In Praise of Snow
Standing at the edge of this vast expanse of untouched white terrain, the horizon seems to merge seamlessly with the sky. Within minutes of arriving, snow begins to fall and turns into a blizzard, washing away everything around with gossamer like veils of swirly whites. As I keep looking, the world appears to be fading, little by little, like an image being washed out, or a dream slowly dispersing in the coming dawn.
Just as quickly as it started, the sound of the blizzard starts to ease a little. In the still moment that follows, I look up towards the sky to see a gentle shower of snowflakes drifting down, each one unique and intricately designed, swirling and shimmering as they catch the light from the nearby dwelling. A tiny snowflake lands on my hand and I gaze at it, marvelling at the intricate carving of its symmetries. As I turn it this way and that, the snowflake catches the light and glimmers with a flash of brilliant colour.
Outside on the grounds, the snow reflects the faint glow of the moon and stars, adding a soft illumination to the otherwise dark surroundings. In the early morning hours, there is an overwhelming sense of tranquillity as the snow muffled sounds, creating a hushed, serene environment. The quietness can be almost surreal, broken only by the occasional crunch of footsteps in the snow or the distant call of Arctic wildlife.
The empty silence, so complete, it feels solid like a wall. A few moments pass in stillness, with only the wind wheezing against the glacial landscape. I scan the horizon, but all I see is ice and spires and white upon white. There’s a crashing in the distance – maybe the sound of faraway icebergs creaking? Under the frozen ground near my foot, a thin rivulet seems to have appeared, interrupting the white with tiny fractures of running water.
As I look upon this frozen plain I am convinced that it's my favourite place, a special place. I love such spots, especially the ones from longer ago – they say so much about those who remember them. Every place has its rules – an intimate silence where time softens, and all that’s left is wonder – and there is a space of in-between, which is like a dream world. It is a world dreaming of you, and you are dreaming of it.
