It was the first big snow of the season Thursday night, and we woke up to an entirely different landscape Friday morning than the day before. My entire plans for the day changed in an instant; as a freelancer, I had the luxury of moving around the hours of my day like Tetris blocks and hopped on the C train to Central Park. I walked around for hours. There were people skiing over makeshift slopes, dogs blissfully rolling around in the fresh snow, children sledding. I teared up a few times; I am very tender these days. Talking about the weather is not small talk anymore, if it ever was.
At least for me, someone who grew up in Southern California and always had to travel to get to snow, seeing it is an event; it’s transformative, it emphasizes. The curves and lines of trees and buildings I see every day suddenly become less mundane, beautiful enough that I walk almost half my usual speed (not just because of ice — I’m more impatient than I am smart). I often find myself slowing down internally, as well; there’s more clarity around the soft curves and hard edges of whatever I’m currently working through. The stark white blanket provides a contrast, a reflective surface whether we want it or not. That is, at least until it becomes what can only be called “garbage snow,” which happens more quickly here than is ideal.
There's a lot of my life I don't remember. Or, said differently, for as long as I can remember I’ve been forgetting. I've gotten dissociation down to an art form, created trick after trick to get myself through the worst moments of my life only to soon reach a new milestone-worst. Told at a formative age that I was inherently “bad” and that anything traumatic that happened to me was my own fault, I learned to sit in chaos rather than look for an escape route and to accept my feelings of discomfort as punishment rather than seek solutions. As I’ve grown, I’ve realized this is not the way to live, but it’s been a process reconciling the shame and internalized view I have of myself with the way I deserve to live.
I think it’s partially because of this that, in destabilizing moments, I look around wildly to see myself reflected in something else. A song that describes how I’m feeling, a book with characters I can fractionate and project various parts of myself onto, a television show that depicts anything close to what I feel playing out in my life — even though these reflections don’t always mean “this is a healthy way of behaving,” they do tell me the one thing I need to hear most in these moments: You are not alone. Someone else has felt this before and lived to tell the tale. By feeling seen, I have room to breathe a bit more easily. But I still need to find a way to make it through to the other side, a big reason for my need to talk through my feelings extensively with those I trust (or maybe that’s because of my Leo moon, depending on your framework). It’s a need in direct opposition to my desire to be self-sufficient — a need that also exists so strongly that I tend toward withdrawal and isolation sometimes when I really, really shouldn’t — but many of my desires exist in conflict with one another. In moments of distress, I’ve often found myself asking my loved ones Is this really what happened? followed by the perhaps more telling Is this really how I’m feeling? and lastly Is it okay that I’m feeling this way?
As I’ve gotten older, I’ve gotten better at answering these questions for myself, but in the most destabilizing moments, I still find myself off-axis and looking to others for answers. I have learned, however, that analogies work for me; seeing my own patterns play out in nature, in particular, is helpful and soothing. While I have a lot of healing to do with my family, so many of my fondest memories are spending as much of my early years outdoors with them as possible, and returning to those times grounds me.
The morning after a storm, as the fresh weighted blanket of new snowfall covers the earth, everything feels calmer. The cold slows, stills, but nature’s routines continue. Ducks congregate on ponds, even as ice floes crisp up the edges. Birds trill about their mornings, their tiny feet making impressions on the white flakes as they flit about the ground. Our routines continue, too, albeit with new considerations. There’s a tension between the desire to slow down and the knowledge of what happens when we don’t act quickly during this time. Because as with many things, snow is not as simple as it seems. It’s an extreme, and extremes have consequences that must be weighed to truly enjoy without setting yourself up for danger.
The morning after a storm is crucial. While the snow is fresh, one must tend to the space in front of their own dwelling to shovel, salt, and clear a path. This is difficult to do when the clouds are fluffy against the bright blue and you need a moment to wonder how the birds are still singing without freezing their little lungs and everyone is walking around in a happy daze. People who normally don’t smile at other people suddenly make eye contact without thinking; even in this new world under masks and scarves and in below-freezing temperatures there is a sense of warmth.
Not everyone even has a sidewalk to tend to, nor the equipment or ability to do the work, so it feels extra unfair to spend a morning like this. But unless you do, in the coming days — hell, hours — a certain dangerous alchemy happens, and the layers of snow underneath become impacted and icy, treacherous to walk on. Soon, they’ll be much more difficult to break up, especially in the event that there are more storms on the way. This is not the foundation you want to build. It is slippery, deceptive. And though it’s the path in front of your house, you’re not the only one who uses it.
I don’t have an actual sidewalk to shovel. But I’ve learned over the years that tending to my own needs after a storm is crucial, even if the work is hard, even if it leaves my fingers numb; not just for myself, but for those I’m in community with. But again, it’s still not that simple.
I know that there are things that cannot be shoveled away first thing in the morning or dissolved with salt to make a clear path. Believe me; I’ve learned the vast majority of my lessons the hard way. Sometimes, things freeze over before you can get to them, and the only solution is to chip away over time to find the way forward. Even then, sometimes, it’s too difficult.
Time is the only true healer, and with the passing of seasons always comes both softness and clarity, the slow reveal of what’s underneath. Over time, there’s a natural excavation of things we’ve forgotten, for better or worse, to see in a new light and from a new vantage point.
Tremendous. I feel the same way about song lyrics, etc.; it's easier in some ways to see a reflection. Love this.