There's a gift in all those flakes

The snow is falling thick and heavy, straight down, with no wind to pile it haphazardly in corners and walkways. Tree limbs are lined with it, and the car sits huddled as if in hibernation. It’s Christmas card snow, or the Christmas Eve snow that appears right on cue in holiday movies.

It doesn’t matter that it’s only two days before the first day of spring, I love it.

I suppose the birds don’t love it too much. Some of them are new arrivals, wondering where the bird feeders have gone and why the seed-strewn ground has disappeared. Squirrels are wearing mufflers and caps of white, and will soon vanish from site if they don’t keep moving.

I could have been one of the hundreds of people out there, shaking their fists at winter and shouting, “Enough!” Another day, another kind of schedule, I might have joined them, but not today. Last Friday I turned in an article to the newspaper. This morning, Monday, I emailed the special assignment that came in over the weekend. I don’t go to my part-time job until Wednesday. I have no meetings or appointments lined up, no interviews to do, no deadlines to meet, no obligations.

What I have is one of those rare days when I can sit back and enjoy what might have been an inconvenience or an irritant. I can revel in this snow day. I could walk the dog after lunch, when the snow was just starting, and laugh at the way it had accumulated on my hood and jacket by the time I got home. I even threw my head back and caught snowflakes on my tongue.

I could come inside, brew a pot of coffee, and settle into my recliner to read my book or say my prayers. I could bring my laptop out here with me, watch the silent snowfall outside the windows, and write or answer emails.

The snow falls quietly in our quiet cul-de-sac, where through-traffic never ventures and residents are all at work or staying home for the day. All that snowy motion, and no noise. It’s quiet inside, too. The dog is sleeping–under her blankie. George is doing something with headphones on in the office. The radio and TV are off. Peace descends.

There’s quiet inside my head, too. Oh, the words are there, words on the pages of my book or in my prayers, or words falling one letter at a time onto the computer screen. But they, too, are silent, and as unhurried as the drifting flakes outside.

The weatherman says this will turn into ice pellets and rain tonight. Not so scenic, and definitely not much fun. But that’s then. In this little bubble of time there’s beauty and quiet and delight. It’s this present moment’s gift, and I gratefully accept.

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