Ode to the stillness of snow

I knew the snow fell before I saw it. I recognized the quiet in my upstairs bedroom - a remembrance of being under a roof muffled by that seasonal blanket. And I sigh, still snug in my bed. It's mid-November, and there's finally snow. All is right with the world.

It's a presentiment borne of prairie life, this expectation of snow. A sense evolved from a world where Halloween costumes are altered to accommodate snowsuits, where snow days are only called in the movies (the closest I've ever come is being banned from the playground at 40 below), and the term "White Christmas" seems rather redundant. Much as I've loved these weeks of unseasonable weather, this gift of warm sunshine, my enjoyment has been underlined with the feeling of existing on borrowed time. The leaves have fallen. There ought to be snow. And now there is.

Snow.

Snow that illuminates, a bright blessing in ever dimming days and lengthening darkness. Snow that insulates, muting the roar of traffic, stilling motorcycles and lawn-mowers alike, turning houses into silent, cozy cocoons. Snow that cleanses, clearing the air, covering dead vegetation in a blanket of white, like a baptismal pall on a Catholic casket, to await the resurrection of spring.

Snow.

Snow and I will not always be on such good terms. I must confess I enjoy the overture of any season over any of its other movements, and winter is tryingly long. Come March, winter and I will have words about overstaying one's welcome. Words that will, naturally, be ignored, for the only power I hold over the weather is how I perceive it. It's a power I will most likely forget as I face the challenges of windchill and winter driving, of looking for ways to do less because everything simply takes more time. But here in my office, cup of steaming tea in hand and this morning's walks in sparkling snow still fresh in my memory, I'm ready for winter. Let it snow.