Snow: Beauty and Effort
I grew up in snow country. Then, after years away, I returned to live where a full-blown winter was once again beauty and effort—where in soft powder, boots sank straight down, but on icy, sun-dazzling crusts broke it free into sharp pieces.
It is winter in India currently, cool…even cold to me at 72º indoors—yet I keep my windows open. Today, on WhatsApp, I opened to a photo of snow and, surprising me, it went straight to my heart. Snow deep on roofs, on cars, on sidewalks not yet shoveled, making thick, woolly caps on lampposts.
I began to remember . . .
I'm eight, wearing my bulky snowsuit and standing next to the kitchen radiator. I pull on black rubber boots, stuff my pants down inside, and do up the buckles. I tie on a knitted hat, then a scarf over my nose and cheeks. It has snowed the night before—and is very cold. The aluminum saucer and Flexible Flyer sled are already out at the top of our back hill. My younger sister goes first. She sits cross-legged on the saucer, grips the woven handles, and I give her a push She flies on the strong crust. Then I'm on my belly on my sled, my hands and toes giving a push, and my hands back on the steering bar. We both drag our feet to keep from crashing into the stonewall boundary.
I'm thirteen. Schools are closed from a big storm. When I open the garage door, the snow looks two feet deep. The street is quiet—except for the plows. With an aluminum shovel, I make three cuts in the snow as if it's a pan cake, then slide my shovel under the depth I can lift—bend, straighten, and toss the snow to the driveway's edge. When the snow reaches the top of our neighbor's hedge—she doesn't mind us tossing it over.
I'm seventeen and a freshman on the Orono campus of the University of Maine. It's a freezing, snowbound day. Plows are working. My class is a mile walk at eight a.m. At an intersection, I note the corner hill of snow built by plows is now taller than my height. Many feet keep the path packed. After class, I lean into sheets of driving snow as soon as I'm out the building door. At the half-way mark to my dorm, I go into a small campus store and stand by the door—and wait until my eyelashes thaw before continuing.
I'm forty-seven, and back living in snow country. Single, and with a high school daughter still at home, I attend a spiritual study group, my first. Meditation is a new word. It has been snowing and hasn't stopped by the time I go out at nine p.m. to shovel just the end of our long, dirt driveway. By ten I have finished. Yet I remain standing there. Around me all is still, except for the falling snow and the plows with their clanking chains. Nearby older homes are dimly visible. A streetlamp marks the property boundary. Lit by its light, flakes drift on the slant across the bright column. I am waiting—as if for something.
My realization is, "Beauty and effort may come together in unexpected places."