Snow has become an omnipresent part of my life for the past few weeks. If it’s not actively falling, it’s blowing or swirling or reflecting the tired sunlight or clinging to my shoes or melting off of roofs and dripping down to land on the exposed skin between my hat and the back of my coat collar as I walk into buildings…

I can’t hate snow. I curse it when it meddles with my travel plans, and it makes me wary of other drivers who may or may not know how to steer their sled-cars through the slop, but I can’t hate snow. It’s too fascinating. No two snowfalls are the same and even within one snow storm it changes shape and texture from time to time. One moment huge flakes sink heavily groundward and the next, tiny white flakes slant crazily into buildings, cars, and eyes. All the while, it carefully whitewashes the drab browns and greys of the winter ground. And sometimes, when the weather is just warm enough for snow but so cold that the snow is frozen more solidly than normal, it covers the ground in airy drifts of glittery whiteness, sparkling crazily in defiance of the cold.

But even beyond it’s beauty, snow serves an important function in my early winter existence: it serves as a clear and constant reminder that we have not yet reached the coldest months of the winter. During those coldest months, it’s actually too cold to snow. Let me repeat that: Too Cold To Snow. That’s far too cold. So for now, while it snows nearly every day, I will enjoy the snow not only for itself but also for it’s affirmation that things are not yet consistently, painfully, ridiculously cold.