The French philosopher Alain wrote that “prayer is when the night falls over thought.” I have seen snow fall silently from a night sky, blanketing the burrowing weasels and burned spars, burying the world’s scurrying under a great hush. Maybe the forest is a prayer tonight, bent under the weight of all that winter, the whole world on its knees. Or maybe the prayer is the hush. Could I pray this way, letting the night settle onto my thoughts like snow on my shoulders, that gently? Hush. My snowshoes shuffle through the drifts.

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As long as frogs sing, I will not be lost in a squall. Their song told me where the cattails are, and the cattails mark the shore. I am sure of this much, that Earth lights these small signal fires–not for us, but among us–and we can find them if we look. If we are not afraid, if we keep our balance, if we let our anxious selves dissolve into the beauties and mysteries of the night, we will find a way to peace and assurance. Signal fires burn all over the land.

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May the light that reflects on water be this wild prayer. May water lift us with its unexpected strength. May we find comfort in the “repeated refrains of nature,” the softly sheeting snow, the changing seasons, the return of blackbirds to the marsh. May we find strength in light that pours in under snow and laughter that breaks through tears. May we go out into the light-filled snow, among meadows in bloom, with a gratitude for life that is deep and alive. May earth’s fire burn in our hearts, and may we know ourselves part of this flame — one thing, never alone, never weary of life.