The Blizzard of 2009

There’s something about a heavy snowfall that puts you in the realm of the eternal. Today in Washington, we experienced a record-breaking snowfall, and the snow is now, at 11 PM on Saturday evening, hip deep in many places. I went out and shoveled at around 10 AM, figuring it’s easier to shovel seven inches at a time than 25 or so all at once, but didn’t get out again until about an hour ago. I’ve been holed up in my den, working on a power-point presentation I’ll have to give at work on Tuesday. Work has been very tough lately (I’ll spare you the details, but will instead refer you to a single line of voiceover narration describing the life of George Bailey: “Potter was bearing down hard.”), and it’s been a season of sadness for me. Between bouts of power-pointing, I’ve spent time on the phone with my sweetheart and two of my sibs, and of course communing with my favorite boy, Murphy.

But then I went outside. It’s quiet and peaceful, and everything is still. The snow is sparkly, and I saw only a few people walking down the middle of the street. I pushed the snow off my car, did a little more shoveling (my 20-something neighbor did our whole section of the block around dinnertime, bless him), and then just stopped. What a gift it is to be outside at night in the snow. I looked back at my house, and it looked like a place of light and warmth and safety.

3326
One year during the Christmas season, when I was a teenager, we experienced a heavy, sparkly snow in Parma not unlike this one. Unlike now, I lived in a house full of people, with my brothers, sister and mother. There was always a lot going on and, more often than not, the TV was blaring. This particular night, as the family sat around the living room and the kitchen, kvetching, talking, doing whatever it was we normally did, I put on my coat and went outside. Like now, the ground was covered with snow, which was still falling. I walked down the driveway away from the house and sat on the back fender of Mom’s car. Though when I looked over my shoulder, the Christmas tree and the life within the living room were visible in the picture window, not a sound could be heard from inside the house. Outside it was silent, save for one thing: up on the hill, some family was piping Christmas music out into the night. It was played with bells, a pure and simple arrangement—no chords, just the simple one-note-at-a-time melodies of one wonder-filled contemplative song of the season after another. No one was outside on the street but me.

That moment sealed itself in my heart forevermore. I was out in the night, feeling the presence of God herself, helped by the soft Christmas music that in the happiest of times sets up a vague sense of longing in one’s soul, and behind me, in that house, were my people-- those with whom I shared my daily life and without whom, despite the seemingly unmitigated fractiousness of the relationships, I would have been lost. Right there inside that little glowing box known as 3326, stood the Christmas tree and all I knew or had of family, at least in a day-in and day-out sense. They were so solid, so real, such a pain in the ass, and so essential to my being. Of course, what I felt most consciously at the time was that I was apart from them, and the kind of person who spiritually belonged outside in the dark, sitting in the cold and beautiful snow, having God’s music piped into my soul—or maybe it was coming from inside me, and I just thought it was coming from up the hill….

But what I know now is that I was blessed to have them, and although we’re all outside in the dark within ourselves, experiencing the wonder of being, knowing there’s a warm, bright place wherein our people reside and are ready to welcome us back in-- indeed, may not have even noticed we were gone—is a gift that I for one treasure, and try to remember especially in these difficult times.

Tonight, when I looked back at my house, I was pleased to see that I had created for myself, my kitty, and all my loved ones who enter, a place of warmth and light and shelter from various kinds of storms, however pretty (or petty) some of them may be. And though this night there is no Christmas tree and I am here alone with the Murphster, I know all those loved ones, wherever they are, living or dead, are with me here.

I went back into the house and got my camera. When there’s a good snowfall, I always get the idea to take a really nice shot of the house with the intention of maybe creating a photo Christmas card the following year. I have yet to do that, but I did take a shot or two. I want to post one here, but Blogger's photo upload doesn't seem to be working for me right now. Oh, well, I'll try again tomorrow....