest incarnation of The Forst Inn. Attendance needs to keep edging higher, more and more people need to be plugged in to more and more tasks to ensure that the place runs smoothly and that our audiences have amazing experiences, new patrons and sponsors are needed to help pay our artists and make much needed improvements in the facility…it’s a long list and fear rather than hope stands out as a rather substantive emotion. Which is where the gratitude comes in.
Because it is all of the things that I am grateful for which give me hope for this next year. Success for The Forst Inn Arts Collective will come not because of what I do, but because of what you do. It will be the moments when volunteers, artists, sponsors and patrons own the success of this magical place that will create hope and, ultimately, ensure its sustenance. That’s a pretty cool thing to get to be part of.
When I taught in the public schools a colleague and I shared a phrase that we would toss to each other in challenging moments. We would simply say, “twig in a stream”; invoking the Buddhist notion of acceptance and release of control. Some things are bigger than you are, and one must accept and trust. There is a path to success and it is a stream that cannot be easily directed. In the quiet dark of winter it is good to embrace that stream, float to the surface, and savor being carried along in its power.
Of course, the stream has to thaw first! :-) Happy Winter!
1/19/2019 12:06:19 pm
Your reflection on a greater desire to hibernate and a more passionate anticipation of spring resonate deep within. I wrote a poem the other day that begins "In the heart of winter/dormant/germinating..." Right now I'm looking out the sliding door watching the cardinals and chickadees at the birdfeeder on the balcony...lake effect snow falling steadily on pines.
12/6/2022 09:17:37 pm
Thiis is a great blog
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