Snow. That was the day...

Some days of course it doesn't matter what kind of glasses you are wearing. Rose-colored or not.  Doesn't matter.  We had a slow-motion blizzard here yesterday. And I was in the middle of it.  All day.  Slogging here. Slogging there.  Slogging through the white stuff. If Samuel Beckett had written a little existential play about snow, and the slogging through it, I was in that play yesterday.  And Godot was nowhere to be found.

There was a beauty in the whiteness as it swirled around my head.  Made me dizzy.  Almost drove me mad.  And just why was I slogging? Don't ask.  As Van Morrison once sang, "There ain't no why!" Or maybe there is a long cascading avalanche of "whys," but to get to the bottom of it all, is well beyond me. I am all about self-reflection, self-examination, but really how do you explain your existence to yourself?

I guess you can fudge it, make up some grand theories, or project some great payoff in the land of angels. But when you are skating on the thin ice of the day, dancing with the snowflakes, shoveling great accumulations of the stuff, well, utopias and far-off pay-offs seem like the stuff of dreams. And sometimes those dreams just can't find a home in your over-whelmed little noggin.

Snow. Lots of it. That was the day...