Fresh Canvas – Embers from the Fire
December 2, 2021
Fresh Canvas – 12/3/2021
I will confess right at the beginning of this essay that I like snow. To be more specific, I like falling snow. I like to watch it. For me it is like a crackling wood fire in its ability to lure me into contemplation.
When I was young the desk in my bedroom where I did all of my schoolwork was positioned by the window. I could see the corner street light. If it was snowing in the evening, whenever I needed a relaxing break from the books, I would look out the window and watch the snow slanting past the streetlight. Nowadays we live at the edge of the country and I really have nice views in any direction. I still like to watch the snow fall.
The only thing better than watching a snowfall, is to be out in a snowfall. I am especially partial to those calm days when the huge snowflakes sift down silently – the kind where if you stand still for more than a minute or two you have to brush the snow off your jacket and hat. But there is something that tests your sinew to be out in one of those hard-driven snows that sting your cheeks. Whether snow globe-like or stormy, either experience adds to the comfort of “coming-in” to dry socks heavy sweaters.
The two best things about snowfall are the freshness and the creativity. There are few sights as bleak as the browns of a November landscape to my heart. The ripeness of autumn is long past; even the heady scents and smells of new-fallen October leaves have faded and the brittle, brown and curled leaves are without fragrance. A December snowfall is like a fresh canvas. Best are those all-night snowfalls that the dawn discovers deep and trackless. Be assured that nothing that passes this way in the coming weeks will go unnoticed – each story will be written for those who wish to read.
Each snowflake seems eager to catch a sunray from the dawn and is set to sparkle. Snowdrifts at the field’s edge are like a painting of the ocean shore – each “wave” frozen in place, seemingly frozen in time. Spruce trees, boughs laden appear as an angel assembly, singing to the beauty in the white, pure newness of redemption – a glimpse of the new heavens and the new earth to come.
My cross country and downhill skis are waxed and ready. The sleds are stacked up for the grandchildren. My hope is for a snowy winter. Whether you join in my hope or consider me foolish – I understand.