This morning I was drinking coffee and looking out the window how the first snow was falling. White snowflakes, blown by the wind, stuck to the window glass as if they were asking to let them inside. The day the first snow fell...
It was so good to feel at home, surrounded by warmth, with a steaming coffee in my hands, when outside the window is real winter. I'm definitely not one of those who likes cold and snow. I can enjoy it for one day at most, and then I want to fall asleep like a bear in a deep winter sleep and wake up when it's already spring outside the window and nature is waking up, turning green.
The first snow... it is so white, innocent... that I am afraid to set foot on it, to take a step, as if on a floor that my mother had just washed. But how many times we made footprints in our lives? Have we counted our footprints when we look back? What are they? Clean? Has the first whiteness of the snow been spoiled, has our conscience remained clear? Questions, questions that we often do not answer, we only wave our hand - we hurry, hurry through life and leave new footprints, paths... People go and go... How many paths have been remembered... Everything is bought at the price of life, everything is terribly expensive...
Snow is covering everything. Snow of time. The traces of people who once lived, their laughter, their work, their grief, their longing, anxiety, their hopes and expectations. Only on cold nights in the blizzard of an empty field do the silhouettes of the houses that stood here emerge as if in a dream, smoke billows from the chimneys, fences crackle from the frost, dogs bark and children squeal. Then the wind dies down, the sky clears, and the mirage disappears. Only the forest rustles, only the snow sparkles in the moonlight.
And it will cover us too like that. Someday the frozen earth will lock us in. Although maybe not us - maybe just our bodies? They will be tired, old, worn out - like a frayed coat. Maybe it will not be a pity to throw it away. And the soul will rise up, above the snowfields, and above the winter snowbirds singing in the snow-covered trees. And it will sing itself. And we will remain living in the treetops.
And anyway, despite the fact that I don't like cold, I understand that I was waiting for the snow. I was waiting for that white sparkling snow. I was waiting for frost and a shining icy path. I was waiting for fragrant and wet snow.
And I am already waiting for spring, and for streams of water under the thin ice. And it is always difficult to see snow trapped in soot and mud. For a long time it scares with its blackness and thick armor. It will not be overcome by the warm spring sun for a long time. And it is sad to look at those black monsters on the road. It is a pity that the solemn whiteness of snow and dazzling light ends like this. That sad old age of the winter and snow come every year. It makes us to think. We want to do something good and bright for others. And more often smile at a tired old man on the street, who, like that dark spot, slowly moves among others: young, colorful and agile. I wish that the coming and going would be pure and bright.
I wish everyone to breathe freely and leave their important footprints more often. I wish everyone white snow.
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With love,
Photos are taken by me.
© 2024
