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"Don't tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass." ~ Anton Chekhov

My husband was perusing the Facebook newsfeed, and he came across this quote that I shared so generously from Good Reads.

"What does that mean?," he asked.

"What do you mean?," I said. "It's poetry."

"Why did he use broken glass? I don't get it."

"Each word is significant. I just thought it was nice."

Getting frustrated with my lack of any kind of help for him to understand, he had a bit of a tissy, so I left the room so he could finish his coffee and just get over it.

The thing I love about poetry and just words in general is that they can mean something different for everyone. I couldn't really *tell* someone and force the meaning of those words that were in that particular sequence because that is something I believe  people need to feel for themselves.

That quote struck me when I first read it, and I had to share it. Taylor's question (and subsequent irritation) got me really thinking of the reason why it meant something to me. So when I went back downstairs, this is what I told him:

What is the moon? The moon is the silver light in the vast darkness. It is the promise in midst of hopelessness. Now what does "broken glass" signify? Something shattered, whether it be a heart, dreams, or a soul. It's a tragedy. What my friend Anton is trying so eloquently to say is that he doesn't want you to simply tell him that not all is lost, that everything he thought was broken will realign itself. He wants to see, to be shown, with his own eyes, proof of the glimmer of that hope of which you speak. He needs to see it among the shattered, blackened tragedy he's experiencing in order to believe in it.

That's what it means to me.

White-Out!

It's the morning of January 12th, my lucky day off, and I awake early as I usually do and stumble downstairs for some coffee and my favorite show before everyone else wakes up (I live with two men who insist on making wise-cracks about it, so I have to be sneaky in order to have any peace and quiet.) All the blinds and curtains are pulled tight, so I almost forget about the storm wreaking havoc just outside the comfort of my warm slippers. I look out the window above my kitchen sink, rinsing out my coffee cup and all I see is a monochromatic vision of white.

I smile. How can this day get any better?

I can't wait to get out in it, but since I've got my priorities straight, I hit up some caffeine and get my fix in front of the tele (probably the only time of a day I have complete control of the remote, so I might as well take advantage.) Ten minutes later, Taylor (my husband) comes stomping down the stairs singing, "Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow." I grin, he comes and sits next to me, sees what I'm watching, but my warning glare - better known as The Look - keeps him from ruining the moment for me.

 An hour later, in even better spirits, I pull on my winter gear. Ahh and the best part - I rip the tags off my brand new LL Bean Winter Walker snowshoes (that my husband so graciously gave me for Christmas), and finally head outside to begin the daunting task of actually getting them on my boots. Taylor helps me as I stumble, fall on my butt, and cuss myself out, but pretty soon I'm hiking through our front yard, down the hill, and onto the street making a beeline for our favorite path that leads down to Lake Arrowhead.

Now if you've never seen a winter storm, you should really put it on your bucket list. The snow is coming down so hard that it reminds me of confetti falling from the sky in Times Square at midnight on New Years. The wind is swiftly making its way through the trees, and I hear the tall pines groaning in protest as snow and ice builds on their limbs, making them bend and stretch, nearly touching the ground. Everything is completely white, and I can't tell where the sky ends and the ground begins.

It has a way of making you feel ridiculously small, like a tiny speck of imperfection in the pristine beauty of the madness taking place around you.

I make it to the trail's entrance, which has this strange welcoming feeling to it, almost as if it's opened up just for my little expedition. I'm immediately surrounded by trees ~ on the left, to my right, and even above me as branches bend over the top of the trail, creating a perfect tunnel. The snow isn't as thick here with the protection of the trees, but there is literally a *light at the end of the tunnel*, and pretty soon the sky opens up above me and I'm slammed with falling snow. I pull my hood back and allow the little frozen miracles to cling to my eyelashes. Pure bliss.

 It's unbelievably quiet, almost eerily so, and I feel as if I never want to turn back. I make my way up and down hills, over fallen limbs and rocks, and reach the banks of Lake Arrowhead. The thing with frozen, snow-covered lakes is that they look much the same as the frozen, snow-covered ground ~ they blend and meld together as one giant achromatic mass. The snow is coming down so thick, that it looks like a hazy fog is lingering in the distance. I'm tempted to test the thickness of the ice ;), but I think better of it and turn around to find another trail.

