Snow Day

“For a transitory enchanted moment man must have held his breath in the presence of this continent, compelled into an aesthetic contemplation he neither understood nor desired, face to face for the last time in history with something commensurate to his capacity for wonder” - F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

Dear anyone who reads it,

This morning when I woke up I saw for the first time a road covered in snow and it falling from the sky. Swirls, spirals, motions undetected and incomprehensible to my puny mind. The lack of knowledge of weather patterns and basic science of snow being water has never been before lost to me because: I am in awe.

In awe of the joy, and beauty and surrealness of this phenomenon. I feel it throbbing in my veins like pure serotonin after a run or a bar of dark chocolate. I want to jump, to fly, to tell someone that this is incredible. And, I did. I called my moms (yes, I have 2 mothers who brought me up while my fathers were busy) and I showed them through the internet pipes. The wonder that weather patterns had brought me but it was not enough.

Then, I remembered John Green and his syrupy voice in Anthropocene Reviewed talking about the human capacity of wonder. What gives us joy is our ability to pay attention, to be able to draw from the ordinary, the actual extraordinary. Snow however, is extraordinary. Nothing in life I have ever seen has reinforced Carl Sagan more. All life is chemistry.

No wonder eskimos have 50 words for snow because they are trying to describe something that you cannot describe in words. So then, I went out into the snow only wearing my PJs and my one hoodie and it wasn’t cold. Snow isn’t cold. Snow is warm. It’s all encompassing, breath takingly beautiful and light and dry. In a matter of nanoseconds, scenes from the Harry Potter films flash in my mind’s eye. Hedwig flying through snow, Hogwarts castle covered in thick layer of beautiful white.

Snow is that new to me that my memory of it aren’t my memories. They are stills from stories that have moved me. It isn’t snowing outside, it is as if it is snowing inside. I can just sit and watch it for hours and yet, I try in vain to write and capture the feeling. At some moments in time if you’re lucky, it is enough. Snow is enough. When it twirls and dances in wind, or when it brush against trees to perch on, when it gently touches the human skin like cotton balls. It becomes enough.

“At some point in life the world's beauty becomes enough. You don't need to photograph, paint, or even remember it. It is enough.” - Tony Morisson

Since I left Montepulciano, I haven’t had a moment like this. I wasn’t sure I was going to get it back. This life, this moment, this exact point in my life is enough. In the last 24 hours, I have had at least 2 such moments where I have been in them and thought, this is enough. Being here, being present is all I need and all I will ever need for now. Not fancy cars, or houses or warm cups of coffee or great abs. This is all I need. I need this moment to last. To be able to recall it, I take pictures and I write in order to feel some essence of it.

It won’t though. Words, pictures and everything used to capture a moment is a failure of the human subconscious to grasp the beauty of the moment. You cannot capture this. My therapist asked me what it was about Italy that gave me that sense and I couldn’t tell her. I didn’t know and I really don’t know. I don’t have a picture that describes it. I don’t have a memory to point and show. I only have the feeling ingrained in memory. Like, an imprint in snow.

The statement that your brain is the centre of feelings is misleading in a way. Yeah, you feel because of the enzymes in your brain but, you feel through all the different senses. You feel acids in your stomach churning up in excitement as your heart rate pulses you can feel it vibrate through your fingers. The joy and the pure unbelievable beauty and fleetingness of the moment. It is sad and yet, so happy. It is sad that it needs to end and yet sheer luck to have this joy, even for a moment.

Snow.

Oh you beautiful thing,
I’d right you a ballad
Only if I knew such a thing
All I know for a fact is Shakespeare
Had mastered this art
Probably why it is called
The ballad of the Bard.

However, Shakespeare was cynical
You’re clearly not, my snow
You’re not one’s to possess
Though I’d like you to be mine
Just for a moment
If you could spare for me
A sliver of your time.

Even though
My request stands with you
I already know that
All good things in life
All I ever did want
Has always been there
Never for me to possess
Never for me to control
The real joy,
Is in letting go.