Snow

A snowfall, a stalled essay, and the joy of being three again

I am looking out the window on the 35th floor as snow swirls through the air, blurring the crisp graphics of the bright signs illuminating Times Square in the distance. It is 6 a.m., and the world is still dark here in New York City.

And I am gloriously happy.

I am visiting my brother in Manhattan this weekend, and it happens to be exactly two years since the last full day of my U.S. road trip. I was in this same apartment on that day, December 14, 2023, rising in the darkness at 5 a.m. I made my way to the subway, caught a train to Brooklyn Bridge station, and climbed the steps to a still-dark city. I walked empty streets to the entrance of the pedestrian walkway and stepped onto the bridge.

After countless sunrise moments in national parks, on mountains, and beside lakes, I wanted the final sunrise of my trip to be here—on the Brooklyn Bridge—looking out over the East River and across the rooftops of the city.

New York City is my hometown, and for a short time after college, I lived in Brooklyn and worked in downtown Manhattan. I would occasionally walk home over the bridge, easing the worries and insecurities of a freshly minted architecture graduate mile by mile. The view, through the cables and up toward the stone towers, never failed to lift my heart.

That morning two years ago was everything I hoped it would be. I lingered at mid-span, watching the sky shift from the palest yellow to blush pink to deep rose, and finally to orange as the sun peeked above the rooftops and the East River glistened below. The only thing that could have made it better? Snow. I would have gladly traded all that color for a swirl of white encircling me on the bridge.

That’s how much I love snow.

This morning, I sat down early at the desk by the window, intending to finish this week’s essay—the second in a three-part series about that U.S. road trip. But gazing out at the snow, imagining the quiet beauty of the city below, I couldn’t focus. I just wanted to be outside. The harder I tried to work, the more distracted I became.

And then it dawned on me.

One of the things I love most about snow is how it disrupts the order of things—how it tosses plans into the air and freshens up life. Why not let that happen now?

I grabbed Leo’s leash and headed down the elevator for a long walk as the city slept on beneath its blanket of white.

________

Close your eyes and picture me outside, smiling, saying hello to the few people I passed, coaxing smiles from them in return before running with Leo through the falling snow.

________

Can you see it? Or perhaps you see yourself there instead?

I am back at my desk now, my wet sneakers and socks drying on the radiator (because I didn’t bother to check the weather forecast before driving down from Boston on Friday). A snowfall has interrupted my regularly scheduled plans, and I am elated.

I have loved snow since, well…. since forever. When it begins to fall, I am transported back in time. I close my eyes and I am three years old again, my chin barely resting on the windowsill of my childhood home on Staten Island. Outside, our tiny front yard and neighborhood have been transformed into a fairy tale. I feel two seemingly conflicting emotions that coexist easily within me: excitement and anticipation about going out to play, and at the same time, a deep and complete sense of contentment. All is right with the world.

I don’t long to be three again; I simply soak up the feeling. Still, my snow crush can feel a little embarrassing. I often find myself apologizing for it when I explain my delight to new friends. Does it make me less grown up? Less serious? After all, a snowstorm can be dangerous. It can knock out power, cause accidents, strand people without heat or food. Cars crash. People slip and fall.

And yet, can the joys of childhood still fit inside an adult who understands all of that? I believe they can. It feels like a quietly radical act to embrace the delight of a three-year-old sticking out her tongue to catch snowflakes, even while my responsible adult self understands the risks that a storm can bring.

My love of snow—my three-year-old joy—is really about permission. Permission to stop working and go play with Leo. Permission to set aside a carefully planned essay in favor of an unexpected diversion brought on by white flakes outside the window. Permission to forget, for a little while, what I should be doing and move fully forward with what I want to do. As adults, how often do we allow ourselves that freedom? Falling snow nudges me to remember to live and laugh amid all my responsibilities.

Snow also gives me permission to talk to strangers. This morning, I greeted everyone I passed. The man shoveling in front of the diner smiled and wished me a good morning. A woman walking her tiny poodle confided that she worried he was too cold, then laughed when Leo rubbed noses with her beloved dog.

Snow is an invitation to open my doors and welcome neighbors in for hot chocolate and cookies. Sometimes it even forges new connections when plans fall apart. A freak 14 inches of snow in Vermont last year at Thanksgiving sent a number of residents to the local pub the day after, seeking solace after snow upended their holiday plans. I spent two hours laughing and connecting with people who have become friends.

It is also an invitation to play. To have snowball fights, to build forts in the park, to make snow angels on unblemished pavement and grass that will guard the world as it sleeps.

I’ve come to believe that my adult experience of snow is simply looking through a different window—one that still opens onto wonder, connection, and joy, if I’m willing to pause. And to put on my scarf and mittens and head outside.

As I sit here finishing this impromptu essay, I feel grateful. If we can each name one thing that carries us back to the joy and innocence of childhood, that knowledge can steady us when life feels heavy. It can add a special sparkle to an ordinary day.

To feel three again is a gift. My chin no longer rests on the windowsill as I stand watching the flakes fall—but no matter. I am transported and uplifted. You will find me at my best in the swirling snow, and afterward, in a cozy kitchen, preparing warm food and drink for friends and family.

And when the next snowstorm comes, you will find my door open.
Come in. Stay a while.