I could stay out here forever, I think. I don't want to head back, just set up camp right here and remain trapped in the storm forever. It's so incredibly beautiful, raw, and savage, this thing called Mother Nature ~ if I wasn't hooked before, she's definitely ensnared me now.


The one thing that makes me turn around is my excitement to share what I've experienced with Taylor. (I never go off into the woods on my own ~ usually scares the living hell out of me ~ so I know he'll appreciate my enthusiasm). I climb back up the hill to our front yard, and find him no longer outside shoveling. I know he'll be looking for me though, so I wait a couple of seconds, and sure enough he spots me through the window and opens the front door.

"Want to go again?," he says.

"Hell yes!"

"Let me get my skis."

And we're off again.

Hosac Mountain

The alarm sings while the moon still sits high in the sky, almost as bright as the sun. I swing out of bed, still a little groggy but quickly becoming alert with the excitement of the exertion to come, and I'm led downstairs by the glow of the kitchen light. I grab a cool glass of water while the smell of coffee pervades my senses, and I wait for the drip, drip, drip to cease so I can satisfy my vice and get my daily caffeine fix. My husband is stuffing his pack with water, apples, oranges, and an extra coat and sets it to wait patiently by the door. I tread back upstairs, pull my hair back, and set myself to the task of dressing warm - it's below freezing outside, the sun has yet to rise, and we'll be out there in the darkness for a few hours. I hear my brother's alarm, so loud it's a wonder that it doesn't give him a heart attack when it goes off, and I know it's almost time to go. I grab my husky's leash, pull on my warm boots, take another gulp of water, and we head out the door.



We pull up to the entrance of Hosac. "No Trespassing," the sign says, but everyone ignores the warning because it's something that's hardly enforced. We set out ~ 3 adults, 2 dogs. The moon that was once a beacon in the sky has hidden behind a dark cloud, and we can barely see where we are going. We can hear movement in the woods on either side, and I can't help but feel that we are in a horror movie or a Stephen King novel (we are in Maine after all) and something is going to leap from the darkness at any moment. The full moon the filled the sky before it was overcome with shyness adds to the spookiness, and we start laughing about werewolves and other monsters, and before we know it, the creepiness is gone and its just us and the path ahead.

Hosac isn't a long hike and it most certainly isn't the most difficult, but for us, who don't do this everyday, it definitely isn't the easiest. We have to stop for a short break after every steep climb, the path is slick with ice in the sub-freezing temperatures, and we are concentrating only on putting one foot in front of the other, breathing in and out, and keeping watch for possibly angry moose.

The last hill comes into sight, and it's the steepest one yet. I take baby steps, my husband in front of me with our husky, Anouk, and my brother behind me with his dog, Dixie. We are huffing for breath at this point, but the end is in sight and the sun is starting to rise - the whole reason we're here in the first place, and we don't want to miss it. We try to hurry, baby steps, and pretty soon, the path levels out and we can catch our breath. We look around, and we can see the little specks of houses in the town of Limerick miles away. The white-tipped peak of Mt. Washington is barely in view, and we feel as if we're on top of the world. We snap a few pictures, tie the dogs so they can rest, and we pick the best seat in the house to view the sunrise on this beautiful, brisk morning.



We sit and laugh and talk for about half an hour, and then it happens. A small orb of red tinted orange appears on the horizon and not thirty seconds later the sun makes its debut in full force, and we know the sweat and strenuous effort was totally worth it.



We all sit for a few more minutes, and my brother's stomach growls so loud I'm surprised it didn't echo down the mountain for all to hear. It's time to go. This is the scariest part for me - seeing the bottom, trying not to fall on my but as I inch my way down the steep decline. My husband slips on the ice once, but catches himself, and the dogs look back at us like they are telling us to hurry up, they're ready to move.






We find ourselves in unfamiliar territory, and we realize we've made a wrong turn. We think about turning back, but decide to trudge onward - we'll find our way. Definitely the right decision. New views, new scenes, and a new path - keeps it interesting. We find the exit, climb over the fence and another "No Trespassing" sign, and find ourselves on another road about a mile from the car. At least there's no steep hills this time.

 We've made it home finally, and it's only 8:30 AM, and we feel as if a whole day has passed. We grab some grub, the dogs curl up on the couches and conk out, and we try to figure out what to do with the rest of our long day.