“We hardly ever get much snow down here”, they told us. Well, look out the window! Will we be blamed for bringing it with us from New Hampshire? Because they don’t have much up there. Our Minnesota rellies don’t even have enough to cover the grass. What on earth does this mean?
Declaring it to be beautiful is an understatement. Rooftops outlined in grace. Tree branches, etched in white, lifted toward the sky. Feathery clusters caught in the evergreens. The muffled hush of falling flakes. Peace.
It takes me back to my small cousin’s reaction to the first snowfall. “Grandma did it!” She had watched entirely too many cakes being slathered with creamy vanilla icing. Grandma must have had a very busy night.
The purpose of snowstorms may just be to freeze our gerbil cages in their incessant spin. Appointments are cancelled, events postponed. Life on the pause button, with no guilt. Our illusion of control drops off. After all, no one controls the weather. Or much of anything else, truth be told. Everything can wait for the snowfall. Islands of Time open up, unexpected gifts. And so, we can curl up with that book we’ve been wanting to read, make that phone call to an old friend, watch that silly old movie that someone recommended, throw a batch of cookies in the oven to ward off the chill.
A chance to breathe, in the dark of winter, as the earth imperceptibly tilts toward the sun.