I am not a snow bunny. Never have been. I don’t ski – the mere thought of choosing to go downhill on two highly polished slats of fiberglass prompts paroxysms of vertigo. I had beautiful white ice skates when I was a kid – with blue and white pom-poms. They far exceeded in loveliness the grace with which I used them. I’m clumsy on dry pavement, so you can imagine my impromptu choreography when the weather is inclement. I’m a walking slapstick skit.
But I love the first serious snow of the season. I love how the snow forces commitment. It commits itself to the ground with purpose, hugging the ground as if it will never let it go. It demands that the world be quiet, muting everything but this delicious silence that you can’t help but notice. It reduces the myriad of alternatives and choices that we make throughout the day. Somehow the highest imperative becomes to snuggle in to the moment and let it have its way. Snow gives you permission. To remain mesmerized while looking out the window and forget about how much time has elapsed, to hide under the blanket with a good book, to drink hot chocolate (with three marshmallows). Snow – silently, persistently commits you to a relationship with coziness, arguably a state that we don’t find enough excuses to enjoy.
The first snow. It’s something I can commit to.