Last night I could hear it. Lying in bed, warm beneath the dark and snuggled under the weight of our quilted comforter, I listened with my eyes gently closed.

It whistled through the trees and clattered across our shutters – gusting and ebbing. At times I could even feel our house shake – framed wood secured by steely nails shuddering off the chill of January winds. Then it would be gone, and I could hear the softer sound of my wife sleeping, and feel the warm body of our dog nestled between us.

This morning I sit here: hot coffee steaming on the side table, morning book in my lap, looking out the living room window, waiting for the light of morning. In the waning darkness I can hear the wind working across our hill – invisible and unmistakably present at the same time.

Then the light comes and with it I see the snow. Big flaked – dancing with the wind – now visible – a ghost revealed by blanketing white flakes of snow. The invisible, now visible – mesmerizing.

Witnessing the invisible – having sound and form combined – I am prompted to wonder what other invisible forces are at work – swirling around our living – hidden and manifest simultaneously.

Intersectionality – the collision of opposites is where we see nature at work. A light flickered on to reveal – if only for a moment – work made possible by the privacy of darkness. Always the light extinguishes, swallowed by the darkness again. But we know the work continues – we feel the force and the remembered flash from the light encourages our leap to faith in what we cannot see or touch, but know is hard at work – moving back and forth, rising by falling, leading by following, stretching by returning – a complimentary dance of opposites colliding us forward.