Looking out the window, seeing the sun impossibly bright on these miles of white powder, I think the day must be warmer than it is. There is a brilliant glow on these acres of snow, rippled like the tides rolling in, that makes me think of tropical sands and gentle waters. From inside this heated room, that’s how it seems.

Of course, the first step into that northern wind which has kept the chill factor in the minus category all day long is enough to erase that illusion. I pull the fleece scarf up higher on my face, partially covering my nose. Indifferent to dignity and appearances, I feel my breath held warm beneath the covering and am glad.

We sometimes look at the lives of others, see what seems to be something grand and glorious, something far more attractive than the experience of our own. We see the covering and do not sense the frozen ground beneath. We do not know about the years and tears and troubles and trials that came before and indeed, may be continuing. We don’t know about the ordeals from nearly grown children and decaying parents. The struggles of budget and sickness, accidents and misfortunes. Underneath the outer showing, we have far more in common than we might imagine. Maybe even more than either of us would admit.

In the moments of these marvelous storms, when all of earth seems swept pure and gleaming, there is both aching cold and surpassing beauty. But across the hills and plains, beneath the wonder that so easily meets the eye, every field has its stubble. All that lives upon this earth is from dirt.

I ought to keep that in mind the next time I am tempted toward envy. Or criticism.

H. Arnett

1/13/11