Beauty Of Snow Essay

Beauty Of Snow Essay-79
An 1815 volcanic eruption in Indonesia did it—though at the time our preachers thought the source more local and divine wrath explicit.Winter starts in November, whatever the calendar says, with gray of granite, with russet and brown of used leaves.There is yet another sort, light-lovers, for whom winter begins with dark’s onset in mid-August.

An 1815 volcanic eruption in Indonesia did it—though at the time our preachers thought the source more local and divine wrath explicit.Winter starts in November, whatever the calendar says, with gray of granite, with russet and brown of used leaves.There is yet another sort, light-lovers, for whom winter begins with dark’s onset in mid-August.

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We live in such a privileged, materialistic society that makes it so easy to step on a pedal and end up miles from where we were half an hour ago.(I’m not counting the flurries that flew early in October.) We didn’t get a deep accumulation—it was only three or four inches.But what little fell was wet, heavy as bricks, and covered with a brittle crust of ice, leading me to question the wisdom of shoveling the whole driveway by hand (and by back).In this light, I think it is so important to maintain a perspective that honors the laws of physics and the idea that what goes up must come down.Whatever easy (like pushing a button and starting an orange robot that makes easy work of snow removal) must be paid for somewhere else in the universe, probably by some innocent butterfly whose only crime was flapping its wings.November is autumn’s burial, and the smoke of victims sacrificed is thanks for harvest and magic as we go into ourselves like maples for winter’s bear-sleep.We make transition by way of feast and anticipatory snow, toward the long, white, hard hundred days, the true winter of our annual deaths.So I return to my shoveling, thinking these deep thoughts, fancying myself some kind of modern-day Thoreau, “wishing to speak a word for Nature.” But I burst my own bubble when I catch myself grumbling about how hard it is to live in a place that experiences extreme winters.(I’m sure that my friends in Wisconsin, Minnesota, and Manitoba will chuckle at this characterization of Massachusetts.) There’s always a five-to-ten-foot strip where the driveway meets the road, where big plow trucks throw salty slush, adding the snow from the road to the snow already on your driveway, gluing everything together into a giant block of concrete, and turning your evening into a major excavation project.Snow is white and gray, part and whole, infinitely various yet infinitely repetitious, soft and hard, frozen and melting, a creaking underfoot and a soundlessness.But first of all it is the reversion of many into one.

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