Wandering (not far): The Language of Snow

Today, after exercise, I had a choice. The family is gone: computer, books or... outside?

After a moment's hesitation -- nay, temptation -- I donned the snow bibs, turtleneck, wool socks, boots, scarf, hat, mittens... 

and I shoveled snow for two hours.

Placid, quietly talking to myself(?), I had developed a smooth, meditative rhythm which I did not notice until the High Priest came out to assist. I watched his short, rapid, economical movements in stark contrast to my long, paced, sinuous dragging. He was deeply invested in efficiency. He was there to remove snow. I recognized then that I was not. I was there to be with the snow. I was visiting in Snow territory. My aim was immersion: What is required to learn the quiet language of Snow?

The family reappeared not long after the High Priest had joined me & they all wielded shovels, making quick work of the very large lot. I suppose I could have felt deflated by the fact that they out-shoveled me in less than half the time...

but I was utterly satisfied.

Outside. No matter what.

A gratuitous photo of fungi & snow.
(Because I cannot help myself.)