On New Year’s morning, just after the calendar year shifted from one page to another, snow began falling over our house. By the time I woke up, it had layered everything in several inches, and a characteristic quiet had settled over the block, silencing the popping fireworks and cheering which had sounded only hours before, as we all said good riddance to a very difficult year.
Combined with the morning light, it was the kind of snow that painted the air in a lilac hue, and the view out my window was so stunning, so serene, that I didn’t know what else to do but brew a cup of coffee, put on my coat and boots, and walk outside.
For the past several years, I have regularly started my mornings with writing—writing and prayer and coffee—which have all become quite connected. But for the past month, I have been trying to rest my writing brain. I have been making her wait until later in the day to work, or just making her wait altogether. As it turns out, this has been somewhat of a challenge. As I have granted my writing brain more space to roam, it seems like she only wants more—more time, more space, more attention. Sometimes, I feel like I will never be able to satiate her; she is always asking, asking, asking. When do we get to work?
I am grateful for this problem, especially because I spent so many years trying to hush her up, quiet her down, ignore her, button her up. At the same time, I want to slow down her chatter—not to make her go away, but to drape her with some fresh snow, to sit for a moment in awe while the world ripens into daylight. Writing serves me, but it also pushes me up to the edge of my growth, my questions, and my fears, and demands that I grapple with them.
I didn’t want to start this new year grappling. I wanted to start it by sitting on the porch swing, watching the snow fall, noticing how it illuminates everything, yet also makes the world so quiet, quiet, quiet.
I am reminded of one of my favorite poems from Wendell Berry, “Like Snow.” It’s very short—only a few lines long—but says so much. (You can go read it now, and then return, or just get lost in the poetry, which I also support.)
It’s that last line— “leaving nothing out”—which compels me. I often joke that I have arrived at the writing life backwards—a good story for another day—and I find myself regularly trying to “raise the jumps” on myself, as Julia Cameron might say, before I have done the simple next thing. So, as this new year begins, I find myself wondering with Berry and with the snow and with the quiet voice of Love: what might it mean to “leav[e] nothing out”?
My writing brain and I are returning to our regular practice this week, and we are both happy about it. But I want to remember that our year started with watching the snow, the kind that came while I slept and stilled the anxious noise within and without for a few hours, and didn’t forget about a single thing.
Happy New Year, friends.