There is a paradox in the allurement of snow.

No other display of nature can arouse so wide a swath of emotion. When joy is at charge, the snow is ascribed as glittering, merry, sparkling, dazzling, and the crown of winter’s beauty. When rushed, the snow is cursed as inconvenient, a nuisance, a hazard. When sorrowful, it is oppressive, insufferable, deafening in its silent assault. It buries familiarity, yet also that which may wish to be forgotten. It amplifies light, yet limits mobility. It is the glistening, gilding of winter’s mantle, and the opaque curtain that ceases vision.

The duration of descent, the intensity of the fall, accompanied by its surrounding elemental force, and the quantity hoarded by the earth all contribute to which facade the snow dons.

When it is gentle, with but a breath or so of wind, and light cloud cover, it is peaceful. A serenity and joy well up as the docile, taciturn crystals flitter to earth. When patches of sunlight slip through, they enchant the flakes, igniting them into iridescent glitter against the backdrop of dormant trees. The modest cache retained by the earth serves as a glistening blanket, gilding the barren land. The hearts of children, and those who never lost what is important in life, are kindled with glee, wonder, and mirth

But if the clouds wax more somber, or the flitter flurries into an assault, or the wind rages, or the earth’s apatite becomes insatiable, then the silent flecks don an ominous mask. The air itself seems to soak up joy like a sponge. The horizon becomes closer as sight is squelched by the maelstrom of white. Fear like concrete sets as mobility becomes infeasible. The laughter of children is absent, and those who lost important things in life loose mournful sighs.

Oft I am tossed about the vitriolic sea of life. The tempest’s encompassing fury batters and seeks my sanity. The dark, the wind, the waves — in concert surmount their tireless sieges against my mind and toil to shatter my vessel. If I could get a moment’s solace from the relentless onslaught, I might regain bearing and better concentrate on the treacherous navigation ahead.

Music provides the ultimate refuge, but the sea is so persistent; it often dilutes the potency of music in my mind. I need first to block out the storm. Thank the good Lord and Nathaniel Baldwin for the advent of headphones. The technology is so fine that now I may cancel the cacophony encircling and retreat into the harbor of melody.

The quality of the music improves the ability to focus. Personal and intimate: allowing myself to be completely absorbed into the melody and lyric. To allow the words and rhythms to refocus, redirect, and repose my restless soul. My being seems to blend, depend, and transcend as I regain composure. I am renewed, recharged, resilient.

I retake a firm grasp of the helm, having harbored in my headphones, and steer fast in contention of the waves — forward toward shore.

I am told that like a phoenix from the ashes I rise; I was unprepared for the lay over ’til take off.

The apathy before drowning.

Not from the inability to swim, but the relentless swim to shore. At first the fight is desperate, but as I stroke and stroke without a shore in view, day in and day out, my limbs tire. After a time I begin to stop caring about reaching the shore. Then a surge of survival, revival, desire to thrive again surges and the paddle continues–though often weaker than before. Then the clouds turn from gray to nothing as darkness ensnares the ocean. All is black, then numb; I cannot distinguish the texture of the water from the oppressive night. “Rejoicing with those who rejoice” only offers solace if there are those in view rejoicing, but the few, far-out souls in the waves are also tiring of fighting the current.

In my mind, I know the unseen shore is close, but I have paddled so long I know my limbs do not have much longer. Apathy is the enemy. It is the undertow, the perilous surf, the frigid water. It is strengthened to demonic levels by the oppressive night of circumstance that suffocates the ocean and masks any shore. I know that on shore I can reconnect, renew, redirect, resurrect, but I must fight apathy.

And then I feel it. The beacon on shore. On shore? Above shore? Above the dark? Transcending? Descending? Wherever it is, I feel it. I cannot see it, but I feel the light, as if it had solidified and trails across the infinite abyss of soul and psyche: a lifeline from God. As long as I feel the light, I can pull my self to shore, or at least tie it around my waist and be slowly pulled until I have the strength to fight the sea anew.