It snowed yesterday and the
day before and the day before that. Snow, snow, snow. Some people say that
there are as many as 52 names for snow in Inuktitut. That may be an
exaggeration but there seems to at least be these ones: aput 'snow on the ground', qana
'falling snow', piqsirpoq 'drifting snow', and qimuqsuq 'a snow
drift.'
We should have more names for
snow. For example it would be good to have a name for disappearing snow. That’s
what’s happening here today and, though I complained about being housebound,
about the slippery streets, and about the cold, I’ll be sorry to see it go,
because soon I’ll start worrying about whether the coming summer is going to
bring us the heat waves and forest fires we saw last year.
In Orman Pamuk’s poignant
political thriller Snow, “the silence
of the snow” is a theme throughout the novel. The Snow Palace Hotel, where the
protagonist Ka stays, is in the snowbound city of Kars. The snow symbolizes a
world which is cut off from the outside world and also the apathy of its
residents.
Snow is often used as a symbol in
literature. I recently read Edith Wharton’s wonderful 1911 novel, Ethan Frome, set in a town in which
winter represents isolation and unhappiness, yet there is also reference to
“the crystal clearness” of the winter. In Shakespeare snow can refer to purity,
chastity, or the decline of old age.
Snow can have positive or
negative implications or sometimes both, as in the final words of James Joyce’s
The Dead: ‘His
soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe
and faintly falling, like the descent of their latter end, upon all the living
and the dead.’ Some critics have claimed the snow here represents death and
desolation, but surely it also suggests the opportunity for renewal and another
chance. Sometimes the bleakest scenario offers the chance to turn things
around.
That’s how I see it. Sometimes things seem hopeless, like yesterday’s New York Times article on global warming entitled “Time to Panic,” yet I am determined to believe that individual action can prompt political action and we can turn things around.
I’m going to keep in my mind the image of the
beautiful labyrinth that artist and poet Sophia Rosenberg created on Lasqueti
Island last week.
The labyrinth path shows a
journey that offers a return and a new beginning. But we have to stay on the path.
We have to keep putting one foot in front of the other. We have to think
seriously about our footprints.
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