When my brother and soon-to-be-sister-in-law visited, we took a scenic train ride through the snow-covered mountains, along the icy river. It's a beautiful trip, with hawks, crows, and eagles, though the winter always seems harsh.
We sat by the door in the penultimate car -- the last car was open to the air, with wooden benches. Though I had bundled up more than usual, five minutes outside bounding along at twenty miles per hour was more than enough. A steady stream of passengers marched to and from that outside car. Sitting by the heavy and hard to close door let in quite a bit of fresh, frozen air.
I was subdued on the journey, with several things in my head. One was a snippet of Hebrew poetry -- Psalm 2: 8.
Watching the river where I'd almost drowned seven years ago, I wondered what it would be like to hibernate, to throw my body down into the river, to allow my blood to slow within and to be frozen into a man-sized block of ice.
While small pieces of ice float downstream even in dark December, the spring thaws always come. Would it be permissible to sleep through the death, the descent of Persephone, and to awake, revived and restored (as the earth itself) in body and in spirit?
Linford Detweiler's liner notes mean a little more to me now. Someday, I'll make it to the Emery Theater in Cincinnati for The Darkest Night of the Year.
