I guess everybody’s talking about snow today. There certainly is a lot of it. Snow photo albums are popping up all over Facebook (even by my mom!), and I guess I’d make one too, if I had a camera. There’s a good two or three feet out there. It’s hard to tell whose car is whose in the parking lot.
Oh, and then there’s the giant snowman.
(By giant I mean seven or eight feet.)
Luckily it is not sitting in the driveway, which is where its bottom portion was located for a long time last night. People were also having snowball fights on the fire escapes of neighboring buildings. It’s just like when we were kids and snow was awesome.
Awesome like the giant snowball fight scheduled on the Cathedral lawn tomorrow afternoon. Heck yes!
Later today the boyfriend and I will probably brave the roads to an Olympic party. (The sensible thing would be to cancel it, but I highly doubt it will be canceled, and so we are going.) Until then I have all day to get things done. Snow should be good for writing, shouldn’t it? With a cup of tea or cocoa and a bowl of soup. This sounds good. Very good.
There is something incredible about snow. How it can be this big, powerful thing–I see these massive overhangs on the roof outside my window, and the trees are laden with snow, and the cars cannot drive for snow, and I thought we were going to lose electricity last night. But for all this power, it is quiet. The world is calmer, very still. You can shout and it soaks up your voice and returns it to silence. There is nothing sharp about it, but the clarity of the senses–hearing, feeling, seeing–so penetrating.
There is something wonder-full about that.