It was probably no more than a few inches, really; but last weekend it felt like whole earth was blanketed in a perfect snowfall. It was the kind of snow that comes quietly and persistently, that hushes everything save for the crunch beneath your feet and that wonderful squeal coming from the little girl really tasting flakes caught on her tongue for the very first time.
And last Saturday I sat cross-legged in my green chair, and I would glance out the window from time-to-time, perpetuating the rather romantic affair I have with snow. I love its grace, its purity, its unpredictability, and how it has a way of forcing you to stop and notice. I wish I was more like snow that way. I passed a few hours at that post, pondering this or pondering nothing at all; reading a book and resting my eyes; listening to music and enjoying the quiet in our home; and then I found that place again. That spot where life is blissful because you've just breathed in a truly present moment.
Many times have I wished I had within me the power to freeze time. Maybe not to permanently halt its passage, but to gain myself more space to enjoy a part of life. I think I could have remained in last weekend nearly forever. Because my kids are like a snowfall right now: They are spotless and pure, graceful and giggly, exciting and unpredictable, and I simply cannot take my eyes off of them.
I had a thought the other day that this stage we are in is the actual essence of childhood. I see the places where reality and imagination touch as though they are one. I catch the moments of discovery in the littlest and biggest things. When we set out to the grocery store and to fetch a wire dish rack, we are adventuring as though off to climb a mountain in the wilderness and see the wonders of the world.
It's probably not the childhood they will remember. They're still too small. And so somehow these unbelievably precious moments seem secret and mine. They are hushed but they are perfect.