I don't know where everyone else has gone off to for this glorious, if ever too short, break but I am currently holed up in my aunt and uncle's house in Vermont. Since I last set foot outside yesterday morning,what will soon be a foot and a half of snow has been dumped from the sky onto the mountain where I'm residing and has ruined any and all desires to go out and do something.
Out here, in the middle of nowhere, I feel like I am in that poem; the one I can never remember the name of, but I completely misunderstood back in middle school. The snow filled woods are silent and lovely in a way that does not do them justice, indescribable. But if you look at the poem, in the faint light of a sun blocked by so many clouds, the woods are smothering the observer. Curled up near the wood stove, just watching the large flakes of precipitation float along the wind currents, I feel like that. Never falling straight down, they all but fly: left and right, swirling in circles, suddenly changing direction as they encounter a windfall against the glass doors, gently returning back toward the sky as an updraft catches them. So many layers of movement, all superimposed upon each other, yet balanced. The scene is not crowded or busy, but yet the movement is everywhere. A magic eye picture, there is no one part to look at, but rather you most look at everything and nothing. Then, finally, you see it, the flakes all falling perfectly into place and... everything scatters. A hard gust ripping across the deck, throwing already settled snow into the air, hard to the left, creating a heavy curtain of white streaks that can't be penetrated with the naked eye. Just as suddenly as it has begun, it's gone. The snowflakes regain their composure, sinking back down and continuing their dance. A dramatic ballet, the softness interrupted by tension that is so out of place, as yet flows perfectly together so you can't imagine one without the other.
Somehow, my blog post has become an ode to snowfall, void of both the Emerson necessity and the philosophy necessity. I know I was going somewhere with this. I could speak of Emerson's ideas of beauty. How he wants to give credit to man as well as Nature when he sees a sight so spectacular he cannot help but sit in awe. I could speak of how this idea at first offended me. The snow will dance on, even after we stop observing it. Snow cares nothing for Schrodinger and quantum mechanics, but I may be wrong. I have never trod out to the middle of a dense forest. I know not if the snow dances on, or if the evergreens snatch them from from their airy flight like so many hungry children when candy is thrown.
But if you'll excuse me, I'd prefer to go role-play as Dorothy Wordsworth and go tromp through the snow childishly while not thinking of my love for my brother.