It’s like walking on snow without leaving a trace
&all that you’ve said never carried no weight
I came out untouched and in another place.
The snow piles up in lovely fluff, each snowflake looking more like cotton balls than individual ice crystals. I love the way sun shines and skies become the clearest of blue the day following a snowfall. It’s as though the world has become brand new and shiny again.
Today, let’s talk about weather and musings. Cold weather is the best weather for Art. It was something a friend of mine decided a long time ago. When the skies are dark and threatening, they beckon an artistic fury that goes beyond passion and beyond words. Beyond the strokes of cerulean on white canvasses. Beyond the mock copy of a smile upon glossy paper of a picture framed. Where does Art come from?
The first time I watched Never Let Me Go, I cried. Not because the story was so touching or moving, but because if you paused the frames, each still is so poetic in its own right. The line that struck a chord within me was “We wanted to see if you even had souls”. Sometimes, when I stare out of the windows and wonder at how picturesque Canada is, I wonder if the trees have souls too.
When it snows and the world is covered with a layer of pure white, it’s even harder to imagine that they don’t. These commonplace objects and things that we trample on, walk past without a second glance, places that have become so familiar… When it snows, it makes me think, how could they not have souls?
When the snow piles up, I am filled with a childish urge to run out and mark my footprints into them. I want to be the first to awaken the Earth. To make snow angels and kick the little fluffs up into the air not to damage its pure beauty, but rather, to be a part of it. To return to the basics of life. To become a child again because when the Earth is filled with such innocence, how can you not want to be a part of it too?
Snow has a funny way of triggering nostalgia in me. I remember long walks through winding trees. Walking across the frozen Reflection Pond in DC, stomping on it to see if the weight of me would be enough to crack the ice. I remember staring up at Abraham Lincoln and walking carefully down the snow-ridden steps. I remember rushing through windy New York streets, playing touch rugby in nothing more than a short-sleeved Polo T-shirt and shorts in Shanghai and I remember building a snowman in my school skirt and blazer. The freezing water having no effect on me other than to drag me deeper into the moment.
The cold then was welcomed. It held no relief, only added happiness. A bonus. A reward for a life spent in smiles, laughter and dreams. Back then, life was simpler, and seeing snow pile up on the ground, it reminds me of a time when the only expectations I had of myself were to be happy, do what made me happy and to live like there was no tomorrow. To live each day to the fullest.
When I look at snow, I’m filled with a sense of belonging and longing. A sense of wanting and of wanting to try because snow in it’s very essence, looks so pure and feels so pure. And… How could you not want to go out and frolic about when it’s sitting beyond your window, beckoning, beckoning?
Oh… To be a kid again. Even if for ten minutes. To throw snowballs at each other and build a fort. To make that perfect snow angel…
It takes great skill to make a snowball. Years of practice.
Today, I’m challenging you to go out and instigate a snowball fight. If there’s snow where you are, go out and a relive being a child again. Eat a snow-cone while you’re at it. Or ice cream. Bury a tub of Hagan Daaz in your backyard and scoop it out after your fight. It’ll be so worth it. And so invigorating. Go ice skating at the lake. Go crazy.
Be six again. For a little while. And look at snow as a gift.
Where the tree tops glisten and children listen to hear sleigh bells in the snow