Jan 15

Snow

Snow covers the ground like a thick, fluffy blanket. Everywhere you look there is snow. Piled on the deck, stacked on top of the roof, laying across the paths, and sifting itself onto tree boughs. Falling like cotton balls from the sky, each tiny flake lands next to another other which is next to another which is next to trillions of others. Each flake is different with it’s own points and crystals, it’s own beauty, it’s own time to fall and it’s own time to land and it’s own time to melt. It’s own story laying down next to another story next to a trillion other stories. And I like to imagine each of those snowflakes sitting in the crowd of others, asking the one beside them, “Who are you?” “Where did you come from?” “How was your journey down from the sky?” Cause, even with snowflakes, getting to know the story of the one next to you begins with a question.

And all stories: written and told and lived, start with a question.

And the answers—the stories themselves—are as different and beautiful as the trillions of snowflakes falling one after the other after the other after the other from the sky.

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