Snow Storm

As I sit staring out my kitchen window, the world is blanketed in pure, glistening white. Seven inches fell two nights ago. Seven inches of snow near the 21st of March, one day after celebrating Spring Equinox. The beauty and stillness of snow is lauded: framed in poems, background to poignant classical melodies, a sign of foreshadowing in mystery novels. But there are two sides to every snow story.

Two snow days are called, meaning no school or school-based activities. Hence, two days of lost wages, but two days to fill with memories or feel nature's pain. When my daughter was young, and later a teenager, our yearly snow vacation brought joy...the chance to remain in the womb of home, the chance with a friend to build snow people and the Tower of Mordor with the roving eye. I loved snow then, but slowly, I have come to enjoy its glory less and less.

This storm brings destruction: up to a thousand trees lose their lives. The first afternoon, I carefully make my way through the semi-cleared, semi-slick streets. I discover it is best to walk in the middle of the street. Snow's advantage is keeping cars parked in driveways. My heart is wrenched as I view the neighborhood's flowering plum trees. The weight of the snow has broken branches, split trunks, felled whole trees. It is these blossoming creatures which herald the coming of spring's brightness and the thawing of winter's gloom. It is biting cold as I pull down my hat, put my gloved hands in my coat pockets and stamp the snow from my rain boots. But the trees keep whispering to me and I keep walking. Farther up the block these trees are safe. I sigh relief.

I named my daughter, Aspen, after a tree. It was not a “hippie” choice, but an unconscious, dare I say spiritual, nudge. I was minding my own business, meditating under a grove of Aspens, when a soft voice spoke: “And her name shall be Aspen.” This was fourteen years before I would give birth to my tall, slender and strong like a tree beauty. The world has continually been a marvelous mystery to me and my daughter's arrival and growing up has been the most incredible miracle of all.

Over eight thousand people in and around Eugene are without power (some for several days) due to this storm. The snow caused a huge limb from one of our giant backyard cedars to fall upon our electrical service line. This pulled our electrical pole down parallel to our deck, ripping the whole fascia and gutter off of the back of the house. But we are lucky. We never lose power except for a few hours while a new pole is being put in. And in a few weeks we will have new gutters. I bow in awe and gratitude to nature's powers. I cannot fully breathe unless I am outside to observe her surrounding gifts, but I know she is not continually giving. She also takes. I think of Katrina. I think of Haiti. I think of -- What we are experiencing here in Oregon is but a minor nuisance.

Snow unites us. Everywhere I go, all over the Internet, people are talking about the storm. Everyone has their story from the grocery clerk to the neighborhood preschool owner. She tells me how the storm gives a young Haitian adoptee a recurrence of earthquake trauma. His pain is real and the skilled preschool teacher leads him back to the safety of his present time. His story reminds me in my life thus far how safe I am and to remember to help those who are not. A friend huddles with her dogs by her wood stove waiting for her lights and heat to be turned back on. She lives on several acres out by Fern Ridge Reservoir and tells of hearing the crack and groan of the trees throughout the night. Neighbors walk over to comfort and be with her. Her story speaks of how comfort and communication come in many forms.

Trees have fallen across highways; trees have fallen upon a few cars. Is nature telling us to wake up, to be more caring and compassionate about our environment, about each other? I know we have no control over the weather, but we do have control over how we treat our air, our soil, our plants, our animals, this precious mother earth we have been loaned for our living.

Our complaints here in Oregon of this spring snow's inconvenience are hallow compared with the current world's human on human destruction. Though I am deeply saddened by the loss of our trees, I continue to be devastated by our irrational, ongoing, ever recurring turn to wars as the solutions to our political and greed induced problems. But perhaps I am slipping and sliding off into another universe of thought.

As I return home from my walk, passing the blossomed branches piled high, passing the blooms blowing down the streets, I breathe in the cleaner, warmer air and notice the liquid flowing pavement. Over the next few days with the melting of the snow, spring returns and turns on her charm. Daffodils have survived; newly planted peas and over winter broccoli reach for the sun. Soon it is as if this snow storm has never been.

I am winding up my home teaching, getting ready for spring break and a visit from my college daughter. But this snow story holds on a little longer. My neighbor repairs his front camellia bush, but decides to cut down another blossoming camellia which I see every morning out my side window. Last year he took down a cherry tree because the neighbor on the other side complained about the falling pits and squashed cherries carried by the birds. I looked to this flowering tree as one of my heralds of spring. My husband says I am a Druid, and I take this as a compliment. I will miss the camellia; I will miss the flowering plums; I miss my neighbor's cherry tree.

I know I am supposed to accept change; I know I am suppose to accept the stark realities of this modern world: the devastating realities of unexpected climatic events and the brutal realities of deliberate human destruction. But I am having a difficult time. Snow is both a beautiful, miraculous phenomenon and a dangerous, slippery precipice. How true of my walk through life. I seem to eternally be caught between joyous, childlike excitement and serious, grown up contemplation. And sometimes the two even melt into one glorious appreciation of being alive, being the overly sensitive woman I am at this time and in this place.

© 2012