The forecast of snow always arrives with dread: I worry about the plants in the garden, I worry about shoveling the sidewalk in front of our house (and the shame of doing it later than our neighbors), I worry about the likelihood that the Department of Sanitation, whose primary purpose during a snowstorm is to clear the roads for the minority of people who own cars instead of the majority who use sidewalks, will not pick up the trash and recycling for several weeks or longer, leaving narrow pathways between the leaning banks of garbage bags and the buildings, pathways on which it would be impossible to pass someone in a socially distant manner. This year, I worry about the disruption to my schedule of working and not-working, a schedule that is arbitrary -- there's no reason to do anything at a particular time within any twenty-four hour period -- but whose routine has become a source of comfort, and the potential disruption a source of concern.
But after the snow arrives and I've shoveled and salted the sidewalk and rearranged the garbage bags and shaken the branches of our most fragile trees, I try to go out where I can see it with new eyes.
And as I walk along Riverside Drive, a kind of gratitude gradually replaces my dread. The snow may be disruptive but it is beautiful. This insight is not new, but is one that needs to be re-experienced to be re-understood.
The river has a different personality in the snow, the small waves and ripples spellbound under a blanket of mist.
The glow of a lamplight cuts through the black and white.
In the snow, the bridge seems less real than symbolic, a reminder that we are here but could be somewhere else.
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