Snow has been falling heavily in the past few days after an unseasonably warm December, that misled some trees into bloom. Can we even tell if it has stopped falling? The wind still blows sprinkles off the roofs.
The snow has drawn out a childish feeling, even for someone like me, who never saw any until adulthood. Maybe it’s the association with childhood books and TV imported from far away? Or the surreality of seeing familiar streets look so strange?
I don’t think it is really about seeing. It’s the awkward toddling walk we are forced to adopt, looking down at our feet as we take steps one at a time through the drifts. It’s the pillowy heaps of snow by the paths – usually only children have the privilege of tumbling over without serious injury. I think that snow brings out the inner child kinesthetically, as it humbles our arrogant bipedalism.