It’s difficult to express the feelings that rise with the first snowfalls, but wabi sabi describes them as well as anything may be said to do that. There is radiant stillness, a kind of tranquil melancholy; a non-attachment beyond all coming and going that honors tathata or suchness, the turning of the seasons and the perfect spontaneous unfolding of the great wide world around us.
There is deep and abiding contentment to be here among the trees. My eyes and lens linger lovingly on a skim of glossy ice on the creek, on evergreens cloaked in nebulous white and standing like sentries on the hill above, on drifts of oak leaves freed from their lofty moorings and coming to rest on the new snow in its fine granular blueness. Snow falling in the north woods is the most perfect sound I can think of.