First Snowfall

I'm sitting at our kitchen table, staring out the windows as I listen to the little girls watch PBS kids shows in the basement.  It's snowing.  One of those gentle, almost slow-motion snowfalls, and it's actually been cold enough that it's starting to collect on the chair on the deck, on the dried zinnias along the fence, and on the frisbee that's been forgotten in the back yard.  I am chilly, and a cup of hot cider sounds perfect, but I have to rush out the door in about fifteen minutes to pick kids up from school.

This is the first quiet moment of my day.  Quiet, that is, if I tune out the theme song from Clifford The Big Red Dog.  And I find myself reflecting on the strange nature of time.  I look at the zinnias, their heads brown and dry, and I remember when they were apricot and pale pink, orange and fuchsia.  I see the frisbee, and I remember the kids making a circle and laughing as we threw it back and forth, back when the grass was still green and the garden was still overflowing with cherry tomatoes.  I look at the deck and imagine catching the snow on my tongue; I hear the echoes of Christmas music and think ahead to when we will pull out the tree and drink hot chocolate and work on puzzles.  This moment, with the fat snowflakes drifting down, with the girls quiet, with my mind still, seems to stretch out and expand to include the past, the present, and the future.

But then just like that, the girls finish the show, tromp upstairs, and it's back to the rushing, frantic pace of the day.  Not every day is like this, but today I've had a to-do list as long as my arm, stuff that has to get done right now.  And that's how time can flex, how it can wax and wane the way it does.  I fill it with church choir, Bible study, babysitting, grocery shopping, present wrapping, but I am always on the look out for those brief moments where I can sit, still and silent, and let the seconds drift slowly past.

Look for that moment in your day.  Catch it and hold it, take the time to look at it from every angle.  It's a small treasure, a rough cut diamond, given to you to remind you of the essentials.