Photo courtesy of Madison, Chicago 2019
Melanie Rockett challenged people like me, her Medium readers who should be writing our own blog posts instead of reading hers, to make a small and simple commitment of writing 100 words per day.
I thought, “I can do that.”
Heck some of my Facebook posts are over a 100 words much to my friends’ dismay due to their lowered attention spans and/or my boring non-news.
I haven’t been writing much lately and once I stop writing, it’s hard to get me going again. Always so many excuses and other things to do instead like cleaning the litter box and sorting my underwear drawer.
And that is exactly the reason why I decided to take Melanie up on her challenge even though I am not in my time zone and have no access to my computer nor the room I normally write, There’s none of the normal visual cues in this AirBnb to remind me to write.
I’m going to attempt to write 100 words today. I can’t guarantee tomorrow but I can write today.
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When I was a little girl, snow was snow and the more, the better to be assured a day off from school. Snow never needed to be anything other than falling from the sky in copious amounts so that I could sleep in, although I never did get more sleep since we had to sit around a radio waiting for our school number to be called.
I never differentiated between the various kinds of snow; I did not appreciate snow. All I paid attention to was its color and the one bit of trivia I learned in school while not enjoying a snow day was that each flake is unique. Snow was a means to an end and nothing else.
Now that I am older, and I rarely get to see snow falling from the sky because I live in a Mediterranean climate, I’ve developed a new appreciation for the white stuff.
Just this morning, sitting in my AirBnb in Chicago, it started to snow again. The flakes were big and fluffy. Although they floated quietly and gently to the ground, there were so many of them swirling around, suspended above the well-traveled road that it was a near white-out. The sky looked as if God had ripped open a down feather pillow and spilled its contents to Earth.
I love this kind of snow. I sat in my chair with a cup of steaming coffee and looked through the French doors for a while and then put my head down to read my book.
The next time I looked up to check on what was happening outside, the flakes were small–nothing like they had been just ten minutes prior.
It turns out, I don’t like small flakes. Who knew you could have a favorite kind of flake?
Perhaps not liking the smaller flakes harkens back to my childhood. Smaller flakes don’t necessarily lead to a snow day.
Slow, steady, and small doesn’t win the snow day race.
The funny thing is I no longer need an excuse to get out of school or work, so who cares what kind of snow it is? It’s SNOW! Yay!!
Witnessing the miracle of snow, I vow to love all forms of it. It is no longer quantity but its sheer existence that will thrill me forevermore.
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