I love snow.
It’s all soft edges, but crisp and biting. Snow is moody. I don’t mind the cold. It reminds me of being a little girl. Fresh on a mountain or plowed to the side of the road. There’s magic in snow, maybe I love the magic.
I live in the desert. If I want to ski or be in the snow, I have to drive to it. Snow is not just right out my window, I can’t sit on my patio and watch it fall, or catch it with my tongue. Sometimes I wish I could, but I wonder…
Would I appreciate it as much if it were right there?
Does the magic rest in the longing, or some image I have in my mind? Do I have great memories of snow because when I’m in it, it’s not running parallel to my day to day life? Could be.
If I lived with snow all of the time, would it lose it’s glitter? I don’t think it would, but I will tell myself that it would. Believing it wouldn’t be the same, convincing myself that living in snow would ruin it, will help ease the draw until I’m able to feel the brush of powder off the trees and the chill on my nose.
After all, if I lived in snow I would be writing about my longing for a glorious desert sunset. That’s just how life works.
My thoughts from the laundry room. Snowed In.