View From a Prairie Home

by Hege Hernfindahl, Columnist

Sometimes I think that spring will never come. The snow is still so deep. The sidewalk to our garage is covered by at least 1½ inches of ice. We take the ice chipper and chip and chip and chip. One ice chip at the time. We have now almost cleared a little path to the garage, but the nights are so cold, the ice on the sides of the path melts and it takes hours for the path to be dry and walkable. The wind blows, so despite the strong early April sun, it is cold.

My heart seems to be heavy within me every day. I never seem to be able to fall asleep after lying in bed for what seems like hours, so I get up. The house is cold, because we sleep better in the cold. This winter I bought myself these fuzzy very warm blankets and I use them every day and especially at night when I get up. I pick up my current book, “Det stumme rommet”, and read about a young girl who lives on an island off the coast of Northern Norway. Here, winters are totally dark. And summers are never warm. In addition the girl, Tora, is very poor and her clothing always seems inadequate for the cold. Why read this book about such a miserable life? The author, Herbjørg Wassmo, is able to describe Tora’s moments of happiness and the stark nature and horrible weather with poetic beauty that makes my heart both constrict and sing. And I am glad to tell you that her books have been translated to English!

Reading takes me away from the here and the now. From never-ending winter and cold. From my broken heart. From my longing for my lost sons. I am planted into a new world described by a master of language. I feel the cold of Northern Norway, which I have visited once during winter, because my friend, Marit, was teaching there. The darkness almost made her go crazy, but at the time, a teacher would get part of her student loan forgiven if she taught in Northern Norway at least for three years. So my friend persisted with the determination that was part of who she is.

Reading also teaches me. How life can be. How to be grateful with what I have. How nature, even unfamiliar nature, can have its poetry and beauty. So I sit, warm, this morning, at my computer and look over the prairie. Out my window, which is triple pane, and see snow. A few months ago, I loved that view. Now it seems forbidding and bleak. And there is nothing I can do. There is also really not much I can do about having lost a son and a son-in-law. The only thing I can control is how I react. I read in my devotions today that life is 10% of what happens and 90% of how we react to it.

I can’t get over losing two dear sons, but I can go on living. I can’t control the weather, but I can try to find bright spots. I can see the snow cover is slowly shrinking despite the frigid night temperatures. I have read that the ground under the snow is slowly thawing. The snow cover has kept the frost from going too deep. I can actually see big snow- free rings around all the trees. It must mean the trees are getting ready to burst forth with new leaves. On the plowed fields, we can see black dirt poking through. Every day, the black spots are getting bigger.

As as I go downstairs, I am greeted by my green plants and by all the geraniums that are blooming. Big red blossoms. They are everywhere. Maybe overdone, but they help me. I go around every day talking to my plants. Thanking them. I also put up my little plaque that says, “Spring is Sprung.” Because it really has. It is just a matter of perspective. Of how I react. I put on lots of clothes, go outside and feel the spring sunshine on my pale face. It feels so good.