Driving northeast on the WK Parkway, I noticed white clumps matted against the base of weeds on the banks. They appeared in clusters at the edge of woods, mats of paper caught against the base. I saw them again and again, finally wondering what miscreant could have sown so much toilet paper along the roadside. I gradually came to think these must instead be clumps of ice formed by rain catching on the plants and draining down to the base before freezing. Beyond Leitchfield, the pattern stopped and I thought little more about it until we turned east on the Bluegrass Parkway at E-town. The pattern began again.

This time, I decided to stop. Walking back along the roadside, I found another cluster, jumped the ditch and began my inspection. I would not have been more surprised if I’d found albino Franklins plastered to the weeds.

Indeed the clumps were ice, but “clumps” is not at all the right word for what I found. Instead of the heavy, thick ice I expected, the formations were more like crystal bells, hollow and incredibly thin and fragile. The shells were translucent, veined of thin layers and concentric rings. These ice bells varied from only an inch or so in diameter and height to as much as six and eight inches tall and up to three inches wide at their base.

On other weeds, ribbons of ice grew out in vertical shafts like feathers on an arrow. On some, two feathers on opposite sides. On others, three or even four had formed. Some grew almost straight out while others curved and curled. Incredible in beauty and variation, all shared the translucent color and the veins or rings depending on shape. All formed only toward the base of straight, slender weeds. There were none on trees or posts or on any plants with branches.

I have no idea of certainty regarding their formation. Perhaps a perfect combination of temperature with freezing rain and mist and just the right exposure to wind or maybe protection from it. I don’t know.

What I do know is that we ought to be able to fully enjoy the marvel of beauty even when confronted by partial and imperfect explanation. There are things whose origins are self-evident and others whose beginnings are still shrouded in mystery. The beauty of a baby is in its own being, not in the explanation of its conception.

Is it less so with God?

H. Arnett
12/10/09