The Gift of Snow

As of this writing we have 14 lovely inches on our deck. Pristine. Frosty. White.

Snowfall recorded in inches is such an anomaly in Seattle that the initial sparks of excitement and awe are contagious.

Everyone is outside sledding and building snowmen. Cheerful. Red cheeked. Neighborly.

But within a few days, trapped in our homes without access to Uber Eats or Amazon deliveries we are reticent to be thankful for the piles of snow blocking our driveways. A mild irritation ensues. Cranky and disagreeable attitudes appear.

Raising my eyes above the mist of my grumbling I catch sight of a gift I’ve overlooked. It’s well beyond the white puffy view. Almost out of sight unless I squint. Searching the horizon line I discover that in fact I’m looking at my feet. The gift warrants no fanfare for it is here before me. The rare gift of Slow.

As much as I desire to embrace this slowness the reality of actually accepting it is not so simple.

A snow day is fun but beyond that I get antsy. Thrown off the routine of daily living I act bewildered rather than grateful.

Sadly it’s like I’m coming down off sugar.

Craving the rush of hectic.

Eager to find urgent.

Hurry up, please.

I can cuddle with slow all I want theoretically but when it comes to living it out. Well, that is a gift I’m not sure I can manage.

Clearly, the snow is a reminder meant specifically for me.

Slow down. Linger. Tarry.

Rather than catapult to the next thing I knead the dough gently for scones. I traipse through silent snowfall. I read another chapter.

Life is lived most importantly in these moments. Dwelling in the present. Relishing the margin.

Temperatures are rising. Rain is in the forecast. All that is white will soon be muddy brown.

Snow was just a visitor.

A picturesque reminder to be still. An admonition to slow. A compelling reason to pause.

The reminder to make space for what matters most.

The challenge is to treasure the gift when it is offered.