Borë Néj Snijeg Lumi Neige Schnee Theluji Snö Zåpadå
Part (I)
Upon recent thumbing through my beloved book, I was delighted to read through this year's first experience of snow for me and as I read, something hit me quite impetuously. It was a voice as firm as concrete conviction. Do you know what it whispered? It whispered this: "You, my dear, love snow." And it's true. But I don't just love snow. I revel in it. If I could roll around in powdery precipitation draped in nothing but delicate clothing to bask in the musky breath of snow, if I could but leave my bedroom window ajar every morning to let the sweet scent of snow drift in, I would. Yes, indeed I said "the scent of snow" as snow--despite most misconstrued beliefs--has a smell. It is a wondrous smell to behold, filled with chilled nostalgia and powdered excitement; it is musky and heavy with ideas. Sweet snow is something that once inhaled completely strikes your senses so fiercely it seems to coil its frigid fingers around your soft core until it too becomes frigid and freezes over beautifully, making you its work of art and not the other way around.
And then there is its delicate and intricate appearance. Truly there is nothing in the world to compare to the craftsmanship of winter crystals, like sophisticated diadems carved from the Angels above us. I can see them now in pearly gowns tucked behind their exquisite wings, bending through the clouds gathering lumps of ice between the folds of their skirts and carrying them to their prestigious tables where they gently scrape and sculpt every shape imaginable for a flake of snow. Then the moment their artistic creation is complete, they release their sculptures into the wind and watch them drift into the unconscientious-ness of our dreary, crumbled dreams the misconception of heaven has slid behind our eyelids.
See what I mean?
Snow does things to people, it makes them gentler and think more beautifully. It has a gravity of its own and once you're compelled into it, you never want to leave its mystique atmosphere.
Ah, snow, how I love you dearly.
(k.b.)
December 3, 2014
Wednesday
4:59PM
"My socks are soaked.
It all started when I was up in my room finishing an episode of my new fetish, Gilmore Girls, when suddenly, I stopped with the sudden impulse to open my screen-less window. Climbing upon my desk )(a usual habit of mine) I was caught dead in my tracks by Drew--who decided to join me in my impulsive deed. I nudged my friendly window open only to be surprised by delicate, yet colossal flurries of this year's first snow fall! Together we reminisced in the splendor of its quiet beauty. Drew duly noted on its silence, while I delighted in its smell. I spoke quietly to revel in its sacred beauty. There is a solidity in the stillness of a snow fall, particularly the first. It deserves reverence and so I spoke in hushed awe and contemplated [quietly] if dipping my bare toes in its first blanker was too much. Soon Adam came, but I confess it was difficult to devour its arrival (the snow) with both of my slightly distracted brothers in my room. But try, I must. Shoveling everything off my desk and onto my bed, and also sliding my italian shells carefully to the side, I comforted myself right beside the open window and the illusion [of] warmness [from] my lamp. Ah, to inhale the smell of snow is to feel alive! My eyes searched its calm, scintillated dancing, while my body fought the urge to join it. I'd been waiting for this night; my mind ached for it almost as much as my senses. If I leaned one way I could simply fall into the noisy warmness of my lamp-lit room...but if I but [flickered] another way I would plummet into the soft pillow of renewal that reeked of memories and things, great things, yet to come. Tempted as I was, my [knobby] fingers were the only pieces of me that made the treacherous trip. After settling the fact my brothers wouldn't be leaving, I begrudgingly shut my window and made for my safe seclusion with nothing but essentials:
My Pen.
My Blanket.
And this book.
I contemplated for a moment as whether or not to turn the porch light on as it might better illuminate my snow storm, but concluded my pink flashlight would suffice. And there I sat completely wrapped up in myself and my quaint snow storm. I felt content until something hit me--or someone. I refer to my heart as 'someone' because it makes it easier to hate and easier to talk (or yell) to. There it was sitting cross-legged just like me, its arms wrapped within its folded body and then it leaned to me, tucked my hair behind my ear and (because it knows I love that) and whispered inside me, "Why are you crying? Don't you know the snow is for you?" Only two heavy tears escaped me. But I didn't care. All I seemed to care about was this: Why? Why-oh-why can't I be in love? Just for once, why can't it be me? I told the sky just that. I wanted to shout it just to erupt the silent, yet noisy, snowfall.
But I didn't.
Couldn't.
"Please." was the last thing that left me before I heard a noise to the left of me. Was it Drew on "my" roof? Was it somehow the love I'd been ludicrously asking for? Well, whatever it was I never found it. I got my socks soaked trying to find it. My favorite white and blue, polka-dotted socks. I flicked my flashlight against the sky and falling snow as if to find it there, but nothing. Melted snow squished between my toes as I trudged back into the house, the musk of snow clinging to me and the cold trail of tears still slapping my senses. I didn't even make it far. I fumbled into here, the dark living room, crumbled between the couch and folded into the pages of this book feeling no less empty or heavy as before, only elated by the first fallen snow and saddened that I have no one to share it with (but you)."
(k.b.)
From the excerpts of my book
November 22, 2014
Sat. 12:40AM
Part (III)
It hasn't snowed in weeks. Being in Utah, that is not okay. People are beginning to think that it isn't Christmas without any snow and I for one happen to almost agree with them. Almost. (obviously, it means more to me than a bit of precipitation). We went to the barn today (boy, don't I sound like a little country gal) to continue decorating for the wedding that is now under a week away. It was a while before I saw it--something was coming, though I didn't know it until my eyes did. Around 2:00-3:00pm today, it at long last snowed. I don't just mean light little flurries--no--it full on, big flakes the size of Jupiter, snowed today! I remember my family didn't see it as first, but it almost called me by name. I was pulled to the open barn doors, beckoned by its graceful burial service. Yes, that is what it does. It buries the earth in white. At first I ran to it, delighting myself beneath its alluring beauty. Chips of snow cluttered my eyes and clung to my hair like drips of honey. It was a pretty image, seeing my cascading curls bejeweled in stones of snow. I enjoyed the sensation of it tingling my skin into a shiver that in no way bothered me at all. Then my tongue begged for the same commotion. I retreated back to the large oak doors and stood there, captured by the infinitive downpour so much bigger than I ever could be. I rested my head against solid support, but felt the enormity of every flake falling in a different pattern, a different pace, it's own dance from the sky to the ground, as if it were all around me. A little black bird flickered above me, I couldn't help but admire its dauntlessness. It is strange how much stands still in a snow fall. The only ones that move are the ones that either compliment its dancing or betray it. I wasn't sure were I stood on that precipice, but I gladly twirled beneath its beauty in graceful adoration. Truly there is nothing to compare to the bliss and solidity of serendipitous snowfall twirling.
(k.b)
December 13, 2014
Est. 4:33PM
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| Forget about the Umbrella |
