It has been snowing since yesterday morning. The news inflates and catastrophizes the forecast, “Biggest snowfall in 35 years on its way! Fourteen inches!” Not even close. This is Michigan. It’s winter. A six-inch snowfall shouldn’t be astounding or frightening. Snow is what should be happening.
This girl’s been outta the South for more years than she wants to count. But snow will always be magical. I love how it hushes the world. How the sky is so white, and full of what’s to come. I don’t know if there’s a weather-word for a sky full of snow, but pregnant comes to mind. Even last night, as we got into bed, the sky was pale with snow to come.
We’ve shoveled and have taken out the snowblower. Our sweet young neighbor bought a huge snowblower last year and blew our driveway clear last night and this evening as well. Martin and I have just come in from another quick sweep and shovel. It’s light snow now. Not laden with the ice and weight of this morning’s fall.
When the snow chore was done I laid down and made an angel. The sky, having snowed herself out, was darker than last evening’s. The tree limbs spread in a tangle above me. Two leaves, brown and crisp yet still hanging on, rustled as the winds passed through. It was such a glorious moment — exhilarating, cold, and cozy all at the same time. Sixty-five years on the planet and I’m grateful I can still get down and up to make a snow angel. I’m even more grateful that such a simple thing can still bring me such joy.