These are trying times indeed, but the world persists in sending us gifts on a daily basis, if only we would notice and accept them. Yesterday, the gift was snow: the sky unloaded a good scattering of the stuff. It was nice to wake up to, and it continued mildly throughout the morning. How it brings out the child in each of us, taking us back to a time when our sole purpose was play! I remember some 50 years ago, when snow was more common, watching my friends Bill and Kira skiing through the dunes and along the Tin Pan Alley trail. (And there were ice boats out on East Harbor.)
Thoreau described snowflakes as “these glorious spangles, the sweepings of Heaven’s floor” — a nice turn of phrase, if not entirely believable. On the other hand, why not? We can accept this world any way we want. Snow is really just modified rain: I have read that each flake is the result of a tiny particle adorned with a droplet of water and then frozen, crystallized. If that takes some of the magic away, go back to the sweepings of Heaven. Perception is up to us. In the same way, fog, that ethereal and otherworldly substance, is just a cloud hung low, something to walk through with dampened brow and cuffs.
Fog makes me think of death. Snow is more complex, a sort of magical addition to Life’s proceedings, the world decorated — icing on the cake. Walking with my dog, my boots made that satisfying crunching sound in the otherwise silent day. There was a stillness in the air, like a bell just rung and then all done. A crow’s caw was jarring.
Last night, the full Moon got into the act, and naked tree branches formed intricate moon shadows on the white-topped shed next door: Nature’s art. Today, the snow still lies on the ground in dazzling sunshine, almost too much for my eyes. I see diamond crystals where it has not been disturbed.
From a stripped-down shrub, a lone song sparrow emits a somewhat plaintive but ultimately challenging song into the cold air. He knows that the days are getting incrementally longer, and the season of reproduction is just around the corner. Now, last year’s bird nests are full of snow, but new ones will soon enough be built. I take courage from that little bird, as I do from my dear old dog, who bravely puts one foot in front of the other because, she tells me, what is the alternative?
I move on to the beach, where the snow is no match for the water, and see my acquaintance-turned-friend Terry with her two dogs. How good it is to see her! If I am having trouble describing snow, how would I tackle the word “friend”?
Terry tells me about her recent experience of finding a dying gull. (There are so many dying birds on the beach these days.) She begins to describe it, and then the words continue to tumble out and I see that her eyes are moist, the beginning of tears. The words keep coming and now it is not just the dying gull but the entire country swirling out of control at an unbelievable pace. Our president is impeding the delivery of food to starving children, halting cancer research — among so many other crimes — and bragging that he is more popular than Taylor Swift. The hits keep on coming.
I am reminded of W.B. Yeats’s “The Second Coming” and these lines: “Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,/…The ceremony of innocence is drowned;/ The best lack all conviction, while the worst/ Are full of passionate intensity.”
I give Terry a wordless hug. These are not ordinary times. It is hard to bear the news. We must resist, if only we can find a way. But we must also continue on and find joy where we can — and with each other. After all, what is the alternative?
