I suppose it’s always in the delivery. I can see it falling gently outside the window. The lightest snow. And I’m not sure if it’s the “good kind,” – the right kind for building. I never was sure. As a child I would thrust myself in boots and hat and mittens and stumble outside to see if it would stick. That was the true test. Grabbing a handful and cupping woolen mittens about. Pressing forming. Would it hold? Take shape? And if did, hold that is, in a tiny ball, well then, I knew my future was set. I would be making a snow man, a snow village even! The possibilities were endless.

I suppose it’s the same with living. With loving. We can’t know for sure. Will it last? Will it hold?

It never stopped me as child, this not knowing. I won’t let it stop me now. Because we can’t know everything. We can only try. We can only race with warm and wild hopes. We can only reach out our hands and hearts and try to build something. Something that with all certainty will be impermanent, but still so very beautiful.

May our hearts forever waken in woolen red, prepared to grab a handful! To build! To try! Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow!