It's hard to explain this emotion - something akin to relief or release or perhaps a cosmic permission to cry. Snow seems to hold both hope and wisdom. The assurance of difficult, shivering, huddled, dark days and the promise of some future melting and a new life that emerges, as long as you can just make it through. Hold fast.
But with all the harshness of winter there is a softness to snow. It can cushion blows and falls. It muffles harsh sounds, blanketing the world in bright quiet. It can be balled up and thrown, then simply burst into a hundred harmless playful pieces. It invites a fresh first step, a feather-light handful, an outstretched tongue.
It invokes childhood tales of faraway worlds, explored from the glowing warm safety of home. Fawns and witches and lamp posts. Creatures abominable, terrifying, brought to life.
I have no idea what this winter holds. But its a comfort to look outside and see snow falling. Like it's just another year - like this cycle continues independent of the horrors we are living. A promise that this too shall pass and we can emerge on the other side with the hope of life.