Monday, December 27, 2010


Last night when I went to bed, I peeked out the window and watching the falling snow swirling in the air, hurling itself at the trees, whisking past the fairy lights hanging from the eaves, drifting past the dark cars in the driveway. This morning when I got up, I peeked out the window at a silent, white world. The drifting snow had sculpted itself into fantastical shapes, disguising the familiar objects in the yard, covering the landscape with swirls and cones and angles.

I love snowstorms. Of course, I don’t love digging out from under a foot of snow, or scraping a thick layer of ice off my car, or driving on ice-slick roads. But I love the blustery sound of the wind during a storm and the blanket of silence afterwards. I love watching the snow dancing on the wind in an intricately choreographed ballet. I love hearing the first peeps of the birds as they emerge after the snow ends, huddled and fluffing and eagerly seeking out food. I love the flash of a bright red cardinal against a pure-white snowbank. I love the icicles artistically dripping from power lines and eaves and car antennas. I love the squeak of damp snow under thick-soled boots. I love the wet thump of clots of snow sliding off a roof into the bushes below. I even love the pure, clean, cold smell of the air after a snowstorm.

By the end of the winter, I’ll be as sick of snow as everyone else, longing to see some green leaves peeping through the dirty gray slush. But now, right after the very first big storm of the season, I love it. The first storm of the season, to me, is like a dish of cool, icy sorbet to cleanse your palate. It perks up your senses, it cleanses and purifies, it readies you for what is yet to come.

So today, I will enjoy the snow. I will wait for the sun to sparkle on the ice and dazzle my eyes with its splendor. I will snuggle with a cozy blanket and a mug of steaming coffee and listen to the whistle of the wind. I will watch the birds storing up for the storms still to come. I will be thankful for my cozy house and my full refrigerator and my shoveling husband.

And a few months from now, when we’ve had a dozen storms like this, when we’ve dug out from under more inches of snow than I care to count, when we’ve risked our necks driving through white-outs and skidding over black ice, when I’m thoroughly sick of the nasty white stuff, I’ll look back at what I’ve just written, and wonder, “What the heck was I thinking back in December?”

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