A Gift of Impermanence

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As I sit here, the sun is coming up through the window just to my right. Now, the light is splintering through the corner of my glasses and the yellow orange glow is starting to reflect off the warm earthy orange walls of my office space. It’s nice to savor this moment, because I know it will be gone in just a few more breaths. It will change; it will be different that it is right now.

Life is like this moment; it’s an ever-changing kaleidoscope of constant change. Creation is perpetual, always and forever manifesting Itself as things that well up into existence, look one way for a brief moment, and then shape-shift into what looks like something else for another moment. Things are constantly coming and going, shifting and moving; and yet, the world often seems so predictable and permanent that I just keep my nose to life’s grindstone and don’t even bother looking up to witness and appreciate the unfolding cosmic play. Most of the time, I’m living on the assumption that everything I have in my world will be exactly as it is today, tomorrow.

And then, inevitably, thankfully, something comes along to shake me back into awareness. Sadly, often it takes the death of someone I know to come back to the reality that all of us are going to make an exit at some point, that our lives as we know them are quite impermanent. We’re here for just a blink of an eye, and then we move on. Other times, the shaking by the shoulders into reality comes with something very lovely, like a breathtaking sunset that streaks across the whole sky for a few minutes, then Etch-a-Sketches itself into darkness. Two days ago, my shake came in the form of beautiful, white snow.

Snowfall is very common in the world, of course, but it’s a rarity where I live in southeast Texas. I’m 52 years old and have only seen snow here about 3 or 4 times. We often get flurries and “wintry mix,” which is wet and sleet-like, but the snow hardly ever accumulates on the ground or in trees. When it does “stick,” it only sticks around very briefly. Well, four days ago it was 80 degrees here and the next day a cold front moved in. The day after that, at 5:45 the flakes started coming down. It was totally unexpected. Big, fat, fluffy snowflakes – no wintry mix – poured down for several hours. I’ve never seen that sort of snowfall here. We stepped outside into a winter wonderland. It felt like that moment in The Wizard of Oz, where Dorothy opens her door from black and white world into technicolor. Otherworldly.

Because this is such a rare occurrence, and one that is impermanent, snow here is like magic falling from the sky. Neighbors old and young were out in the streets, giddy like little kids, running up and down, laughing, shouting, “Can you believe this?!” After a couple of hours, everything was covered in a beautiful, soft, white, sparkling, gorgeous blanket of peace that landed on everyone and everything. That’s the thing about snow; the gift of it is a present for all, everyone and everything, not just some people and some things. It’s such a lovely equalizer of beauty and abundance that seamlessly stretches from one house to another, turning separations into a unified singularity. Each tree limb – large and small – was graced with a God-kissed highlight of Presence, and every house received free postcard-like holiday decorations. There was so much reflective light, even at 11pm, that it looked like daytime outside. All of us out there were fully aware of the miracle. Yes, indeed. That’s what it was.

I even cancelled my class the next morning, declaring a snow day. I knew all of it would go away quickly, so I wanted to go down to the park and take pictures and walk in it, hearing that sound of snow compressing under my feet that I typically only hear when I go to Colorado. I just wanted to savor the whole experience. It had already faded a great deal overnight, but was still so incredibly beautiful. The soft blue light of the early morning was magnified by the reflection of it in the snow. Every few breaths, I could see the change, the constant newness. A hint of blue sky began to peek through the gray and soon, the sun began rising, adding warm golden hues to the cool blue-grays. Little by little it began to look like snow falling all over again, as the white, dusky flakes started to fall from the trees. Once the sun came up in the sky, the glitter began its dance all across the white. Exquisite. Breathtaking. I knew all of this would be gone within a few hours. Such impermanence. And because I know it would be gone soon, I found myself drinking in as much as I could through all my senses.

And, sure enough, by 4pm, it was all gone. Except for a few bits of snow still on rooftops facing north, there was no evidence of what just happened. The grass is still green and the sky is blue. But everything is radically different. I’m different.

I’m so grateful for this gift of wonderful, miraculous, unexpected snow, which came and went in less than 24 hours. May it help me to stay present, appreciating and savoring each moment in my life, finding the wonder and beauty in the so-called everyday mundane. May it help me let go of what I think I’m so sure about so I can be a more full participant in this cosmic play, this ongoing dance of change and impermanence. May I remember to lift my head and keep looking and noticing the miracle, which is always present and always ongoing. Today, I’m choosing to not miss a thing.

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