New Snow

Spur of the moment New Year's excursion to Vermont with no computer, so missed two days. Sleigh ride behind a big black horse named Oatie, Lily's first ski class, sledding for all four girls--Lily, Annika and two friends, the children of old friends of mine--fondue by the fire, and lots and lots of snow.

But I wrote a lot in my head, which was something, I think. On the drive up, which took forever, it was snowing heavily in Massachusetts and New Hampshire. The driving was slow, and out the windows in every direction all was white. It was beautiful, even from the highway, and reminded me of childhood winters and of how much I love the snow, love when it is falling in particular.

One of the reasons I love when it snows is that in a world in which we control so much, feel the desire to control so much, we cannot control the snow. It comes when it wants, as much or as little as it wants, and we are rendered servants to its master. The snow falls thickly, and our cars seem silly. Our ability to get where we want to on our own terms is erased by a blanket of white. We bundle up in our expensive "snow-proof" gear, and our feet get wet, our hands get cold. The snow is indomitable, firm, unmoved.

In a year that has so often made me feel overwhelmed and overburdened, cluttered and all mucked up, this snow--on New Year's Eve, the night before the fresh new year--felt clean and clear, clean as in the proverbial clean slate, clear in its flat, unaltered whiteness. It felt like the end of something and the beginning of something. And as we drove through it, I watched, and thought, and hoped.