Be still.
Breathe in…
Breathe out.
Snow blankets the landscape here in southern Wisconsin with the advent of our first major storm of the season, and it is quiet. Deeply quiet.
It has been for days now.
Certainly, I’ve looked out the window and noticed passing cars, heard their rumbling and crunching during walks, and smelled their exhaust hanging heavy in the air. But they remain just beyond – tucked a layer away from the effortless peace of this newly established winter wonderland.
When the flakes fell on Saturday, I took myself out for a long walk, first bundled to near absurdity (or perhaps practicality, considering the wind and falling temperatures). As I marched my way through space and time towards the lakeshore, I loosened my hood enough for it to drop onto my shoulders, letting snow cake and create a thin ice mold atop my beanie (that would later melt into glorious puddles all over my mudroom floor).
What I’ve discovered over the years is that there’s a secret little key hidden in the process of putting on snow pants and walking around town amidst a blizzard. Maybe it’s the beauty of witnessing a multitude of completely unique snowflakes swirling around you or the pure joy of knowing that since you’re wearing snow pants, you’re pretty much impervious to the cold and can sit directly in the snow anytime you choose. Either way, it unlocks a level of childlike wonder that will set you free if you let it.
And perhaps it’s the novelty, but there’s something unifying that happens within a community during that first snow. A shared camaraderie as we regain our “snow legs,” so to speak, shoveling, driving like newbs, running about making snow angels and sneaking in the occasional snowball toss when the moment is right. It reminds us of the richness to be found in coziness and warmth, however simple. And for some of us, it reawakens a love for all of the ephemeral beauty to be found in an ever-changing climate.
For me, a walk in the first snow has become a long-standing (long walking) tradition. It began back in my middle school days, when I would wander about and dig out little cubby holes in the snow to sit in, in an attempt to see just how long I could bear being in the cold before I caved and ran inside for hot cocoa by our wood-burning stove. But the tradition really solidified in college when a dear friend and I made it an annual event to stroll with each other and observe the strange shapes the snow made as it drooped and draped over the branches of our little wooded haven of a neighborhood amidst the suburban sprawl. (He and I shared a love of skipping math class to paint while watching Bob Ross. We figured it was a solid practice, being in art school and all, and those first snow walks were used for inspiration… and some shenanigans.)
These days, they’re an exercise in existing out of time.
Watching as the pace of the world changes and the very essence of the environment shifts around you lands you quite firmly but gently in the ever-present now. So much so that time seems to warp and dance about you.
Occasionally, I’ll carry a camera with me to preserve time on these first snow rituals, but lately I find they’re much more the Ghost Cat sort of experience. And the cell phone makes do when winter foreseeably becomes postcard-worthy.
 (Eventually, I’ll hook these letters up with some high-quality photographs (said the snob), but for the first walk, we’ll just have to deal with what we’ve got.)
Beyond the excitement of frolicking through snow drifts, the quiet here truly has been palpable, and feels like a very welcome blessing. A respite… but perhaps more so, if we allow it to be, a portal.
There is a rush leading up to this season, but this year more than ever I’ve found myself noticing little slip holes. Moments in-between, as decorations are hung, when the last of the autumn leaves still dangle from tired branches, but holiday lights twinkle around pine boughs.Â
And when the world falls to a gentle hush around us, stillness becomes more effortless. It becomes a sigh, an exhale. A way of being that exists underneath the hustle and bustle, allowing us to create a different experience. One more grounded, more spacious, more tender, more true.
This week (if you’re here with me in the midwest), as the snow continues to fall, I invite you to turn your lights down low, open your curtains or blinds, and witness the way snow illuminates the night. Allow the moments to envelop you a bit more fully, and listen for what the quiet wisdom of winter might be whispering to you as she slows us down. Set down what you’ve been carrying. Allow the darker days to soothe your weariness with stolen naps near furry friends or curled up with loved ones. Journal by candlelight and pause before sipping your favorite warm beverage, infusing the common with a little extra gratitude while reflecting on the cold weather just outside your door.
And, keep an eye out for the perfect snowflake. It just might surprise you.
Warmly,
Jen
💜