The Concert Dance of Snowfall

A coyote howls, having just caught fresh prey; a snow bunny struggles unsuccessfully, aching to break free. A sleeping brown bear is tucked away, snoring deeply, and she is curled around her year-old cub. Red-bellied robins sing songs about the liberty and freedom of flight. 

The forest smells of dewy pine needles, of auburn sap before it is boiled into sticky maple syrup. This place is filled with youthful flourishing air that gently tickles the skin - it’s the nipping cold that awakens the body into recognizing the beauty of nature. 

The Canadian North feels juvenile, even though it’s growing old with age. An age that’s hidden in the rings of tree trunks. Each ring is the story of a year, and some trees have a thousand tales to tell. Their ancient roots have been growing and spreading underground for a long time, so long that they have known the land longer than the first humans to step foot on Canadian soil. No one would know this just from a simple glance at those trees, but sometimes if one stands and closes their eyes, they can feel the truth in their bones. 

The land is mostly untouched, with only the occasional sprinkling of winter lakeside cabins. 

The place is called Muskoka. For some, it’s a second home, a safe place to escape the mundane routine of daily life. 

A woman, tired from being overworked at the hospital (she is a nurse), makes the long drive up to her cottage. She knows she’s there when the red roof peeks out, smiling at her through the dark branches of the naked maple trees. 

There hasn’t been much snow yet, so her driveway only wears a thin blanket, and her 2010 Honda Civic rolls easily up the gravel to the garage. She heaves the heavy door open using the rusty handle that needed replacement four years ago, then returns to her car to park it inside.     

The woman sighs with relief, knowing relaxation: a steaming cup of eucalyptus tea and a good book are just on the other side of the door. She steps inside, minding to keep her wet boots on the welcome mat. She stomps to shake off any excess snow. 

She keeps her closet full here so that she can make an easy escape from the city with no proper planning. She can leave whenever she feels the need to. Although, because there is no electricity, she is careful to keep her clothes clean so that she doesn’t have to return them to her downtown apartment for a wash. All she brings is a small handbag filled with extra pairs of underwear, bras and socks. She slips into her pyjamas and pulls on a cozy pair of socks.  

The stairs creak under her feet, but she doesn’t mind the sound and ignores the fact that they might need replacing. This place belonged to her grandparents at one point. When they passed, the place was left in her name. She could have had it torn down and built anew, but she enjoyed knowing the walls were filled with so much family history; she didn’t want to lose that. On the walls hang pictures of her grandparents as a young and fruitful couple so clearly in love. The woman has her grandma’s cow brown eyes and her grandpa’s slightly crooked but playful smile. 

In the fireplace are fresh logs. The woman sets them ablaze and hangs a metal bowl used for boiling water above the crimson flames. When the water is bubbling, she pours it into her best mug and steeps the teabag. She lights candles and places them around the couch to provide the perfect light for reading. 

Outside, the sun is starting to dip low, reflecting its golden light across the frozen water of Lake Muskoka. Large snowflakes are beginning to fall quickly, but the woman doesn’t know this until she draws the dusty curtains open, filling the cabin’s darkness with the sun. She stands, mesmerized by the view, ignoring her tea and novel. A grand stage, covered in a white as pure as a conch shell, is revealed to her. The sundown resembles the pink that glistens from the inside of these shells. She opens the door and feels cool air rushing through the amphitheatre of her backyard. As if in a trance, with eyes mirroring the sunset, she reaches for her boots and a coat. As she steps across the fresh snowfall, the concert dance begins and unfolds in front of her like this: 

A symphony begins strumming light acoustic chords of a guitar or a ukulele. The music stirs her to drift along with the orchestra’s rhythm and melody. The sun is pouring bright as ever through the powdery sky, and its spotlight beams down upon the woman, its warmth tingling the skin of her rosy cheeks. Late afternoon greets her freckles as she smiles. Her face pulls tight, and the cold spreads, but she doesn’t seem to notice it. 

She heard the trees - no longer naked like they were on her drive up - whispering of their new comfort. They say: “We enjoy the brilliant, warm company of the milk dyed blanket, which twirls lovingly around us.”

The trees and the snow begin dancing a beautiful winter waltz as a cold wind shakes the hands of the tree branches, allowing the snowflakes to flutter into center stage. At first, the snow spins away from its partner, pirouetting to the beat of the music - the beat of the woman’s heart that guides their careful footsteps. She leads the twinkling flakes to settle, matching the tempo of their friend again - the black boughs of maples. 

The sun grows big as it touches the stage’s horizon, and the woman knows the dance will end soon. She returns to her cottage and closes the curtains, surrounding herself in comforting candlelit darkness. She warms up her tea and finally immerses herself in the pages of her book. 

This is the woman’s asylum from the stress of her reality; this is where she is most happy.