In the Canadian winter, it snows. And snows. And snows.
Yet, no matter how much snow we get, for my children, the initial snowfall is
always the most enthralling. Almost magical.
This morning was our first snow storm of the season. We woke up engulfed in
layers upon layers of white stuff. Snow covered the roads; it coated our porch;
and it blanketed our front steps. It left a thick film of fluffy whiteness over
the street lamps, the rooftops of neighboring houses and the naked trees.
My children, as if on cue, woke up eagerly to greet this new winter
wonderland. Gazing out our front window, they were impatient to get outside.
"It's really too cold out there. Maybe, later," I responded to
their repeated pleas.
"We'll bundle up," they stubbornly insisted. And even the youngest,
who usually requires some assistance, dressed himself instantly, adorned in a
scarf, hat, gloves and boots according to my exact specifications.
I glanced at the snow and I wanted to crawl back under my warm covers. My
children saw it, and were enchanted by its allure.
To me, the snow was cold and frigid. To them, it was exhilarating.
To me it signaled winter's arrival and, of necessity, would have to be dealt
with. To them, it was a new and invigorating environment filled with vast
potential for fun and vivacity.
To me, the snow was burdensome, cumbersome. To them, it was something to
experience, to feel, touch, handle and manipulate.
To me, it implied the chores of shoveling, the urgency of finding the right
partner for each boot and glove. To them, it meant the opportunity to create new
forms, to mold new shapes. It presented a whole world of innovation.
I tried hard to remember back to the time when I, too, looked at snow with
the ardent anticipation that my children did. I tried to rejuvenate my own
perspective by reflecting on their attitude to snow, and by extension, to life,
in general.
I thought of how our soul wakes up every morning, at the crack of dawn,
refreshed and enthusiastic to begin its new day. It, like my children,
passionately waits to get its hands involved with the work of our world.
Zealously, it anticipates getting busy molding creation, touching and
experiencing the many facets and aspects of our world to make it a better place.
It is ablaze with impatience to pray fervently, to study Torah intensely, to
extend itself in doing a favor or sharing a smile of encouragement.
Our experienced and jaded self, though, complains to the soul: It's too cold,
it's too cumbersome. Maybe we'll pray or study or do an act of kindness later.
We'd rather get back under our covers.
Gradually, we deal with what needs to be taken care of, but out of necessity.
Do we merely shovel it away? Have we forgotten the magic, the childlike joy and
excitement in the process?
After some time outdoors, my children came back inside. Seated around the
kitchen table, they warmed their frozen fingers and defrosted their bright, red
cheeks while nibbling on snacks and sipping hot chocolate. Each one
enthusiastically described all the shapes and forms he or she created.
We sat like that not more than fifteen minutes, resting and enjoying the
warmth of each other's company, when, to my chagrin, my youngest child
unexpectedly asked: "Can we go back outside again, now?"
