The Gift of Being Snowed In

Over the weekend, the snow fell steadily, gently, silently until the landscape was fully covered in a thick white blanket. The trees stood tall; their branches bending slightly under the heavy snow. The stream in the backyard continued to flow between the snow-covered banks.

I received this weekend as the gift that it was; the time to be quiet, enjoy the beauty of the landscape, and think. I made a big pot of soup and spent most of the day by the fire. Since I haven’t posted in a while, I decided to go back and read some of my past writings in an effort to find the thread.

I could see that the ever-increasing craziness and unrest that have been our constant companions since the pandemic have inspired much of my most recent writing. It’s difficult not to, since the chaos and cruelty of our time are affecting us all. At times, it can all feel hopeless and bleak.

As I sat by the fire thinking about it all, I felt deeply grateful. I am well aware that not everyone has the luxury of safety and comfort. Our hearts and minds are constantly pulled in all kinds of directions, and we end up with more questions than answers.

Then, I remembered that the day before the snow came, I was walking in the backyard when I noticed a cluster of daffodils picking through. Way too early, I thought, but then again, they know better. They have proven their strength and resilience over the years.

Something about the snow-covered land and these tiny daffodil shoots reminded me of how dormancy and bleakness have always been part of nature’s journey; our journey. Life goes underground for a while, only to return in all its glory at the right time.

The world will do what the world has always done. It follows its own trajectory, and so must we. We can’t always wait for the world to support us; it is up to us to begin where we are and do the best we can—for ourselves, for each other, and for the world.

At times, we too need to withdraw and regain our strength and energy, just like these daffodils in the backyard. Then, we come back, ready and energized for another round.

We often forget that new beginnings grow their roots in darkness. Remembering this helps me when the world around me is covered in snow, and everything is still and quiet. It takes courage to sit in the silence and darkness. It takes faith in what we know to be true.

“There is no life without mistakes, without some 
confusion and messiness, and 
without sudden things happening for apparently no reason. Nor is there a life without special beauty and hidden tenderness. This is true for everyone.
We must make our way by simply going where 
we sense we need to go.”

— Gunilla Norris

We are still at the beginning of a new year. Personally, I am not a fan of resolutions. I prefer to focus on intentions. Setting an intention seems to be more flexible and forgiving. It helps me focus on what’s possible and allows room for growth. Setting an intention is about who I want to be, which in turn determines the how and what.

We are in the throes of winter. Cold and darkness compel us to gather in early
 by the fire or at the dining table. We sink into our favorite armchair, warm blanket over us, a book or journal in hand. Thoughts, questions, memories, and emotions flood our minds and hearts.

This is the perfect time to listen closely and pay attention to the deep wants and needs that bubble up to the surface. Is there a thread that you would like to examine further? Why not? Follow it and see where it takes you. And, if you would like to talk about it, you know where to find me.

I will now leave you with these words.

May your heart rest in the remembrance of your belonging – belonging to love, to the earth, to the great web of life.


May the sweetness of this season remind you of the beauty and goodness that lives within you and around you.


And may whatever has been difficult soften in the light of compassion, opening space for fresh possibilities.

— Tara Brach