I have always loved snow - as a writer, I seem to attach symbolism to everything, even Nature's natural shifts, turns, and surprises. I believe that nature has always meant something more than just "weather." It is God's expression of artistry, beauty, and boundlessness. Few people have stood looking at a mountain range at sunrise and not felt a pull towards something; have not attached a significance beyond their understanding to what they are observing.
What happens when the beauty of nature hits you in the face - and keeps on punching until you, the once-smitten observer, is bruised, battered, and exhausted from shovelling? "I hate snow" is just not a sentence I am used to uttering. I feel about flowers the way I used to feel about snow - I get all misty when I remember the huge peonys that will be blooming in my yard soon, if we can just make it through winter.
A neighbor's roof collapsed last week, and an ice dam that fell off our roof sheered a grand old shrub in half in my front yard. Snow flakes bring cringes, not smiles of contentment. Winter 2011 will stand in our New England memories for a long time.
