Sunday, January 09, 2005
waking up in the snow
This is the first time I’ve ever lived in a part of the world where they actually have winter. I spent most of my years in Southern California, where it certainly gets colder around this time of year but is nothing compared to this.
This morning I woke up sometime around 6:30 am. I hadn’t even made it to bed until 3, so I have no idea how it was that I had woken up.
I was thirsty after a night of drinking, but before I went for water I walked straight to my front door. And there it was, for the first time in my life: my world, covered in snow.
It was such a novel experience, all the wonder, excitement, curiosity and surprise I was feeling at once. When was the last time I had felt all that? Though I’d been obsessed with the weather reports for days, hoping that it might snow here in Seattle (and knowing that it likely would) it still came as such a surprise. I literally felt like a kid on Christmas, and the grogginess I awoke with vanished instantly. I threw on some sweats, grabbed my camera and went outside.
It was so quiet, and the sky was this very peculiar shade of orange, broken by gray clouds and darkness. The only sign of life was a single car in the distance, plowing across the Aurora Bridge. Knowing that their journey over Lake Union had to be a white-knuckler, my heart went out to the driver.
I took some pictures of the backyard then walked to the front of the house. Everything was covered in snow in such an unbelievably perfect way. It looked almost like the streets and trees and houses had somehow sprouted snow, every inch of frost a wonder of the kind that only nature can produce.
I walked down the front steps, careful to keep my footprints to the side of the walk, not wanting to disturb the pristine powder. But once I got into the street, there was no way to move without leaving tracks behind. I started walking, stopping to take pictures of untouched areas before I entered, then moving through.
A few times I would also turn to look at the tracks I’d left behind. And while I always felt the same sense of wonder and excitement looking forward, I experienced such a weird mix of feelings looking back. I finally stopped in the middle of the street, staring back at my path through the snow, trying to make sense out of a surge of emotions.
I’m usually really good at figuring things out. People, places, directions, destinations—I thrive on feeling like I know the story on all these sorts of things, whether through intuition or understanding. And when I draw a blank, or am just plain wrong, it really throws me for a loop. Especially when what I’m trying to figure out is myself.
Like a lot of issues I’ve had to wrap my head around lately, I’m still thinking about what I was feeling this morning, out there alone in the snow. This is as far as I’ve come in making a conclusion:
Every move makes an impact, no matter how seemingly small. You can’t undo what you’ve done. All you can do is remember how you got where you are, while moving on and looking forward to what lies ahead.
Perhaps it’s more complicated than that. But for where I’m at in my head, I think it’s a good place to start.
Conclusion #2: Maybe I should be writing Hallmark cards for a living.
This morning I woke up sometime around 6:30 am. I hadn’t even made it to bed until 3, so I have no idea how it was that I had woken up.
I was thirsty after a night of drinking, but before I went for water I walked straight to my front door. And there it was, for the first time in my life: my world, covered in snow.
It was such a novel experience, all the wonder, excitement, curiosity and surprise I was feeling at once. When was the last time I had felt all that? Though I’d been obsessed with the weather reports for days, hoping that it might snow here in Seattle (and knowing that it likely would) it still came as such a surprise. I literally felt like a kid on Christmas, and the grogginess I awoke with vanished instantly. I threw on some sweats, grabbed my camera and went outside.
It was so quiet, and the sky was this very peculiar shade of orange, broken by gray clouds and darkness. The only sign of life was a single car in the distance, plowing across the Aurora Bridge. Knowing that their journey over Lake Union had to be a white-knuckler, my heart went out to the driver.
I took some pictures of the backyard then walked to the front of the house. Everything was covered in snow in such an unbelievably perfect way. It looked almost like the streets and trees and houses had somehow sprouted snow, every inch of frost a wonder of the kind that only nature can produce.
I walked down the front steps, careful to keep my footprints to the side of the walk, not wanting to disturb the pristine powder. But once I got into the street, there was no way to move without leaving tracks behind. I started walking, stopping to take pictures of untouched areas before I entered, then moving through.
A few times I would also turn to look at the tracks I’d left behind. And while I always felt the same sense of wonder and excitement looking forward, I experienced such a weird mix of feelings looking back. I finally stopped in the middle of the street, staring back at my path through the snow, trying to make sense out of a surge of emotions.
I’m usually really good at figuring things out. People, places, directions, destinations—I thrive on feeling like I know the story on all these sorts of things, whether through intuition or understanding. And when I draw a blank, or am just plain wrong, it really throws me for a loop. Especially when what I’m trying to figure out is myself.
Like a lot of issues I’ve had to wrap my head around lately, I’m still thinking about what I was feeling this morning, out there alone in the snow. This is as far as I’ve come in making a conclusion:
Every move makes an impact, no matter how seemingly small. You can’t undo what you’ve done. All you can do is remember how you got where you are, while moving on and looking forward to what lies ahead.
Perhaps it’s more complicated than that. But for where I’m at in my head, I think it’s a good place to start.
Conclusion #2: Maybe I should be writing Hallmark cards for a living.
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