Even Adults Need Time to Play

As the snow falls, it brings with it a symphony of natural sounds. Each flake joins in a chorus as they land upon the ground. The branches of the trees, now adorned in white, rustle in harmony. And the distant hooting of an owl, a soloist in the performance, adds a haunting melody to the soundscape.

This is my favorite kind of snow. Each big, fluffy flake dances to its own rhythm before gently settling on the ground. It falls so slowly that you can target your vision onto a single flake and follow its descent as it joins its friends on the grown, where they are waiting for nothing except the pleasure of each other’s company while time allows.

This snow was calling me, inviting me to witness and listen to its slow descent.

Crunching of snow underfoot, the only human sound serves as gentle percussion in the performance. Wind, whispering through the trees, adds a haunting harmony. The snowfall transforms the landscape into a musical score, a peaceful and serene symphony of the natural world.

Noticing the beauty of winter landscapes requires a deeper level of attentiveness and reverence for the natural world. The bark of trees, the branches and twigs, the patterns of ice crystals on the windows, the snow-covered fields, and the frozen streams all hold stories if we take the time to notice them.

Another way to deepen our connection to the winter landscape is to pay attention to how the light changes throughout the day. The way the sunlight reflects off the snow, the blue hues of the sky, and the shadows that shift as the sun sets are all gifts. Walking in the winter landscape, and taking in the stillness and silence that it offers, can be a meditative practice that allows us to connect to the earth and to ourselves.

The absence of leaves on the trees and the blanket of snow on the ground can make sounds travel farther, and the quiet can be quite peaceful. This is also a time when many species of birds and animals are active; their tracks in the snow can be an opportunity to learn about their stories and ways of life. Through these practices, we can deepen our understanding and connection to the earth, and to the beauty and wisdom that it holds.

And today, I’m practicing the art of noticing and reminding myself that even adults need playtime.

So guess what I did?

I made a tiny snowman.

And it was so much fun.

I shaped the snow with my gloveless hands, creating one, two, three balls of snow. Each smaller than the first. Then, the hunt for accessories was on.

As I walked around the yard, searching for the perfect materials, I reflected on the beauty and purpose of play. As adults, we often become so caught up in our responsibilities that we forget the importance of play in our lives. It is easy to lose touch with the child within us, but play reminds us of the wonder and joy that is always present in the world.

As I worked, the winter landscape sang to me, a symphony of white and blue. The snow was so quiet, and the only sound was the crunching of my boots. The trees’ branches are highlighted with snow. Everything was so peaceful, and I felt like I was the only one in the world. I took a deep breath and let the cold air fill my lungs, feeling alive and invigorated.

Even though everything around me looks dead or dormant, the grass is too green for this time of year. And the dead vines of the moonflowers stand out like a sore thumb.

Ugh. How depressing considering what they looked and smelled like a few months ago.

If I journey outside to the backyard where they are hanging, I try to ignore them. To pretend they aren’t there.

But today, I thought, “Hey, those could make a good hat for my snowman.”

Many seedpods had not dropped to the ground. I plucked one from the vine that looked suitable for a hat. And popped it open.

And right inside were the children of the seeds that I poured out of a paper packet a little over a year ago. Gosh, that’s the circle of it all, huh?

And now, this magnificent twisted mess of dead vines was providing me with a little hat for my little snowman.

With twig arms and a hat acquired, I went back to my little snowman to dress him up. I put his hat on one, two, three times before it would stay and I’ll be damned if that little hat didn’t make him bear a striking resemblance to Gandalf the Gray. (If you are unfamiliar, that would be the wizard from The Lord of the Rings.)

So, I needed to find a staff. I found the last vintage of a dead hosta stalk to be a perfect match.

Putting all of this together on a tiny snowman wasn’t as easy as it sounds. There were multiple drafts. And my hands were pretty numb and red. But, I didn’t really feel the cold because I was at play.

Remember being a little kid and your parents or grandparents beckoning you back inside? “It’s getting too cold. Time to come back in and warm up!”

But you didn’t feel cold. You just felt like it was so much fun to play in the snow, unbothered by the freezing winds, and maybe despite having snow packed so tightly between your boots and ankles that it took ten minutes for grandma to remove them? (Oh, maybe that just happened to my brother?)

Anyway, the twig arms felt impossible to keep stuck in at that angle. And the hat? Well, I dropped it and lost it twice. Found it, but then accidentally pulled off a couple of leaves and had to procure another one.

Then I ruined that one.

After a few Gandalf snowman drafts, I carted the little fella around the driveway until I could find the perfect “YOU SHALL NOT PASS” crack where he could stop the Balrog. (Seriously, you should at least watch the films. It’s an iconic moment.)

And it looks just like my snowman here.

I’m just kidding, my snowman doesn’t even have a beard. Maybe when it snows again, I’ll make a 4th draft of him with a beard and a pipe.

Still, I stepped back to admire my creation. The snowman was barely an image of Gandalf, but I couldn’t help but smile, feeling a sense of satisfaction and contentment. Playing in the snow reminded me that the world is full of wonder and that the child within us must be nurtured and cherished.

I couldn’t wait to share my little creation with a few people, and I fired off the photos with some excitement.

Why? It isn’t, by any objective snowman judging standard, any good.

It was just fun. And I wanted to share that fun and play and the things that I noticed with people that I love.

With my hands still red and numb, I walked back into the house to warm up my hands. And I noticed this sign above my kitchen doorway that I hadn’t noticed in a while.

It’s a Gandalf/J. R. R. Tolkien quote that reads, “All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.”

This brings me back to the art of noticing.

We get accustomed to the sights and sounds around us to where they disappear into the background. It is like when the electricity goes out, suddenly a quiet house gets quieter and you realize you can’t hear the hum of the lights or fridge or the flow of air from the vents. But it isn’t like you were hearing those things before the power went out. They were invisible.

And that is how I hadn’t noticed this sign until primed to remember it was there.

Usually, I see this sentiment as a call to action to live and lead a meaningful life. But today, I read it a bit differently.

It doesn’t mean that every single moment or path or journey has to be one that pushes us to grow, that pushes us to do something meaningful. That beckons us to bear the burden of the One Ring and throw it into the fires of Mount Doom. (Watch the films. You won’t be disappointed.)

I’m grateful that I spent the time that was given to me today outside. Feeling the cold snow in my hands, crunching the snow beneath my boots, hearing the owl and the winter symphony. Noticing how my yard and the plants have changed between summer and today. And finding elements that could help me make a tiny snowman.

I hope you find some time this week to play and to notice.

But for now, I’d like to leave you with a little menu for some reminders coming into the next week. Let’s call it a Mantra Menu.

Choose what sounds good to you. Maybe it’s one, maybe it’s all. Or you can even make up your own. Write it on a post-it, and maybe put it on your mirror? Or next to the coffee machine?

Mantra menu

-I choose to look for the beauty in the ordinary.

-I notice the details and appreciate the whole.

-I’m present and observe fully.

Have you come up with your own mantra after reading this? Leave it in the comments so others can see and maybe use it themselves.

In connection,

Ellie