It is now 2025, and still no snow. The rain came pouring, and the water levels rose, leaving us with no white Christmas. At best, there are some frosty spirits here and there. With the holidays packed up, there seems to be just a slight lack of magic in my life.
Even so, part of me keeps watching the clouds and listening for the soft silence that means snow—preparing for both the imminent winter and the joy of slush. In my mind, snow will allow my little family to bundle up with our coffees, warm up the house, and watch the neighborhood kids drag their sleds across the backyard—that peaceful wonder that is just so picturesque.
My memories of snow are protected by a shimmer of fondness. I do not remember watching the fridge get empty as the snow days progressed; rather, I remember the trips walking as a family to the grocery store to get milk. It is not the collapse of a greenhouse from the weight of the snow that stands out, but the igloo my brother was able to build from the runoff that year. Not that the power went out; alternatively, we got to cuddle around the fireplace for an evening. Childhood memories have an enchanted way of making even a dark day seem fun.
All of these memories are surrounded by the fact that the most magical view is The Garden Corner, covered with a fresh blanket of fluffy flurries on the ground. Pathways unmarked, waiting for footprints to stomp a pattern. Fountains freeze and glitter as light filters through. It is as if the place is holding its breath, waiting for a snowball to roll through.
Last year, the ice brought a new level of beauty as everything was crystallized. Sprouting patterns of ice webbing through the aisles, the pathway transformed into a small series of skating tracks. Newborn baby Holland took deep slumbering naps bundled up in the stroller while I sat admiring the chills with a cup of coffee. It was a more peaceful form of magic. An easy rhythm that set upon a world, literally frozen for a moment. It’s the perfect transition back to work, in my opinion. It was a year to look forward to.
This year, it has been a little bit of a rough transition. There is no snow to enjoy and fewer slumbering naps, leaving me less time to enjoy my coffee. As days pass, the thoughts of cheerful, dazzling winter displays fade ever so slightly. The hope that my husband and I will spend a day home together without one of us being ill or busy starts to disappear. Hopes of snowy moments vanish as quickly as the Christmas lights from the rooftops. A depressing heaviness was carried into 2025. On the first day of the new year, the walls seemed to close in, and in a moment of great desperation, Holland and I went outside.
Praying for a nice nap after spending some time in the fresh air. Stomping through the rain that has backed up to form a small river up and down the street. Cars rushing past, in a frenzied hurry to get somewhere. It was less than exciting. Suddenly, Holland paused; she knelt in the dirt, inspecting a plant ever so carefully. I sighed, knowing her outfit would now need to be changed (again). Then, she pointed and called me over, “Mama!” Under the leaves was a stark white Hellebore bud. A winter bloom as white as snow. It was like a breath of fresh air, that sliver of that winter magic I had been awaiting. There, lying in the mud, almost washed away, was a symbol of peace and beauty that I had been searching for.
So, while I still patiently await the arrival of snow, I know that, at the very least, I can enjoy my garden that is showing the first signs of life in the new year, a year that comes with hellebores and high water will be a year
