For times like these

The snow started softly during the night. 

It always seemed to come this way when I was young. In the evening, I’d close the curtains of my childhood bedroom, the same ones that still hang there today, and I’d know that, when I opened them in the morning, the world might be transformed. Starting around late November, I’d wait as long as possible each morning, wanting nothing more than to look out my window but also knowing that, until I looked, I dwelled in a place of possibility, a place where the world outside just might be, quite suddenly, glistening. 

On this particular morning, transformation was not yet complete. Flakes fell, but in a casual, half-hearted sort of way. Nonetheless, my children were delighted. They stood on the sill of our bedroom window for a better view. I lay in bed and watched them watch the snow, their little bodies framed against the soft light.

By noon, the layer of ground cover was just enough to make possible skiing and sledding, although only on our driveway and only so long as we did not shift the snow too much to either side, exposing bare the sand and rocks below. We played until bellies yearned for lunch and then we traipsed inside, casting off damp layers, cheeks aflame. A routine so familiar from my childhood snow days. 

Over the afternoon, the flakes fell in greater earnest. By evening, with headlamps blazing, it was possible to sled off the driveway and down a slope that leads into the woods. I stood at the bottom while my husband and children took a ride. I switched off my lamp and the quiet darkness pressed in from the trees surrounding me, the particular softness that descends with fresh snow. 

The next day, I dropped my children off at school and kept driving to a parking lot from which a skiing loop begins, chasing my own playtime before work. As my legs pumped forward and back, my eyes feasted on the world around me: the sparkles, the trees under cover, tracks from fox, rabbit, and mice, the absolute beauty of it all. My heart rose as I glided. I knew my children were spending a day of delight as well: sledding with friends, studying the world, tracking, all out amidst the sparkle.

Two days later, the world transformed again.

The night before the wind and rain, my daughter and I walked around our house in the dark, picking up bits and pieces and bringing them to the garage, safe from the oncoming storm. She ran and slid in the snow, still delighted. 

At once point, she paused and looked at me. “Mom,” she said, “why is the snow so short these days?”

I talked about the changing climate, as I have often before, and about the increased frequency of temperature swings. My children are no strangers to these facts of the world today. But my heart rose again, this time in heartache for my children and for all of us who suffer this great loss but would never have chosen it. 

The next morning, we woke to pelting winds and pounding rain. The snow was gone, save a few sheltered clusters. School was canceled. Not a snow day; a wind day. My children played while I worked from home as much as possible. I work on climate solutions and resilience. All day long, images flooded in (an ironic word choice) from coastal and island communities throughout the state. Buildings washing out to sea. Docks ripped apart. Boulders thrown from the ocean onto roads and pathways. Beaches washed upward. So much damage, so many places transformed, but nothing about it peaceful or soft this time. 

In the late afternoon, the storm subsided and pink light filled the sky. We poured outside into air that felt like spring, a sharp discord on a January evening. I felt shaken from the day and even more so by the balmy air.

If my children were uneasy, it did not show. They explored, once again with delight. They uncovered items hidden just yesterday. They squelched mud and splashed puddles. Ultimately, their focus turned to the few remaining clusters of snow. They gathered it - “Mom, look, now it is snowball snow!” - and pressed it together to each form a clump. “These are our snow babies.” They asked me to hold the babies while they searched out stones for eyes and noses, sticks for mouths. I tenderly cradled the two little clumps. 

When the “babies” were complete, my children each took one into their own arms to play. I watched as they treated their snow babies with deep care. Eventually, they rested the babies under a little tree on soft tendrils of old grass before running to find their father. 

I stood and looked at the snow babies. Tears welled in my eyes. It’s so much, I found myself thinking, living right now, loving the world, loving my children. It’s so much. 

I thought about all my collaborators in climate solutions and community resilience. A rapidly growing number of people are doing good work. There are certainly still reasons for hope. But sometimes, when I step away from the computer or the meeting, I realize I have been thinking so hard for so long and feeling rushes up to meet me. When I look at snow babies made with profound love and care, snow babies that will be gone as the coming days scorch Maine with striking January heat, I know I need to hold myself with great tenderness as I feel the loss that is already unfolding. 

My children’s laughter broke through my contemplation as they danced up the driveway alongside their father. Delight. 

Maybe we are made for times like these, I thought to myself. Maybe this dance of delight and tenderness is exactly what is needed. We don’t look away. See, the snow is gone. Feel, the air is too warm. But look, the sky, have you ever seen such beauty? Feel, my arms, this love. See, your brother’s grin. We are here, suspended in tender delight.

I will say these words later in the kitchen as we all make dinner, perhaps more to myself than anyone else. “We were made for times like these.”