The rain forest tour guide had yet to travel outside the region of Central American. I knew this because, after he’d described the intensity and impact of the rains, I asked him if he’d ever seen snow. He smiled. “Only in pictures”, he replied. Then he surprised me, “Can you describe it for me, like I just tried to describe the rains and rainy season for you?”
I looked over to my wife and asked her with a gesture if she would like to do the describing and she bounced it back to me with a nod and a smile. I am always amazed and grateful for these moments, even though they occur with frequency. They are the evidence of an ease and love between us that warms my heart and gives me courage.
As our guide had been providing us with a rather idyllic version of the rains and the forest, I opted to give him a similarly edited description of the first snow of the season. I tell him:
Before the flakes start to fall, there’s a heaviness and a distinct chill in the air that people sense. “Feels like snow”, we all tell each other. And, soon enough, it usually does. Fat feathery flakes drifting down, gently transforming every surface into something smooth, white and new. In spite of all the flakes, there’s a pervasive stillness. If you listen closely, there’s the feintest tingling of ice crystals that will tease your ears into hearing them. There seems to be a collective pause in all other forms of outside activity. It sometimes feels like an innocence is being restored.
The guide and I looked each other in the eye. He smiled. I followed suit. “I will have to see that sometime for myself”, he said. I told him that I was sure that he would.
My working and interacting with others often involves my attempting to put the indescribable into words. I am acutely aware of the limits I continually bump into. Sometimes I manage to be helpful, and that is enough in any moment to try anew, but I want you to know, dear reader, that the first snow waits for you too.
To pause.
To listen.
To smile.
And be made new.
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