Thursday, January 16, 2014

fumies can't stop us

Falling all around my face, sticking to my eyelashes and dancing intrusively against my irises were thousands of giant flakes of snow.
Flakes is the wrong word, because there were dozens of flakes all clumped together.
Clumped is the wrong word, because the delicate flake flotillas drifted apart at the touch of a finger,
a small breath of air would send them scattering.
Scattering is the wrong word.
Scattering is the scratchy sound of fall leaves being blown about by gusty, lusty winds.
Scattering is the frantic noise of squirrels searching for their buried treasures in the frozen autumn earth.
I have never seen a snowflake scatter.
They move at the pace of Her Majesty and they float, with a confident, clandestine feline grace on their journey to kiss the ground.
Rain. 
Rain is noisy. 
Rain announces its presence from the moment you wake up.
As the raindrops clatter noisily across your roof and splatter unceremoniously to the ground, you can hear their racket from deep within the cosy confines of your bed.
But snow.
Snow arrives unannounced, and as you step outside your front door you are greeted by a world of white.
The silent snowflakes smile at the surprise they have wrought.
You step out, and the only noise is the sound of your breath leaving your mouth, and the soft, cashmere crunch of snow underneath your boot.
I opened my mouth up to the sky, and let the little bouquets of hexagonally symmetrical icicles fall into my mouth.
At the first taste of snow, the lush, outdoors-y taste of winter doesn't just surround your face and bit your nose, but it enters into your body.
You feel winter slip down into your belly.
Your insides open up like Muhammed's heart and are washed clean with snow.
The flakes dance on your tongue, fresh as a North wind and sweet.
But not a cloying sweetness--a sweetness like a mountain stream.
A sweetness like fresh air rolling through a cloud, off of Himalayan slopes.
The aftertaste is warm. A bit nutty.
Rich.
The taste is just a hint, just the barest little bit of evidence that this water molecule's life started deep inside the earth.
This water molecule was not born in a cloud.
Once upon a time, it could be found in a subterranean pool of groundwater, mixed in with the rich loam of the globe's crust.
This snow, which seems to blanket all the blemishes of the earth in a gorgeous frosting of ice, is not so foreign in nature from the unceremonious mud and limp dead grass it covers.
The beauty that dusts the frozen world is intimately linked to it.
It is a beauty that originated in its core.
It is a beauty, planted in the core, that eventually blossoms into something extravagant.
A beauty that is ravishing, that will not allow anything on earth to not be embraced, consumed, and somehow transfigured by it.
Transfixed, we open our mouths to receive this refreshment,
this manna from heaven which falls onto our tongues.


What we are promised is that He loves us, and that, if we will only bring ourselves to ask, He will bless us with a ravenous hunger for intimacy with Himself. 

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