When I was a little girl, days like today were about one thing…hitting the trail to Grandma’s house, taking to my orange sled and going for a whirl down the hill. I’d trudge all the way up the snowy hill in the field behind her house for that brief moment of blasting out of control to the bottom.
Tolerating the cold feet, chapped lips, and chaffed cheeks were all worth it to feel one thing – wrecklessly out of control.
A few years ago, I went with some friends to Stone Mountain, Georgia and felt the thrill of sliding down a giant snowy hill again. This time in a giant intertube in manufactured ice but nonetheless, I recaptured the magic of pushing up a hill in anticipation of the downward spiral.
Sledding is one of life’s ironic activities. We painfully walk up, fighting the elements, for a few seconds of bliss that always ends way too abruptly and many times in a puddle of muddy, icy yuck.
Maybe it’s having too much time to think on a snow day but when I remember the little girl sliding down the hill at Grandma’s house, I see a girl with a Type A mindset struggling to maintain control, all the while screaming down the hill. I don’t really relate to that girl anymore. With the passage of decades, my Type A has slid down the alphabet to Type Z.
The beauty of snow, just like the passing of time, is it takes the control right out of you. It shuts everyone and everything up. And, the joy of reflecting back on a childhood snow day as an adult is that you’ve loosened the reigns on that control. You appreciate the scream and you yell louder, shouting, maybe even cursing… appreciating the few seconds of bliss for exactly what they are.
Freedom in the moment. Freedom to breathe and be.
Freedom to be a kid on a snow day.