The Dance of Time: Snowflakes and Memories

“Like snowflakes your words fall silent, but my heart still hears your voice.”–Angie Weiland Crosby

His radiant red contrasts the rambling lines of landscape blanketed in brilliant white over which Mother Nature continues to shake clouds full of crystalized sugar. There is a muted hush, like the stillness of our lungs between the inhale and exhale, and then with a shiver, she cascades more snowy powder in a frenetic freefall. The spry cardinal skips and hops through brambling branches. Then, tilts its head, as if it just remembered an important date, and lifts in flight. 

Inhale. Lips seal in a smiled memory of long ago. 

Pause. Sense the stillness 

Exhale. Perceive the prickle of the past.

Observing the steady dance of freed flakes, my mind meanders through the rolling hills of earlier life–so many memories sift through and then meld into the collective cache of moments. Childhood. Youth. Young adult. Parenting. Empty-nesting. Hands outstretched wide.  Collect the moments. Like snowflakes landing on a mitten, I cannot clasp such things for long. 

Inhale. Eyes soften their gaze.

Pause. Brain swirling through Kodacrhome images faded with time.

Exhale. Sense the shudder of time. 

Accumulation of moments, unique in dimension and structure, pass through the sieve of consciousness. One reminiscence overlaps another in a spiraling swirl of sensory recollections. A Chex mix of her memories stirred up with mine.

Galoshes, long underwear and frosty wet jeans.

Layers of shirts and jackets, and a big ol’ coat.  

Mummified walking. 

Snowflakes dusting shoulders and hats; red, dripping noses. 

Snowballs, snowman, snowfort

Neighbors calling

Who hit me in the back?

Inhale. Gaze remains inward

Pause. Linger in timelessness. 

Exhale. Soften into space and time.

Rolling, rolling, snowballs large and small, impressions of the past and present pinging. How marvelous, to have these individual souvenirs of time heaped into a memory bank like snowflakes plowed into mounds alongside a road. 

Sounds of barking, scent of wet dog. 

Red sled, yellow cord; here we go again! 

Fearless flights of fancy, impervious to the elements

Mittens over gloves, wet and soaked through. 

Pink cheeks, cold hands; giggles and grins galore. 

Campbell soup and grilled cheese.

Cookies with hot cocoa and a giant floating marshmallow.

Soggy clothes, drip, drip, dripping on an overburdened rack.

Child, with canine companion, reading in big cozy chair

Inhale deeply as eyes return to snow. 

Pause. Flakes flicker and fly 

Exhale. Present in the moment.

Scaning frosted tree arms splayed open for welcoming feathered friends. There he is again. Handsome boy. Tufted red hair, not a feather out of place. Unflappable and composed in a wintry playground. Head cocks and black eyes glisten. He seems to see me, and I am reminded of a conversation.

Before the snow arrived, my husband and I discussed the impending weather. He had worried and watched the approaching meteorological conditions.  “It will do what it will do,” I said.  Not to be dismissive of his concerns, but to instead, remind both of us that we can only watch and wait.  Then, if/when it arrives–as it did–we will know.

In that moment, it occurred to me that so will life. Just like weather, life will do with us what life will do. We are not in as much control as we think we are. 

This doesn’t mean we should not prepare, plan (to the degree possible), and be aware of future events, but many, if not most, events cannot be known until we are in the midst of a whirling outpour. Sometimes, those moments merely require that we stand like a child, head thrown back and tongue out, tasting and savoring each precious moment. Other times, life drifts in deep, and we are shoveling out as best we can, holding on for the sun’s warmth.

Through the flurries and cloudbursts of storms, there is the throughline of the present moment. Life is happening now, and what is happening now will be our future memories. 

The cardinal serves as a symbol for me of past and present. I cannot see the red feathered fellow in the winter without simultaneously being in awe of his present day beauty while also reminded of my Pappaw.  He loved to feed and watch the birds, especially in the winter; cardinals were his favorite.  “Now, Stethie, look at those red birds out there.  Aren’t they something?” 

Pappaw often told me bluejays were a “mean bird,” albeit “good-looking fellows.” He did not like the way they became territorial and aggressive towards other birds, especially the cardinals at his feeder. There were several occasions in which I’d watched him dart out of the house without a coat or hat and chase the bluejays away to protect “his red birds.”

Pappaw is long gone. I am not sure if I appreciated my time with him during those once present moments as I should have. And yet, outside of my window, the cardinal continues its call of snowy days present and past.

 The coming and going of time begins in the “right here, right now” moments. Inhale. Connect to the arriving moment.  Pause. Feel the presence. Exhale. Tick. Tock. Another opportunity to collect a memory before, like the snow, it melts away.