This morning, I stepped into biting wind to care for my animals. I was surprised by how it fed me.

The cold came upon us suddenly after weeks and months of rain. Yesterday, I shivered as I walked along a nature trail with a friend. This morning, from inside my cozy room, the wind sounded fierce. Drafts of cold air blew through the cracks in my front door; cold air drifted down the surface of every window. I summoned my will to leave the room where the fire blazed in the wood stove and my big comfortable cat curled in a ball on the table. I stepped into faded overalls, stuffed my slipper socks into old shoes, put on a torn down jacket, wool scarf and hat and opened the back door reluctantly. How fierce it could be, I wondered?

The fresh air filled my lungs with vitality and-- was it sweetness? Sunlight danced on the small white fluffy clouds, off every leaf and on the branches of trees. The leaves of the thorn-less blackberries spread a flurry of light as their canes stirred in gusts of wind. Patches of snow nestled in the grass; the sky shone like a jewel of clear intense blue.

I began my chores. I filled two red wagons with wood and pulled them from the shed into sun and wind. The wood had been wet when we cut it weeks ago, but it would finish drying quickly now. As I walked past the tub of water for the animals, my border collie licked the ice on its top. “Ice!” I registered; I would need to supply water to my animals today. I lifted the handle of the outdoor hydrant above the tub. Water sprayed onto my face, instantly chilling me. I stepped behind the hydrant and turned it off quickly. The hose connector was frozen shut, so I unscrewed it and turned the water on again. As the tub filled, I got a rubber bucket for the heifer. The automatic waterer, installed years ago, was designed to service six to ten cows. With only one heifer, its water would freeze. I carefully lifted the bucket over the four foot railing and into into the heifer's stall to keep it from sloshing all over me.

My gander stood alone and honked. His mate, a young goose, disappeared two days ago. I sighed and grieved: I loved this pair and hoped to have young goslings come spring. Perhaps raccoon or foxes had grabbed her: they often come midwinter and nab a large bird for food. I moved on to the chickens. I stepped into their shelter, threw one scoop of feed on the floor and opened their cage. They ate quickly. I realized suddenly that they could not forage for worms or insects in frozen ground, so I threw them a second scoop of feed. I loaded my arms with wood and returned to the house.

I felt so alive! I drank in the wind, the air, the sunlight, the sky, the clouds, the leaves, the snow, the wood, the ice, the water, the goose, the heifer, the chickens and my dog before returning indoors. I felt the joy of the day, the grief of losing a goose, the burden of going out in the weather, and the blessing of meeting so much life. In turn, I had responded: caring for the animals, tending the wood, and appreciating the life around me. Now sitting at my desk, next to the warming fire, I hear the wind and know that it will offer me both gift and challenge. I will go out again to check on my heifer soon.

As I watered my animals, I imagined women who, throughout ages, drew water daily from the well. How would it feel to be so deeply connected to the elements? We imagine it as as burden, but wouldn't it also contain a blessing? What if we imagine ourselves as people who weave together a rich tapestry of life in our homes, our communities, our nations and our world? How would our conversations be different if each of us acknowledged that whatever comes to meet us and how we meet it has both burden and blessing? What if we chopped wood and carried water with the possibility of tending life itself with awareness, creativity and joy?

How do we find the balance that feeds us deeply?