I arrived home after teaching yesterday evening to a yard delicately draped in white. I only taught one lesson. I had no voice and my lungs were tight. The house was quiet except for Rhavanea’s pleas for notice. I stepped into the backyard to spend a moment. To listen. And I heard.
Snow is a wondrous thing. It makes the world seem as one as far as your eye can see. It makes the world seem new. It ushers in a fresh purpose and vision. We long for it, to see it last, but our eyes are so easily moved away from the new. So quickly. Black ice. Yellowing snow. Brown earth breaking through. The purity is gone.
I went out and I found 21 perfectly formed snowflakes. Those 21 represented the lives stolen from this earth by the blade of a sword almost two weeks ago. I begged my eyes not to blink as each flake melted into its place in the woven white blanket. My heart broke as each one left and I could no longer distinguish it from any other flake that had gone before it. Until I looked up and took a step forward. Each flake was a building block. The more flakes piled up, the louder my footsteps. Each step I took was held up by thousands upon thousands of flakes and I heard their cries. Each one drove me forward.
My heart will always long to see the towering trees drenched in white pearls and frozen lace. How quickly my eyes will flicker and see only the skin of this world. But my heart. My heart will march on and see beyond this mere shell, stirred by the cries and the hope of 21 snowflakes.