The Other Side of the Pillow
Yesterday was, in my opinion, our First Snow. I wasn't around for Thanksgiving and saw only pictures of what some in the country might have taken to be a blizzard, but last night with its gray afternoon and early evening snowflakes illuminated in gilt by the aureate streetlamps and the quiet that suffused the block as I took out our new snow shovel and christened it, all of that signaled the kind of First Snow with which I'd become well acquainted over the past half decade and which has always seemed to coincide with some very strong and very unnoticed need for peace.
I won't wax too poetical about what the work does to me and why it always seems to do it when I need it the most, but it did it again.
Reminds me of our church choir when, every Christmas Eve as part of the cantata, they perform that rendition of O, Holy Night, and I'm reminded of what mercy sounds like.
Sometimes, it sounds like the choir of a Congregationalist Church.
Sometimes, it sounds like the scrape of a shovel against snow.
I won't wax too poetical about what the work does to me and why it always seems to do it when I need it the most, but it did it again.
Reminds me of our church choir when, every Christmas Eve as part of the cantata, they perform that rendition of O, Holy Night, and I'm reminded of what mercy sounds like.
Sometimes, it sounds like the choir of a Congregationalist Church.
Sometimes, it sounds like the scrape of a shovel against snow.