I took my class for a walk (or, rather, they took me) before journaling today. It was snowing heavily for a while this afternoon, and I grinned and leaned into the sky, letting the kids run ahead. The girls threw loose snowballs that exploded in small halo-bursts around their heads, their giggles and shrieks muffled by their gloved hands, thrown up to block the blast, and the snowfall. One of the boys drank from the washeteria hose as we walked by, the only person I’ve ever seen drink from any hose in February. The snow scrubbed the smell of snow-go exhaust from the air, laying it down with it’s snick, tick lullaby. Walking, I loved the way the new inch of snow compressed to silence and pad my footfalls. I loved the way my tracks were softened almost immediately by more snow falling from the sky. It gilded everything: the girls’ long hair, the shoulders of our sweatshirts, the knees of our jeans. Sticky. I felt it falling on my face and prickling as it melted. I stuck out my tongue and caught a few flakes. Snowfall tastes like pop-rocks: not so much a flavor as the expectation of one and the shock of an instant’s sensation instead.
Back at school, we peeled off our damp outerwear and cracked the outside door, warm from the exercise. The open door let in cool air and the thick silence of new snow. I reminded the kids to write their experience the same way their brain does: in five dimensions. They aren’t very good at it yet, but that leaves us with plenty of room to grow, a natural objective. We’ll try again the next time the weather is fine.
On walks through the village, I’ve taken lots of pictures that I haven’t been able to share because our internet is lousy for uploads. I smooshed these down a lot to get them through, and I know they’re grainy, but I think they’re still lovely.
In other news, today marks the one-year anniversary of this here chasing piggens project. A year ago, I was burning my Christmas tree in the homestead driveway and enjoying the first daffodils.