I ran to beat the snowplows and signs of civilization yesterday morning, rising at 6:30am and making my way at a rapid trudge to Lookout Hill. When I arrived, covered in snow from my brown woolen hat to my shoes, I was the first to ascend the stairs in what was just the beginning of the inconvenient blizzard of February, 2010. I suppose it will come as no surprise to learn that what I found on top of that small rise was a revelation: every branch, twig, and leaf was snow-laden, and the scene was so dense that it was overwhelming in temperament and feel. I was overcome with a response to the experience of standing in such a mutable and tactile landscape. I felt invisible and undone, and I smiled wildly at a small red cardinal, the only other witness to that strangely affecting, temporary, place. I felt as if I existed in a muffled world.
Later, in the evening, I boarded the B63 home after an unexpected meeting with a dear friend from far away. And then, as if a graceful figure in some obscure industrial ballet, our bus, all at once, serenely careened across the road and became inextricably lodged in a snowbank. Taking to the street, I walked the rest of my way, growing ever-colder but no less sustained by the lumbering of people and machines.