THE STAR NEWS
0 PINION
Page 8
Thursday, December 13, 2012
The darkest part of the year is a time to look forward to the light and rebirth of spring I sit at the table my parents bought when they were a young family, that they finally brought here to this cabin in the woods when their years of raising a family were done. They built this little log cabin in the Chequamegon after the war and returned to it year after year as their family grew. That winter one more season remained to them in the coming spring, one more season "at the lake," before old age and an expired lease closed the door. And from my point of view, there was one last opportunity to spend a winter in that place. A log shifts in the fireplace, sending shadows spinning over the splintery old wood floor, over the chair fixed with duct tape Dad favored, the ancient couch, shelves of books, a rocking chair in the corner (propped against the wall to counter its tendency to tip too far backwards) — Mom preferred that spot, sitting with her book within the dim glow of the gas lamp on the wall. I sit at the kitchen table, reading beneath a somewhat less dim gas lamp, near the wood stove ticking quietly, an old camp kettle gently steaming on its surface. A cat stretches, yawns, then cuddles into the other one on the small couch I've pulled up to the stove for them. I read until my eyes tire from straining to focus in the low light, then rest the book face down on the alarmingly colorful oil cloth Mom found in the hardware store. I can hear the voice of the old white pines the cabin was built beside some sixty years ago as the wind travels through them. The real world is very near in this place, somehow closer than in houses with fewer gaps for the cold and the sounds of the world around to seep in. A person is more aware of the heavy snow on the roof, the intense cold of the air, the pine and birch boughs swaying overhead, the forest all around, the deep darkness of the longest night of the year and the endless sky of bright stars reaching into infinity all around. Without the distractions of a pluggedin world the deep dark of winter brings thoughts of all aspects of darkness and light. The darkness of our origins and our future, the question of our purpose and meaning in this place seeps into our thinking. It can be a simple unknowing that rests there to question the notion of our own wisdom — or drive more restless minds to fear. It isn't all that surprising, then, that a long time ago the winter solstice became a focus for our hope for rebirth, for redemption, in our struggles of light and dark, of life and death . The source of all life seems to die away, but then is renewed each year
Snowrise
photo by Mark Berglund
A combination of weather conditions, including the first significant snowfall of the season, produced this snowy sunrise Monday morning east of Stetsonville. Motorized winter trails remain closed until more snow and freezing conditions allow for safe groomi ng.
and gives us again the light and warmth we long for. In our noisy, lit-up, distracted world, the miracle is barely noticed, but it is still given -- like a gift that comes unasked for and undeserved, with no regard for our political or religious loyalties. It resides in our hope for the future, in our desire to be of the light in the midst of darkness, in our faith in new life arising from the earth in the months to come, though the earth is now hard as iron. I'm not a religious person -- I tried it for a while and it just didn't work very well for me. But that doesn't mean I don't respect the people who find in their religion a way to strengthen their faith in life and nurture their determination to be of the light. And I think that we're all interested in finding common ground with people who are different from us. I think we're all tired of feeling like we're trapped in a room with a bunch of people who are doing nothing but scream at each other. We need to remember how desperately it matters when we choose to be kind to one another, to be patient and forgiving with each other, to refuse to live a life
driven by fear, anger, and distrust. We all have moments when we want to give up in disgust, to surround ourselves with people who will tell us we are absolutely right to just sit on the sidelines and shake our heads over the sad state of affairs. But what use is that -- is that the sort of person anyone wants to be? How much better our lives become when, in spite of it all, we choose to do something that makes another person smile in gladness. There's a lot of doomful predictions rolling around out there -- all the way up to the one that the world will end on this year's solstice. It just comes down to the fact that we're all kind of scared of the dark, of things we don't know, can't predict, or don't have much control over. Endings, beginnings, changes and transformations come at us constantly and without our consent. The ground shifts beneath our feet and what used to be is no more - and may have never been. The question is not whether the world will end - it ends every day - the question is how we shall live in each new day. I stand on the foundation where my
parents' cabin stood, on the slab where the fireplace was built, and look out on the frozen lake as a few eddies of snow blow across its surface. After Mom and Dad's last season in the cabin I moved into the home of the man who became my husband. That winter was considerably warmer and brighter, and in the spring of the year we worked with my brothers to take the cabin down. I shiver a bit in the weakness of late December sunshine and pull out the cell phone that seems to go with me everywhere these days. I select a number from the contact list and press talk. A voice from a long ways away answers, and I answer back, "Hi, Mom, how are you?" Over the next thirty minutes or so, we'll exchange what news there is -- usually not a whole lot. But mostly I'm calling to let them know that their cabin is gone but the only reason they built it is still here, alive and meeting once again the growing light of the new year. — Sally Rasmussen, South Twin Lake, town of Molitor
ROYAL CREDIT UNION
Simply B etter .
• No Annual Charge • Earn Rewards • No-Fee Balance Transfers for Introductory 90 Days
Oft 7.75
PLATINUM
400 12 34 5678 0910
APR*
Tz,
RCU MEMBER
Apply today!
-107
www.rcu.org 1-800-341-9911
VISA
*Annual Percentage Rate (APR) is variable and may be adjusted quarterly based on Prime rate. Cash Advance charge is 3% of transaction amount with $10 minimum, $75 maximum. Foreign Transaction charge is up to 2%. After 90 days, Balance Transfer charge is 3% of transaction amount with $10 minimum, $75 maximum.
47-136305