One of my goals for 2015 is to spend more time writing. Therefore I am starting the 52 Weeks Project, a project in which I will post one short piece I have recently written every Wednesday in 2015.
After yesterday’s storm, we have a good nine inches of snow on the ground. The snow began falling in the early afternoon—at first in tiny, glittery flakes that floated down through the trees like dust settling on the earth. Later the flakes turned larger, wetter; giant sticky snowfall that came down and sideways, blizzard-like. This morning the beauty of tall pines coated in white greets my eyes, a magical sight.
It’s falling now, too–the snow. I’m watching it through the window in all of its silent glory. It comes in soft whisps, floating gently downward, landing softly, quietly on the ground.
We have a neighbor in the cabin next door, an old widow who curses the winter and the cold. People in the community take care of her in various ways during the season—shoveling her driveway, stacking her woodpile, retrieving her mail for her, offering friendly smiles and gestures on a daily basis. Despite these warm extensions of kindness, she sees nothing but the cold, the dormant, the dead of winter.
Just now a black-feathered bird jetted through the trees, finding shelter beneath a snow-covered branch. In this moment I remember our choice in life—to allow the harshness of the world to brittle us to our core, or to choose to see the magic, the life moving beneath the cold.