New Year

I live in a magic spot. Just five minutes walk from my house through the woods

the road ends at a big river. It's a famous one in America called The Shenandoah, a Native American name meaning daughter of the stars.

The Daughter of the Star’s voice is a silent one. When I visit her, I have to listen real quietly to hear what she has to say. A few days ago, I had the feeling she had a message for me. So I bundled up warm and walked to her banks. She said: “Look at me, and tell me if you can see where the old stops and the new begins.” Hard as I tried, I could not distinguish what was old and what was new. All I could see was her serene beauty, and her endless flowing nature slowly winding its way to the sea.

For someone like myself, who finds it necessary to organize his work ahead of time, I can easily get into a pattern of thinking life is how I see it in my planner: all the dates in their neat little boxes, one after another, the months following each other in logical progression. But I think I understand a little better now the wisdom of the river.

My calendar says it’s a New Year and the snows have come to my little neck of the woods. I look at the bare trees outside my window. They also seem to have a message. I hear them saying: “If Spring comes, it will come. But this is not our concern. Worrying too much about Spring, you might miss the song of the wind passing through our branches now, singing . . . we will dance again, we will dance again.”