The silence of snow, and other musings

This is a time more for thinking than acting, for settling in rather than going, for talking and for listening, for sleeping and dreaming what is and what will be. That is the longing, for whatever is to come, knowing it will.

Jan. 7, 2009

Dear Patty,

My friend Rick and I had planned to drive south to play some golf this week in Savannah and Orlando, but the weather in the South is almost as shivery as it is here, where today's forecast is a low of 7 degrees and snow.

As usual, DC has stocked the larder, has located the ice-walking clamps for her shoes and covers her windshield with plastic overnight while stockpiling de-icer as well. She is preparing for any trick the weather might have but wouldn't mind being surprised. My wife enjoys a good storm. Bring it on, she says to the North Wind.

Many of us think of winter as a season to be endured. Sting's new CD is a fireside contemplation on the spiritual beauty and longing in this season of darkness and solitude. In the song "You Only Cross my Mind in Winter," lyrics by Sting and music by Bach, he sings:

All day the snow did fall

What's left of the day is close drawn in,

I speak your name as if you'd answer me,

But the silence of the snow is deafening.

Winter clothes us in silence. We tunnel under blankets and come up only for sunlight. Coffee and news awaken us, and the day awaits, sunny or gray as a flannel suit. We work knowing the time for play is months away. This time of year new movies or live music occupy the evenings. This is a time more for thinking than acting, for settling in rather than going, for talking and for listening, for sleeping and dreaming what is and what will be.

That is the longing, for whatever is to come, knowing it will.

Ice floes in the Mississippi River float past the floodgates on Water Street, bringing word of even colder weather in the North. DC makes sure our bird feeder contains seeds. The starlings and sparrows behave like swarms of bees in their absence.

Hibernating honeybees fan their wings to produce heat in the hive during cold winter months. We hibernate and busy ourselves creating heat in winter, too. We slow ourselves except on the treadmills and stationary bikes at the gym, where new resolutions to become fit send up a whir like the hive's.

This slowing is for planning and reckoning, for cycling down while visions of spring and summer dance in our heads.

We know someone who has taken a New Year's canoe and camping trip every New Year's for the past 30. This year's temperatures in the teens were mild compared to the 12 below zero he and his crew endured one year.

Though DC has been waiting for a chance to use her cross-country skis again, we are not half as hardy. The sound of snow falling is enough for me. The silence of the snow will be deafening.

Love, Sam

Sam Blackwell is a former reporter for the Southeast Missourian.