Yesterday, snowflakes tumbled from the sky, like endless puffs of powdered sugar floating out of a silo-sized sifter. And then, a clear picture formed in my mind, taking me back to a mountainside on the other side of the world.
It happened while I watched my niblings suck on handfuls of snow in the backyard: a memory of Nepali kids, high in the Himalaya, frolicking in the white stuff. Their smiles were equally wide, eyes twinkling, as they savored the treat that nature delivered to the front doors of their ramshackle huts. Bursting with the color of mismatched hats and gloves, they first stopped to gaze at the foreigners in their midst. Soon after, timidity gave way to howls of laughter.
I remember how we stacked up the piles of snow, under the blazing bright sun, the palm of a small child’s hand smearing a handful of frozen white-powder on his face – as if to wipe away the caked-in mud and grime. And then, before continuing on with our journey, a quick lesson on how to make angels in the snow.
Beyond the yard, the sound of yak-bells clanging, a cloudless blue sky, prayer flags shifting in the wind and smoke rising from stacks throughout the village.
What a sweet, sweet memory…
Healing Pilgrim 