The Sound of Silence
As you may have noticed, it's become a little white in our lovely midwestern state. I absolutely love snow, so I have taken multiple opportunities to go on walks around camp while it's snowing, and it never fails to fill me with so much awe.
The last couple of times that I've ventured out, I've been especially struck by just how quiet it is in the woods. There is no season that is as perfectly silent as winter. Spring has its wind and rainstorms, summer has its cicadas and crickets, and fall has its crunchy, exponentially multiplying leaves. For all of the other parts of the year, things are moving and changing and echoing through the woods so that the silence is never really silent. That all changes in the snow. Everything, be it plants or animals, is asleep. You may come across a trail of deer tracks or coyote prints, but it seems like everything goes out of its way to give everything else its own space. The snow dampens all sound, so even your footsteps don't disrupt the perfect quiet that is being created. Where raindrops strike with their percussive rhythm, snow settles quietly wherever it lays.
The silence of the snow-covered landscape gives way to so many emotions. I can't imagine that many of us get nearly enough silence in our lives. We fill empty auditory space with music and conversation and Netflix. Walking in the snow without having headphones or someone with you means that you are open to only two things to fill your mind: the vastness of the thoughts swirling in your mind, or the expanse of nature that utterly surrounds you. Both can be intimidating to confront, depending on who you are and how you feel about being alone with your thoughts or nature. When I'm out there, I can't help but feel deeply and utterly alone. Not lonely, just alone. It's a little scary, but also surprisingly freeing. And I also can't help but feel just a little adventurous. The snow gives me proof that no one else has come this way recently, no one else ventured out to see what I can see right now. The snow lets me know that I get to keep this little secret between the forest and I; we're the only ones who know what this small part of nature looked like when it snowed today.
If I can encourage anything, I would encourage this: go for a walk today. It doesn't have to be a long walk or a hike through the forest, just a walk. Find something to admire when you're out and about, whether in a city or a state park. Delight in the way snow glitters in the sunshine or watch the way that snow perches on buildings and refuses to let go. You can do it. Find a good hat and a few pairs of socks and encounter a time of year that people refuse to experience.
The last couple of times that I've ventured out, I've been especially struck by just how quiet it is in the woods. There is no season that is as perfectly silent as winter. Spring has its wind and rainstorms, summer has its cicadas and crickets, and fall has its crunchy, exponentially multiplying leaves. For all of the other parts of the year, things are moving and changing and echoing through the woods so that the silence is never really silent. That all changes in the snow. Everything, be it plants or animals, is asleep. You may come across a trail of deer tracks or coyote prints, but it seems like everything goes out of its way to give everything else its own space. The snow dampens all sound, so even your footsteps don't disrupt the perfect quiet that is being created. Where raindrops strike with their percussive rhythm, snow settles quietly wherever it lays.
The silence of the snow-covered landscape gives way to so many emotions. I can't imagine that many of us get nearly enough silence in our lives. We fill empty auditory space with music and conversation and Netflix. Walking in the snow without having headphones or someone with you means that you are open to only two things to fill your mind: the vastness of the thoughts swirling in your mind, or the expanse of nature that utterly surrounds you. Both can be intimidating to confront, depending on who you are and how you feel about being alone with your thoughts or nature. When I'm out there, I can't help but feel deeply and utterly alone. Not lonely, just alone. It's a little scary, but also surprisingly freeing. And I also can't help but feel just a little adventurous. The snow gives me proof that no one else has come this way recently, no one else ventured out to see what I can see right now. The snow lets me know that I get to keep this little secret between the forest and I; we're the only ones who know what this small part of nature looked like when it snowed today.
If I can encourage anything, I would encourage this: go for a walk today. It doesn't have to be a long walk or a hike through the forest, just a walk. Find something to admire when you're out and about, whether in a city or a state park. Delight in the way snow glitters in the sunshine or watch the way that snow perches on buildings and refuses to let go. You can do it. Find a good hat and a few pairs of socks and encounter a time of year that people refuse to experience.
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