Holy shit, snow is white.
Snow is white.
This is where my more logical friends, who call my Pollyanna, will say that I’m going a little crazy.
Why didn’t the coast guard save the hippie?
He was too far out, maan.
Come, take a swim with me.
Trees are rooted. They dance, they bleed, some of their wounds never heal, rings of age define their growth. They are life, and life happens around them, and through and on them, too.
Snow falls on them, like it falls on the wild brown grass and the stocky sagebrush. Like it falls on the road, and the person walking on the side of the street, and the car driving through time.
It is white.
I hate winter. I started hating winter my freshman year of college in Vermont. When my first boyfriend dumped me for another girl, and I was trying to fit in, and it was -20 every day for a month, and the cold air seeped through my dorm room windows every day, and I couldn’t find belonging no matter where I reached – not at the kegger parties, nor singing to Disturbed with my roommate, nor the snowshoeing excursions, nor the classrooms where everyone had a hand up – not in any places where I thought I belonged.
White is my favorite color.
I stood on a bridge arching over a river a few weeks ago. There was ice, and snow, and a searingly cold breeze. I felt my skin prickle and – look at that – I felt. It wasn’t cold or unbearable or painful or thought. It was, just, … felt.
I love white because it is empty and full. It is a duality. It contains everything and nothing.
It is any possibility; it is no different than this moment; it is reality.
Every (this) moment is different.
Every (this) moment is beautiful.
Every (this) moment is infinite.
Look at that: Today, I love winter.
snow is white.
Snow is white.