Snowflakes drifted swiftly to the ground, covering the brown grass. Wind blew it down my jacket collar, melting quickly. A prevalent mechanical sound, possibly a snowplow, echoed constantly, adding a sense of mystery and silence. No sound but the machine could be heard, except for my breath and the squeak of snow under my boots.

This describes the day that I last posted, the day that I experienced snowfall for the first time and became certain that I had to live in Wisconsin someday. The occasional squirrel flitted underneath trees, searching for a nut in the snow.

There was something about the snow…not that it hadn’t really snowed in Wisconsin this winter, but something else…not quite that I had never experienced its fall before. Earlier that day while setting out to drive around, I thought, “It would be nice if it would snow a little, just so I could see what it’s like.” A few hours later, it began to rain. The temperature hovered in the forties, practically thirty, rain drizzling off and on. Then, as I ate lunch, a few raindrops no longer made a beeline for the ground, but swirled lazily. After I had finished eating, the snow was flurrying to the ground, not quite cold enough to stick. “I wish it would stick,” I thought, “just a little, so that I could throw a snowball at somebody or see how beautiful everything looks.” Less than an hour after that, the snow began to pile up, hiding the dead grass and frosting the trees.

“I don’t want it to stop,” I thought.

Well, of course it did. I’m thankful that I got to walk around in it as long as I did, enjoying it. Am I psychic? I have no idea.  Is it my theory that a strong enough will, arising a hint of ‘magical’ energy in me, energized brain waves that affected reality? Could be, but I don’t mean to gloat.

What is the snow? What is so magical about it? To put it in a deep way, what is this substance that falls from the sky to cover all and solidify into something not quite solid and not quite liquid, nor dirty? Listen to that silence that’s thicker than peanut butter, watch it dust trees and fields, and tell me that there is nothing mystical in its nature. Explain why you hate snow each winter. “It’s a hassle,” you might say, “I’ve got to drive differently.” “I need to clear it,” “It’s hard to walk in.” A-a-a-h-h, how we’ve lost the deep, naturalistic moments when man would huddle in a shelter with a warm fire, begin to cook his meat, fashion snowshoes, and not have to go anywhere.  Notice how your objections lean towards the modern life, the modern necessities. Revert to original being, look at the snow, and tell me what you see.




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