I was 15 or 16 and experiencing my first bitter taste of heartbreak.  I honestly don’t remember many of the details, except that it was the first time a boy had shattered my heart.  He wasn’t wrong, and I probably deserved it.  I was confident that he adored me, and I’m certain I took him for granted, never expecting he could walk away – or that he had the power to leave me feeling like a puddle of helpless emotions.  I came home from high school on that grey, late-Winter day, feeling broken, confused and just plain sad. 

I remember walking through my front door and having a very surreal moment – genuinely confused about how the world and everything in it was just carrying on as though nothing had happened… as though I hadn’t just been gutted, wrecked. 

I also knew the expectation – in my house, but honestly, most places, was that you put on a smile and move on.  Stuff those feelings down.  Act “normal.”  Nobody (or at least not your parents and teachers) want to see that rawness.  At least they didn’t in the mid-90s.

And so I walked into my house and tried to escape into my bedroom, likely to listen to sad music on my CD stereo (as one does).  “Everybody Hurts” from R.E.M. or “Strong Enough” by Sheryl Crow.  “Head Over Feet” from Alanis Morissette or even the Sleepless in Seattle Soundtrack, with “In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning” or “Stand By Your Man.”  I was already creating a playlist in my mind, the soundtrack for wallowing in my teenage sorrow. 

My mom had other plans.  Somehow she had decided it would be a great evening to drive the 30-ish minutes to a beautiful little shopping plaza in Kohler to hunt for some deals at the high-end boutiques and get dinner: just my little sister, Melanie, my mom and I.  An impromptu girls night.  To be fair, my mom had a pretty lonely life – trying to raise her girls as a stay-at-home mom in a small town where she never really fit in.  And so moments like this were her lifeline, and somewhat rare, considering the line-up of music and dance and sports lessons that filled virtually every evening.  A rare opportunity to go on a weekday adventure was special, even if I didn’t feel it tonight.

I tried to protest.  I explained that I couldn’t possibly go on any sort of shopping adventure tonight.  I was too sad.  I needed to listen to emo music and feel sorry for myself.  I didn’t want to be social, to pretend I was okay.  I wanted to have one night of being “not okay.”

But in the end, my mom won.  Likely as a small protest, I took the backseat in our grey Toyota Camry, leaving my younger sister to sit shotgun next to our mom.  If I couldn’t wallow alone in my bed, at least I could do it in the backseat.  I buckled up and curled into a fetal position toward the door, leaning my forehead on the cool back window.  I stared out into the grey twilight, just as soft snowflakes started to quietly drift down from the sky.

I remember feeling like everything was a dark grey, with light fading fast.  Almost as though my whole world had morphed into grey tones: grey sky, grey car, grey interior… It was late February and the sky felt like it was on a slow dimmer switch, grey fading to black.  But, it was the perfect contrast to watch those snowflakes gently falling, sparkling in the glow of the streetlights we passed as we worked our way through the small towns, heading for the highway.  I was in a contemplative mood, feeling that sense of longing and melancholy for a relationship I had mostly constructed in my mind.  But I felt the loss, all the same.  In an almost meditative, dream-like state, I was mesmerized by those gently falling flakes, like living in a snow-globe. 

And then I noticed the individual flakes sticking to the car window briefly, before melting away.  There, looking out the backseat window, I discovered the unfathomable micro-precision and beautiful detail in each, individual flake.  A tremendous wave of awe washed over me and I was stunned and shocked, nearly out of my heartbroken condition.  I felt like something unique or special must be happening right now, right here.  It can’t be the case that everyone knows about these tiny, gorgeous, pristine snowflakes.  Is this truly what all snowflakes look like?  How have I never really seen snowflakes until this moment (and would I ever be the same)? 

The perfection of the angles, the precision of the details, the symmetry – like an entire work of art, an entire world, existing in each and every individual flake.  And they were all different.  Just falling, quietly from the sky.  Somehow, observing those tiny flakes on my car window suddenly made my problems, my world, feel less heavy.

The genuine awe I felt at discovering snow at age 15 – the majesty and comfort I felt from those tiny, perfect snowflakes, helped soothe me.  At first I remember thinking, how could this be happening?  How could there be this magical beauty, right in front of me, when I was so sad?  But I guess that’s life.  In any given moment, there is pain and beauty; love and heartbreak; despair and awe.  Making space to hold them both is the challenge of living a full and meaningful life.  While I couldn’t have articulated it that clearly at age 15, I somehow learned it – internalized it – all the same.  That sense of paradox and the way both things, even when they seem like opposites, can be unequivocally true in a way that you know, deep in your soul.

I’ll never forget that quiet, winter evening as a heartbroken teenager, when I discovered snow.  And even though I know the science and logic behind the formation of ice crystals and snowflakes, they will never cease to amaze me.

This last New Year’s Eve, I took my three boys to burn off some energy at the playground on a dull, grey afternoon, and some of those same, magical flakes started to gently drift down.  Even as a 43-year-old mom, I still felt a swelling of awe come over me.  I tried to point out the magic of those tiny, precise details to the boys as the flakes landed in their sandy, blond hair and on my black, knit mittens.  They were nonplussed, asking me to spin them faster on the tire swing, squealing with delight.  I tried to capture the flakes with my iPhone camera, trying to hold them, to save the magic – but that never works.  The magic is in the moment.

Watching snowflakes fall and studying their shapes and patterns and one-of-a-kind perfection will always be one of my favourite winter moments.  One that reminds me that you have to pay attention, stay present, and enjoy it right now.  Because you can’t take it with you.  The photo or memory never does justice to that sense of awe and magic you feel when you are in the middle of a real-life snow-globe and studying the microscopic details of the flakes as they land on your mittens or your car window.