And then it snowed

I wish I could share with you all of stillness that’s tangibly present. The heavy quiet that beckons my heart to rest.


Surely we can rest without the gentle whisperings of the snow. It’s simply so much easier to do so when the snow is here to instruct us. Surely we can play – abandoned, red-faced, and laughing – when the ground is not white. Still, something in the glistening, nearly laughing snow, wakes the child we put to bed. So, I’m listening while it is here.

And perhaps, there are whisperings to rest easy or play – to be, and delight – surrounding us always. Perhaps seeking them is part of the mystery and adventure. Perhaps, we should stop. And listen. While it is here.


The Year of no Snow

I think that capitalization rules are really stupid. Just so you all know. I just sat here for far too long trying to decipher which words should be capitalized in that title and which shouldn’t, and I finally decided that I don’t care what the rules are, I’m capitalizing what looks good capitalized. So, I did. Though, looking at it now, I think I followed the rules anyway.

Now that that’s settled – I’m convinced that it’s not going to really snow ever again – not this winter anyway (it sounds better to say “ever” though – far more dramatic and definite.)

I woke up at 6:30 – a sheer miracle – to find beautiful snow that coated most everything and was still falling. My heart sang and so did my mouth and I scampered around the house putting on cozy clothes – like sweaters and fluffy socks and slippers over my fluffy socks – and making coffee and oatmeal and anything else that would produce a picturesque steam. Then I read for a bit (and then I maybe broke my own rule about not going back to sleep two hours after I get up and fell asleep for a bit) and (once I woke up from possible sleep) I sat down to transfer the following poem to this here nog in hopes that the end, not the beginning would be true:

This is the year of no snow,
the clouds themselves have said it’s so.
My brother won’t believe them,
he thinks they only tease him,
his snow clothes wait eagerly by the door,
“Today’s the day!” he cries, “I’m sure!”
still no snow comes, no not one flake,
but hopefulness he will not shake –
Clouds come every other day,
only turning the sky dreary grey,
and on occasion bringing London-rain,
icy cold and ever the bane
of the small boy sitting on the floor
waiting, only hoping more,
for the world to taste again sweet white
become lost in it through the night
and wake in morning’s early light
to proclaim
“It snowed!”

I never got to actually transferring it until just now, however, due to my utter disappointment at the snow then melting outside my window. I wrote this a while ago – at the beginning of this snowless winter. It’s written on a coffee-stained index card and came as a random stab of insanity, or, if I’m lucky, brilliance – or maybe just semi-goodness. Regardless of its quality or the fact that I wrote it in something of a spaz attack, I wrote it because I’m nearly convinced that it will not really snow this winter, but part of me really very much wants to hope. Part of me has given up – and part of me wrote that poem, hoping to one day wake in morning’s early light and proclaim, “it snowed!”

I had thought that was this morning – and it kind of was, I did actually say “it snowed!” just like I hear it in my head everytime I read that poem – I even repeated the few lines I remembered from it while I scampered around trying to create a snowy atmosphere inside to match my hopes for the outside. But it melted. It melted and everything became dreary again and I lost hope of snow again, but I dug that coffee-stained index card out of the recesses of my desk – because part of me wrote that poem.