We do live in interesting times.
Over the past few weeks, the world seems to have been a very tense place, and that doesn't look like it's going to be changing anytime too soon. There is unrest across much of the world. Right here in these supposedly United States, we've seen our cities erupt in rebellion, in outright defiance of legal authority. We've seen elected officials in Democrat-controlled cities spew falsehoods and openly defy the federal government. Iran is plunged into rebellion, although the rebels in that case are the good guys. China is casting envious eyes at Taiwan, and the rest of the Western Pacific, and Russia and Ukraine are still engaged in a slash-and-snap.
I know I've been writing about these things a lot - it's my job, after all. And yes, it gets to one sometimes, being immersed in the news cycle. But there's always a way to bleed off some stress. A common piece of advice is to "touch grass," but that's not really an option across much of the country right now; but we can touch snow, and that's good, too.
I'm reminded of my favorite Robert Frost poem, Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, which begins:
Whose woods these are, I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
When the stress of life gets to you, it's always helpful to look outside. Even looking out the window can help, although I think actually going outside is better, even if it means bundling up like you're embarking on an Antarctic expedition. There's nothing quite like "woods filled up with snow." It's peaceful, and it's restoring.
Mr. Frost continues:
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
(Note that "queer" had a very different meaning in 1951, when Frost wrote this.)
Stopping without a farmhouse nearby is best, in fact. Part of the purpose of the exercise is to attain the peace and quiet of the snowy landscape, and that's more difficult to do with people around. People are, in my experience, noisy critters. But then, there's a reason I live out here in these woods, away from the general run of folks. I'm not a misanthrope - well, not completely - but I enjoy my privacy.
Mr. Frost gets it:
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
That's the needful thing, that quiet, that gentle swish of the flakes, the occasional soft plop of snow falling from a tree to the ground. When it's snowing, the birds go quiet, the squirrels den up to wait for it to break, and the snow muffles most human noises. It's some of the quietest quiet that ever was quiet, and that can be such an enormous relief - such a great way to forget the stress and strain, to gain that important perspective. The snow doesn't care about Iran. It doesn't care about screaming nutcases in Portland or Minneapolis. It just is, all on its own.
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In some places, the snow turns gray too soon. Car exhaust, the general grime of towns and cities, colors it, so you want to get out in the snow quickly, while it's still white.
Here in our corner of the Great Land, in our Susitna Valley homestead, we got over a foot of snow in the past few days, and now the weather service tells us to expect 9-18 inches more in the next 24 hours. That's fine; Alaskans expect snow. It's good for the land. It insulates the land, preventing the frost line from penetrating too deeply. It provides cover for critters who are active in winter, like the red squirrels and voles who build tunnel networks in the snow to hide their travels from owls. It's good for people who enjoy mushing or snow-machining, as the snow has to be a certain depth under the skids. It's good for our rivers and lakes, our streams, many of which depend on the melting snowpack. And, except for a narrow corridor along the highway where the plows pile it up, the snow will retain its brilliant white until it melts in the spring, renewing the land.
Most of all, it's good for us. It's good to go out into the snow, to feel how quiet everything is as the flakes drift slowly down. The world just seems to hush, as the blanket of white piles up deeper. You - well, at least I can just feel the stresses of the day bleeding away, just by standing in the beautiful falling snow.
Mr. Frost concludes:
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
We can't escape all the troubles of the world altogether. We all have miles to go, before we sleep. But we can take those moments, those intervals to recharge. It's not only worth doing; it's necessary.
