Heaven is under our feet as well as over our heads. ~Henry David Thoreau, “Walden”

A woman I know sent me a video recently that celebrates the beauty of nature and the world around us. At one point in the short piece, the narrator encourages listeners to look up often at the sky, at the clouds, at how the light interacts with them. What we see up there doesn’t last long, he says. And we will never see the exact same cloud pattern ever again.

He’s not wrong. I’ve lost count of how often I’ve watched a spectacular sunset and stepped away briefly from it only to return and find that it has ended. The clouds that bore the setting sun’s mauve and gold washes have moved on, turning a dismal gray as they make their descent toward other parts of the sky and disappear entirely from my view. Midwinter sunsets are among the best, something to do with dry cold air and moisture levels in the atmosphere that allow the sun’s light to set its sights on thin swaths of cumulous clouds rather than casting it more broadly. So I know that I will be dazzled again on the next partly cloudy afternoon as the day creeps toward dusk.

That’s what the sky has to offer, an ever-shifting montage of white against blue and whatever other colors the sun sees fit to share on any particular day. On completely overcast days, none of it is very inspiring. Yet there is still some pattern to those clouds that hang relentlessly on while nature deliberates with the upper atmosphere before deciding what form, if any, the precipitation will take. Clouds and any impending bad weather make all the difference as to how dazzling the night sky will be as well. Will there be stars and a moon? Or will a solid ceiling of vapor block it all out?

Along with all the more obviously good reasons to watch the skies, our culture also subtly encourages it via greeting cards and social media memes with uplifting messages. Whenever we are “down,” the only other direction to look is up. For those who ascribe to the various religious faiths, there is the deeply-ingrained belief that the hereafter exists above, and not below, us. Indeed, all that is evil is thought to emanate from below, from the depths, from that dark mysterious world that, unlike the sky in all its various guises, we simply cannot see. So philosophically speaking, the earth gets a bad rap as we continue to tramp across it all the while raising our hands in supplication toward the heavens.

In reality, however, there is as much, if not more, going on beneath us as there is above us. And it’s not merely a question of faith, as in believing in something we cannot see. We can and do see the results of all that energy stored just beneath the earth’s topsoil, and more often than not, in some very spectacular displays of vegetation and topographical features.

Currently, though, we are hard-pressed to believe that anything is going on “down there” at all. The top few inches of the ground are still frozen solid, creating a landscape that is nothing short of barren. But in the zone of soil that maintains roughly the same temperature year-round, things are starkly different as life goes on without so much as a nod to the cold and extreme weather going on not that far above.

Subsoil temperatures lag behind surface temperatures by months, and they never have time to catch up before they are forced to reverse their course. Thus, the balance between the two favors the sustenance of life year-round. As the topsoil cools, the subsoil remains at a temperature where life can proceed, albeit at a slower pace. This is one reason trees survive the harshest winters. While their leafless crowns and trunks are exposed to bitter cold that would otherwise kill them, their deepest roots continue to flourish in warmer subsoil, drawing the moisture and nutrients they need to survive the most challenging season of the year. That subsoil is warm enough, too, so that whatever else lives down there during the colder months continues about its business until spring’s more benevolent exhalations coax it all back to the surface.

While what lies beneath is not nearly as awe-inspiring as what exists above, it all works in tandem to enable us to appreciate it. As I walk the earth’s cold unyielding winter floor, I try to remember that, not far below me, things are stirring and have been for some time now. And all I need do is imagine a single tiny green shoot straining, eager, for nature to turn its gaze toward it and let it spring.