Snows of Inspiration

It’s been snowing this week in typically rainy Seattle—big, juicy white flakes you can catch on your tongue. Here in the northwest we are not used to measuring snow with a yardstick. I’m not even sure I own a yardstick. Yesterday, I took my ruler out to measure the snow in my front yard. I lost the ruler.

 

Even though Seattle snow is a real pain to drive in (it’s a wet, gloppy cement-like snow), when the white stuff begins to fall, there is something transformational about it. And I’m not just referring to the landscape, although a blanket of white is a serene, angelic scene. No, I mean me. It changes me. Something about snow tugs at me to stop going through the motions of life and be still. And it’s in this silence that ideas flow—some for new manuscripts, others to fix old ones.

 

I know writers who hold down a couple of jobs, take dance lessons, juggle their kids, soccer practice, and the like, and still pound out a few hundred words before they turn out the lights. I am impressed by this, because I cannot do it. I need time to listen to my heart beat before I can write. Once, I read a biography about Robert Frost where the author said the American poet needed alone-time—and a lot of it—to craft his poems. I am glad, and relieved, to hear of this kindred spirit. I like to think writing as pure and extraordinary as this does not come lightly to the soul:

 



Acquainted with the Night

by Robert Frost

 

I have been one acquainted with the night.

I have walked out in rain -- and back in rain.

I have outwalked the furthest city light.

 

I have looked down the saddest city lane.

I have passed by the watchman on his beat

And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

 

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet

When far away an interrupted cry

Came over houses from another street,

 

But not to call me back or say good-bye;

And further still at an unearthly height,

O luminary clock against the sky

 

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.

I have been one acquainted with the night.

 



Yes, I like to think that in stillness we find truth.