Torpor

tor·por noun:  a state of lowered physiological activity typically characterized by reduced metabolism, heart rate, respiration, and body temperature that occurs in varying degrees especially in hibernating and estivating animals Merriam-Webster

Humans are not considered hibernating animals.  I wonder why.

I get the science part, but when it comes to winter time, at least where I’m from, people tend to hunker down in place, doing only that which is essential and leaving the rest for the warm time.

So yes, farmers work hard in the winter.  But they too hustle to be done and get back into the warmth, plunking down by the fire to just sit and stare and wait – for warmth to return.

Spending the last 11 days largely at my mother’s hospital bedside, I have fallen in to my own torpor, evidenced by lowered activity.  Most of the day, I simply sit.  It’s kind of like being a fireman, this bedside duty – rushing to help when needed and otherwise simply sitting and waiting for the next call.

Mom is now transitioning to a place where she will require less of my presence and attention and I will (presumably) return to my previous state of activity – that thing I call my life.

But this, too, is my life, this serving by waiting.

Thresholds

threshold n.  1: the plank, stone, or piece of timber that lies under a door : sill.  2a : gate, door.  b (1) : end, boundary; specifically : the end of a runway (2) : the place or point of entering or beginning : outset Merriam Webster

The beginning of a new year, any new year, is really quite arbitrary as measures go: this is a new year simply because we’ve agreed it is.

That said, there is, nevertheless, a sense of pondering, of considering, of weighing, that happens as one year ends and a new year begins.  Maybe it’s a simple by-product of sentience, this taking stock process.

Whenever I consider thresholds, my mind travels back to when I learned that a grandchild can be a kindred spirit.  It was a discovery moment.

Just old enough to walk on his own confidence, so maybe 18-20 months or so, I had grandson Rowen in tow one day ducking into the church for some work-related thing or another.

Entering from a back hallway into the sanctuary, Rowen experienced one of the joys of this particular worship space: perfect acoustics.

Babbling along in those softly indistinguishable sounds babies make before going verbal on us, he walked behind me, carrying his sing-song along with him.

Two steps into the sanctuary, he came to a sudden stop.

He raised his voice, babbled and listened intently.

He did that baby side-canter wobble/walk back out into the hallway, babbled a bit; came back in – babbled a bit; and repeated the process a few times, with utter delight on his face.

Baptistry in Pisa, Italy, where the acoustics
make a tenor sound like a cherubic choir

Rowen had crossed the threshold from the ordinary to the extraordinary in a few baby steps, and because of the gifts of sound and hearing and recognition, was able to know it in an instant.

Watching his discovery that day was a joy-filled thrill for me as well, as child and gran jumped back and forth over the threshold, hearing the noise of our happiness magnified by the near-perfect engineering surrounding us.

Thresholds can be drug places, as one figuratively or literally drags or is drug across.  They can be the place where pain begins.  They can be the boundary place.  And they can be the place where song unfurls, first as discovered sound, moving into its own symphony of filled space.

May this moment be a threshold to your song unfurled, 

echoing into perfect harmony in the ears of all you love.