July 23, 2014 at 2:10 p.m.
Shoveling with enthusiasm
Back in the Saddle
It's always fun the first time.
By the time February rolls around, it will be another story.
Shoveling the first real snow of winter is a bit like mowing the lawn for the first time in spring.
There's a ritual aspect to the chore that seems to invest it with greater meaning, tangible evidence of the changing of the seasons.
So, on Saturday, I didn't approach the snow shovel with dread but with a degree of enthusiasm. The snow was wet, and each shovelful was heavy. Snow showers fell like a wintry version of drizzle as I worked my way around the house and down the front walk.
Working up a sweat in the cold air, I knew my glasses would quickly fog up when I went back inside.
As I shoveled, I remembered - as I always seem to - a favorite poem by Billy Collins. It's about imagining shoveling snow with Buddha, a charmingly silly image that lends a peacefulness to the job.
"This is so much better than a sermon in church, I say out loud, but Buddha keeps shoveling," Collins writes. "This is the true religion, the religion of snow, and sunlight and winter geese barking in the sky, I say, but he is too busy to hear me. He has thrown himself into shoveling snow as if it were the purpose of existence. ..."
I heard the words in my head as I shoveled. Later in the poem, the poet and Buddha talk about having hot chocolate and playing cards when they are finished, the honest goodness of those simple acts as profound as the work and sweat of shoveling snow.
About the time I reached the sidewalk that runs in front of our house, my daughter's boyfriend came out to join me, bringing another shovel.
And so we worked together in silence, much like the poet and Buddha, completing a ritual, making the world more convenient for strangers who might pass by, embracing winter. It felt so good,
I didn't stop when our property ended but kept going all the way to the alley.
When February rolls around, it won't feel like that at all.
It will be work. Cold, uninviting, unencumbered by any greater meaning.
And by then, I'll be dreaming of the sound of the lawnmower when it awakens from its winter nap, the smell of gasoline, and an entirely different ritual.
I need to find the right poem to accompany that.
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By the time February rolls around, it will be another story.
Shoveling the first real snow of winter is a bit like mowing the lawn for the first time in spring.
There's a ritual aspect to the chore that seems to invest it with greater meaning, tangible evidence of the changing of the seasons.
So, on Saturday, I didn't approach the snow shovel with dread but with a degree of enthusiasm. The snow was wet, and each shovelful was heavy. Snow showers fell like a wintry version of drizzle as I worked my way around the house and down the front walk.
Working up a sweat in the cold air, I knew my glasses would quickly fog up when I went back inside.
As I shoveled, I remembered - as I always seem to - a favorite poem by Billy Collins. It's about imagining shoveling snow with Buddha, a charmingly silly image that lends a peacefulness to the job.
"This is so much better than a sermon in church, I say out loud, but Buddha keeps shoveling," Collins writes. "This is the true religion, the religion of snow, and sunlight and winter geese barking in the sky, I say, but he is too busy to hear me. He has thrown himself into shoveling snow as if it were the purpose of existence. ..."
I heard the words in my head as I shoveled. Later in the poem, the poet and Buddha talk about having hot chocolate and playing cards when they are finished, the honest goodness of those simple acts as profound as the work and sweat of shoveling snow.
About the time I reached the sidewalk that runs in front of our house, my daughter's boyfriend came out to join me, bringing another shovel.
And so we worked together in silence, much like the poet and Buddha, completing a ritual, making the world more convenient for strangers who might pass by, embracing winter. It felt so good,
I didn't stop when our property ended but kept going all the way to the alley.
When February rolls around, it won't feel like that at all.
It will be work. Cold, uninviting, unencumbered by any greater meaning.
And by then, I'll be dreaming of the sound of the lawnmower when it awakens from its winter nap, the smell of gasoline, and an entirely different ritual.
I need to find the right poem to accompany that.
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