Blog - Nature & Reflection

The Silence of Snow

Laughter of sunlight can't make snow jealous. Melody of rain can't intimidate snow. The wind can't just carry snow on a long journey. Snow is in no hurry to arrive and already knows where it's heading before falling down.

Snow bundles up in joyous igloos and decorates gingerbread houses with crystal like candies. Not in a form of a wish or prayer like many people in other parts of the world would have done when they are in need of sun or rain for a good crop, snow is not expected to play the role of a provider. We know it well, and yet we still look forward to seeing snow. I too miss snow.

Snow covers remains of year-round seasons under a blanket of healing whiteness. Snow finds refuge in thin tree trunks, walkway's cobble stones and lonely streetlights. A winter's fairytale could fade away as soon as I am awake. Like a child that wants to stay up late to see Father Christmas, I am are determined to wait for snow every year regardless how late it may arrive. Snow has no intention to create a miracle, but no doubt a childlike belief keeps looking for a story of Snow White, who would step out of magic snow at any moment. This is a chance to wish, reclaim the ability to wake up in the morning with a magic wand that works wonder. Spell out the intention of manufacturing something incredible and greet the joy of striving for a dream.

Snow is always held dear in my heart in the name of a happy messenger. I intuitively burst out a sound of recognition when myriads of magnificent snowflakes shower down on me. I wish snow didn't melt as it is something I want to keep. In silent communication I hear snow flitting in waves, blowing memoirs of old seasons away. When snow throws itself down, it is like an ocean wave that finally reaches the shore, a secret letter in the bottle that is in the end read, and a word that eventually has wings. Snow's departure leaves behind inexplicable stillness and the air is masked with a layer of starry softness.

Reflections of hope take turns to speak on the arrival of snow. Snow comes with a special feeling of reunion while the small town sings a song of hope and beautiful memories surge back through time. When sound ceases to be heard and silence hides, snow makes their presence known. Snow quietly lies on the ground and my eyes are lost in the white beauty, withdrawn in a solid sense of determination. There are all sorts of silence: one that provokes anger, one that abides with agreement, one that creates confusion, one that avoids argument, and a lot more shades of silence. The silence of snow is a spark of delight that one finds in a resting piano, the infinity of a secluded ocean, and the sweet loneliness of a rose petal in a tea cup. Emotion skids on the highs and lows of snow peaks, and the boundless space of somewhat "frightening" white snow is so overwhelming that intense clarity surpasses consciousness and a state of speechless pleasure rests in the contemplation of serenity. The feeling of a "warm cold" comes with waves of strange easiness when smooth conquering of swirling puffy cotton-like snowflakes takes the mind to a place of unconditional surrender. An excuse of being completely at ease rests in contentment while the eyes constantly stick to the extremely repetitive falling of snow. The mind is stopped; the heart is cleansed. This sheer occupation of following such grandeur brings all but ultimate relaxation. A destination of total selflessness is arrived by each snowflake's dropping on the ground. Nothing is lost, only gets lighter. All exists in a dreamland far and far away, lively, fun, yet cozy and meditative.

Vision is only limited by imagination of what and how snow would become. Is snow an extraordinary gift? A break-through? Perhaps what falls down might be perceived as a mere symbol of deceiving pleasure. I don't know. This kind of magic I have stopped trying to make sense of for a long time already. A year has finished with all that comes with it. I kept on watching little snowflakes falling endlessly. There is no major difference among them. Snowflakes could barely compare and I am gradually forgetting a long wish-list I have prepared. Snow is all around me; miracle or not I can't tell anymore.

Snow rides the air of white light, flaps on the doors as the wind blows, and sparkles the eyes in sunlight. A song is too short to carry its length; a poem is too little to take on its wings, and a story might just fail to transmit the intensity of snow. The season of wishes has returned. No matter what will happen, I am still wishing and hoping. Wishing is what I make of it every single day.