I watch from my window in the Pocono Mountains as the snow begins its slow descent. It does not fall. It performs. Each flake arrives like a well-rehearsed dancer, light on its feet, floating with confidence, absolutely certain it will be admired. And it is. Oh yes, it is. Snow has never suffered from low self esteem.
It looks gentle. It looks harmless. It looks like something you could trust with your secrets and maybe even your savings account. It lies there, white and virginal, pretending to be the very definition of innocence. Snow has an excellent public relations team.
I look around carefully. No witnesses. This is important. Because the moment you are seen talking to snow, society begins to worry about you. I step outside. The snow beckons. Come closer, it whispers. Touch me. I am purity. I am beauty. I am Christmas card material.
I reach out and hold it in my hands.
And immediately, the truth reveals itself.
The bitter cold wraps itself around my fingers like a tax notice. My breath freezes halfway between confidence and regret. The snow smiles. Not a warm smile. A smug one. It chuckles. Then it laughs out loud.
You got fooled by my looks, it cries. You always do.
And that is when it hits me. Snow is not just weather. Snow is a philosophy.
Because how often does this happen to us. Power arrives looking noble. Authority walks in dressed as responsibility. And the politician is the first to be seduced. He speaks softly, not to convince the people, but to convince himself. He promises gently, smiles often, believing his own reflection. Power flatters him. Authority reassures him. The mirror nods approvingly.
The preacher follows close behind. Hands raised heavenward, voice trembling with conviction, he mistakes applause for anointing and influence for divine approval. Authority feels holy. Power feels deserved. He tells himself it is all for a higher cause, even as the cold begins to creep in.
The words fall like snowflakes, not upon the people, but upon their own souls. Beautiful. Gentle. Soothing. And slowly, almost imperceptibly, the cold sets in. Power numbs the fingers. Authority hardens the heart. What began as calling becomes possession. What began as service becomes entitlement.
Snow does this every day. So does charm. So does flattery. So does that sidelong, flirtatious glance that pretends to be innocent but carries a suitcase packed with consequences. So does the heavily padded remark that sounds harmless but lands like ice on bare skin.
Snow never announces its danger. It never sends warnings. It simply settles in, quiet and white, until the warmth is gone and the damage is done. Roofs collapse. Roads freeze. Fingers go numb. And still, it looks beautiful from the window.
Tomorrow morning, we will stand there again. Coffee in hand. Safe and warm. We will sigh. We will say how lovely it looks. We will take photographs. We will romanticise it. We will forget yesterday’s frozen fingers.
Because that is what humans do.
We fall in love with appearances. Wisdom comes later. Often too late, and usually after the snow has finished laughing…!
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