And so it begins . . . again. It’s not even very cold out yet, but the streams and creeks and ponds are all starting to freeze up. One day they move, the next day they don’t. One day they thrash, crash, wash, and dance. The next day they stand silent and immobile. All life leaves them. The ducks, frogs, and fish go in search of deeper water that won’t completely go silent because they need the reassurance.
Yet it’s the silence I love.
Even though I do adore the birdsong, the insect hum, and the animal
calls, when late fall comes I am ready for the silence. In the silence I can plan, I can forge
dreams. In the silence I have time
enough without distraction to decide what is good in my life and what must be
torn down. In the silence and
barrenness, I can decide where I will forge new things in the next season. It’s the silence that stirs the imagination,
which remains in the background while the season of life is dancing and
singing. Yet the silence and stillness come,
and the great imagination lifts its sleepy head and begins to create.
 |
| The world begins to lock up in ice. |
It’s all based on faith, of course. The silence begins. The barrenness comes upon us. Everything grows still and dead. But the imagination rises like a phoenix from
the ashes and begins to create yet another world. There is no way of knowing for certain that
it will ever come about. What sense is
it to plan for future life and dreams when all around us is bleak and dreary
and barren? Yet the imagination has
faith. The imaginations says, “This is
the new world I now begin to create, and life will rise up again and do my
bidding.”
And somehow it works; it all just works. Somehow life, when it begins to stir again, does respond and create what imagination has planned. All things come from the unseen world that,
for all practical purposes, appears completely dead. But the imagination knows better. The imagination has faith. The imagination is the bridge that life and
death travel upon.
