Deep Peace

My feet hit the warm Saltillo tile floor a little after 6. It’s still dark, thanks to the recent changeover to Daylight Savings Time. I sleepily pull on a robe and creep down the hall, trying not to wake Cal. Chloe is panting behind me. Each morning, we get the paper together—one of her few chores --- and then I feed her breakfast. She wriggles and wags and snorts, anticipating both—like they are joyful surprises that blow her mind, not rituals we do every single day.

I open the front door, step out into the cold, and --- wow! Snow! Not a little snow, either. More like 5 inches. Unusual for March 22, but not unheard of here in the high desert. It can snow here through May. But this is a surprise, and a delightful one. The world is pearlescent in the rising light. Trees, rocks, cholla (the ubiquitous cactus with the nasty thorns); the coyote fences; the adobe homes that snuggle down into the land around us. All are frosted. The scene is a tapestry of whites, blues, purples and greys, and it is deeply, profoundly quiet. The whole world sleeps, rests, heals.

I think of the song “Deep Peace” by Bill Douglas; the choral version with its low, rumbling, resonant voices—a wall of sound that doesn’t so much hit you as flow through you. I think of the Eskimos, with their dozens of words for snow. You’d need every one of them to describe this morning.

Later, when the sun rises, this will be dazzling—so bright it’s hard to look at. A little later than that, it will be gone. Here in the high desert, snow doesn’t melt. It just disappears. Something about the aridity and the brilliance of the sun. What’s the scientific word for it? When things go directly from solid to gas? Sublimation? Lots of sublimating going on around here. A thing is there. And then it’s not.

I am still enough of a California kid to get excited when it snows. Especially when it’s a surprise, like this. A part of our New Mexico experiment was to figure out if we could live in it. Cal grew up in Iowa, so he knows snow and cold. Me, with 90 percent time in California, 5 percent time in Hawaii, and one odd little dribble in Louisiana, not so much. Could I thrive?

I could. I did. I loved the snow. I wish we’d had more of it. Like every other state in the West, New Mexico is gripped in a merciless drought. We got plenty of cold—times when the mercury dipped below zero. But with the penetrating sun, it never felt that cold. When I checked the temperature on my phone, the number often surprised me. The precipitation this winter was paltry, and the locals are nervous about that. Maybe when the monsoons come this summer, we’ll make up some ground.

Did you ever notice how each snowfall has its own personality?

The Rowdy Party: We got our first big dump New Year’s Eve, and woke to a dazzling world of white. We headed out to the northern-most trails of the Eldorado Preserve and hiked through the white drifts, wending our way through blanketed trees. We called hearty “Happy New Years!” to fellow hikers we encountered; sharing a delighted sense that we were here, in this wonderful place, on this day of new beginnings. The dog, as is her way, lost her mind. She sprinted and romped and cavorted in the strange, wonderful stuff; sniffing, spinning, sprinting ahead and circling back-. She logged at least five miles for every one of ours. This snowfall was a party; the perfect way to welcome a new year.

The Quiet Gift: One night, as we came out of the Santa Fe Playhouse after sampling some terrific local theater, there were big, fat flakes falling silently from the sky. They drifted down through the dark hypnotically, eventually catching the lights along East De Vargas street as they neared the ground. We made our way past the oldest house in town; past the little jewel box that is the Inn of the Five Graces. It was a quiet, sacred moment; a little gift; a contemplative extension of the artistry we had just witnessed in the theater.

Wonder and Awe: And then, there was this morning, a dreamlike, indigo dawn. A profound sense of connection to the world. It’s an overused word, awe. But it fits here.

With props to Bill Douglas:

Deep peace, of the running wave to you

Deep peace, of the flowing air to you

Deep peace, of the quiet earth to you

Deep peace, of the shining stars to you

Deep peace, of the gentle night to you

Moon and stars, pour their healing light on you.

Go find a clip of this song (I'd embed it, but I think that violates an intellectual property thing). It will tell you more about the power of a snowy down than I can capture here. And in a world in need of healing, I think we should seize the moments wherever we find them.