The world is made new in a snowfall. White sky, white earth. Even the light looks different. Fresher. Brighter.
We know the snow is coming. The delight. The percentage of chance increases slowly on the radar until we are certain. The anticipation.
We pick up extra goods at local markets. I buy sorghum so I can make gluten-free bread flour and whisper thanks that I have already begun defrosting a hen for tomorrow night.
The first flakes fall around 4:30 pm. I am by the window and I see it. It falls fast and thick in great swirls, later replaced by flurries lighter, longer-lasting.
We sleep in. We eat a quiet breakfast. We bundle up in coats, boots and mismatched gloves.
The pine trees shine heavily with their jewels. Every leaf and twig is blessed. The wiper blades of our cars, poking out at odd angles to avoid frost, bear their own baptism.
It is our puppy’s first real snow. He races around the yard, leaping and eating the ground. He reminds me of my own childhood wonder.
The world is made new in a snowfall. It is the same as it has always been, and yet it is not the same.
My father used to shovel the walk. Now my husband takes his place, adding in the elderly neighbor’s. I used to build snowmen with my brothers Kevin and Jonathan. Now I build a snowman with David before Thor chews it into oblivion. I used to drink hot cocoa by the fire. Now I know that sugar triggers my symptoms, so I drink herbal coffee. Youtube gets me as close as I can get to a crackling fireplace.
It is the same, and yet not the same. I am a married woman. I know that I have bi-polar and I know more about how to manage it than ever before. I know about the negatives of gluten, sugar and caffeine, the benefits of chiropractors, vitamins and probiotics. I slow down more. I listen more. I feel more.
And someday, like the world in a snowfall, I will be made new.
