Deep, heavy snow erased the land and rendered it in black and white. It clings to every branch and twig in marshmallowy fatness. There are no things now, no color, only white blobs. Every branch is burdened, bowed or broken. Some limbs, overloaded, crack and fall and sigh and settle back into snow's old silence. The path is blocked by fallen trees and snow-bent boughs, stooped the way sorrows weigh you down. Every tree and hillock is disguised. Nothing looks the same. The way has vanished. I have to pick my way around these heaped up baskets of bent and fallen branches covering the trail. I lose my way. I could turn back—my fingers are cold, my feet are wet, I'm hungry for breakfast, and I'm not sure of the way. But I am as changed as the woods. I might stand here till I become a snowy mound, one with this sparking silence. Why wouldn't I find a way for amazement? Why not endure hurt or hunger for gratitude? Isn't beauty the way? Even in struggle, isn't wonder the path?
—March 15, 2018