I grew up in England. In a place that knew winter only for a brief time. Snow was a holiday, a moment that never lingered. Wet snow that soaked through knitted mittens. Hastily rolled snowmen that had grass and mud still clinging to them. A furrow left behind that quickly melted. We thought that Spring was so far away and we grumbled for the one month when the rain was ceaseless and our clothes never seemed to dry.
When I went to Canada I was innocent of cold. Enamoured by the sudden novelty of Alberta Winters that quickly bleached away the green. Scarves stiff, eyelashes full of frozen tears, snow that squeaked. Huge snow banks that outlined the grey roads and provided memes throughout the season.
I distinctly remember my first snow flake. Standing in a black coat on remembrance day and in that minute of silence one snowflake gently falling on my sleeve. A perfect shape. Up until then I thought these were only visible under microscopes, a myth of science that something so intricate could exist. But there it was. Six small lines, edges cut from ice. A perfect shape that slowly melted and was replaced by another. Fascination blotted out the cold. The bitter temperatures were a trial endured. A badge sewn on my imaginary cloak that announced I knew what minus 40 was, I was tough.
Then I moved to a different part of Canada. A gentler part that reminded me of my beginning. Green that remained, cold that billowed but did not sting. I was still not used to how long a season would last. Weeks of storm and static interference of flakes falling. Wooden house shaking in a snow globe that never ceased.
I learnt the different songs of snow. The squeak of cold snow. The silence when the wind stops and white falls like a soft blanket, enveloping all noise. The difference between snowflakes. What each type meant. Big snow equals little snow, the sayings that were recited like a spell as if they would provide mastery over weather that appeared like a tantrum. A spoiled child shaking the contents of a toy box over the floor.
I saw the world made anew. A blank page that waited to be written. Tiny pawprints wandering in between the trees, telling a story in gentle cursive. The imprints of wings as birds came for food and left perfect outlines embossed. Minimalist art that never stayed.
Over the winter months I became increasingly hungry for colour and detail. English spring felt genetic, as if at a certain time I knew to expect flowers but instead there was only more snow.
I came to know white outs and that feeling of having your world erased. The scare of trying to find your way back when, in all possibility, the destination has vanished. Fear of feeling small and held captive in a maelstrom that shakes the walls and covers the windows with paper.
Winter is endurance and silence. It’s a world made beautiful with no mistakes.
Seasons turn and remind us that everything is constantly moving. Even at times when we feel too anchored and stuck, everything is still shifting around us. Winter teaches patience and changes our observations. The highlights on branches, the way the snow folds and swallows what we left behind. We can walk a new path and pretend that we are the only traveler. Our own story written across vellum. Winter is a time to gather the remnants of the year and sew them into a plan for the next. It is a time for optimism and the knowledge that colours may be sleeping but they will wake and we will be all the merrier in Spring because now we know the starkness of absence.
Lily Ogden originally from England now resides in the wilds of Cape Breton, Nova Scotia, Canada. Late diagnosed Autistic she has always had an appreciation for the small hitherto unnoticed things which have always inspired her creativity. She is an artist and writer, currently editing her first novel.
Academy of the Heart And Mind 