Whistling Badger Blog

Those who claim to know say today is the first day of Winter.  Those of us who live in northern climates, who have been bundling up and plugging in our block heaters for a couple months now, often get a good laugh out of that. I went outside early this morning to do a couple quick chores.  Early:  Still dark, the stars still burning, the blue-silver just starting to touch the eastern horizon.  And I could smell magic crackling in the cold air. Not goofy, Harry-Potterish, turn-kittens-into-mushrooms magic, nor fluffy, New-Ageish, dance-barefoot-in--the-rain magic, but the kind of magic grounded in hard science and certain hope:  Today is four seconds longer than yesterday .  Today, the sun begins its journey back north. First day of Winter?  Heck no.  Today, Spring starts coming.  It takes a long time, and there are still storms to endure, but it's coming, and nothing will stop it. Happy solstice, my friends.

Sometimes it’s painful to turn on the news this time of year.  It seems like there is something about the Christmas season that brings out the worst in people.  Or maybe the selfishness that is endemic to humanity is thrown into sharper contrast against the ideals of “Peace on earth, good will toward men.”  Sometimes it seems as if the whole season is nothing but greed and guilt, disillusionment and broken dreams, wrapped up with a pretty ribbon. But sometimes, things work out just like they should.  Sometimes, the simple kindness of a complete stranger reminds you that the Christmas spirit is alive and well, in ways that can’t be bought with money.  This story, told in the emails below, is about Christmas.  Enjoy. ______________________________ Thomas Wilson November 17, 2014 To zoo info Dear Denver Zoo, I have a request with a story behind it.  If you aren’t in the mood for a story, feel free to skip to the last paragraph for the request.  I know how busy you m

One of my most treasured posessions is a set of hand and foot prints. Four years ago today, when we lost our son , the beautiful nurses at P/SL Hospital made an impression of David's feet and hands in plaster--a keepsake to remind us that he was a real, flesh-and-blood person. This plaster oval sits on the piano, largely forgotten in the business and beauty of getting through the day. Once in a while, though, the prints catch my eye, and I run my fingers over them. They are so tiny. Footprints are the perfect symbol for loss. The print itself is not an object, but a lack of one--an empty space left by something that was here, and is no longer here.   Occasionally I indulge the urge to think about what life would be like if he hadn't died.  I imagine what it would be like to raise a son, to teach him how to be a man, even as I continue to learn myself.  I watch Katie taking such meticulous care of her dolls, and wonder what she would have been like as a big sister.