Why is it that everything looks more beautiful in the snow?  


This photograph was taken where I live, on a golf course that my apartment sits at the edge of.  Normally, it’s just a golf course, a place that I’m not allowed to go unless I’m putting, or whatever the technical golf term is.  Normally it’s just grass and a hill and some trees that attempt, but don’t quite succeed, to dampen the sound of the road at the other side.

But this weekend it snowed and, as if by magic, it became beautiful.

I’ve always loved snow.  I mean, really, who doesn’t?  Making snow angels, snowball fights, building snowmen and just generally having a great time in the white stuff – what’s not to like?!  As I got older, I found I loved even more about snow than just the usual fun it brings.  I found I loved the silence of it.  The world outside the window never seems as quiet and still as it does when there is fresh snow on the ground.  Everything stops, even if only for a day or two.

And even as an adult, I love snow days.

The snow fell on Friday night here, and on into Saturday morning.  We had heard forecasts of up to six inches.  Instead, we just got one or two, with lots of sleet and freezing rain thrown in the mix too.  It wasn’t quite the winter wonderland I was hoping for.  It wasn’t thigh deep – which I have been lucky enough to experience in England – and it wasn’t even ankle deep.  But it was enough to give me what I wanted: a pause.

I’ve had a busy time since I moved to the States last Summer.  My roommate and I have had our fair share of bad luck – shingles, head injuries, towed cars to name but a few.  It’s not been easy, and at times it has been downright painful.  I am not as happy, right now, as I was in England.  But that’s okay.  It’s an adventure, after all, and those are never easy.  So the snow this weekend has been a gift.  It has let me, or rather forced me, to do what I haven’t done much of since I arrived.

Thanks to the snow, I have rested.  I have spent a day being lazy, watching old movies and reading a book while I sip hot chocolate.  Thanks to the snow, I have spent real time in the kitchen: I have made soup and chilli and fresh things that I haven’t had time for lately; I have eaten well.  Thanks to the snow, I have laughed, and I mean really laughed.  I have spent a night laughing with my roommate and then laughing again at snow-covered golf courses with possible hidden ponds, at snow angels and poorly constructed snowmen in miniature form.  Thanks to the snow, I have paused; I have spent time with me.

And thanks to the snow, I have dusted off my old writing pen and actually written something again, without having to feel guilty about spending time on something other than school work.  Thank goodness for the snow, and for the time it has given me to remember that, even in a place that isn’t home, I can find home in the words on a page.

Maybe that’s why everything always seems more beautiful in the snow: because, even if only for a day or two, the world is still.


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