It stops falling with little taps before it melts on parts of my coat. Just sits and collects on other parts. Simply touches and sits on branches around me. Becomes one with unfrozen stream water. Bundled up and walking the traces of a trail through a Rocky Mountain forest, my clothes are too thick to let me feel the magic that’s falling. It’s not silent when it touches me. But there’s no other sound. No wind, no sky. Just an all-encompassing peace. How do we draw the sound of what we see, what we feel, what we want to feel, of who we are?
There’s a song here. A melody I haven’t heard before and won’t hear again – each snowflake is its own never-repeating note. And as with all music, half of all its melody and meaning is between the lines. Do we know how to listen? To quietly punctuated silence?
Lyrics? Not in a language I know. Words are the jello mold we use to squeeze our experiences and emotions into a form we can feed to others. Is it possible to share rather than feed? Can we, do we, share without words?
I look up. Feel the snow on my face. Take off my gloves, feel it on my hands. Palms and backs respond in their own ways. The back of my hand seems to have less feeling.
I’m sampling and scoring the notes by feel, by rhythm. There’s no time signature I recognize. I’ll need to move from human time to tree time, or maybe snow time. I’ve done it before, and it’s magic.
A nearby tree just shed a load of powder from her branches. She’s still shaking like a dog shedding water. Now it’s safe under there, but I won’t hug or destroy her peace. It’s nice simply standing under her protection. Her aura of slowing drifting snow enhances the sky borne flakes.
I’m in a sensory concert hall. And just like any other concert, I need to surround myself with the musical experience. But it’s hard turning off all those other thoughts that play competing sounds all day long, in the multiple formats our task- and people-centered brains have become addicted to.
I need to spend more time here.