Snow Sky, Memory
and a dance with the Senses
The sky is gray, flattened with this precipitation in the distance, snow blanketing the tops of buildings, cars, cold constellating in layers, warming on the guardrails to droplets, then falling to the earth again.
The first sound I hear as the day arrives is the movement of cars across the streets and dampness. My senses say the sloshing of water meant warm ground and thought rain, but I opened the blinds and saw instead the city enveloped in white. Gray sky. Snow fall. Slow moving trains. Cold enough to stick.
I squint and the snowflakes move faster. I relax my gaze and the snow falls slowly. Perception is a wild experience — I think about how up close a snowflake contains a whole prismatic universe, holds its own unique shape, and then, seen from a distance becomes a sheet of color, a texture. Snowfall flattens the view, highlighting more of the shapes of the day, less contrast, less dimension.
Yearning for freshness, I push up on the window, cold air comes pouring in. The room is hot and still from the radiator’s heat; the air outside is frozen, biting, snow is swirling as it pours in. Immediately, memory envelops my perception of presence: I remember winter, remember a winter in Quebec, traveling with a then-partner and friends, winding around city streets, feeling for a brief moment this is the cold I feel to the bone, finding piles of fruit in grocery stores. Then memory drives fast and further back, and for a minute I am remembering winters in Michigan, the bleak season with its flat lands and flat gray skies that seemed to stretch on and on.
And then the train comes, and I am back — New York City. The steam from the shower rises, the potency of memory washed away. Fresh air exhales into the room, snowfall, breathing presence back into the experience of the now. Memory, presence, and imagination dance together like breathing, like tides, like the places where ground meets shorelines meets the skyline. Past, present and future all contained in one place, in this body of experience.
Later, in the kitchen, I dig my fingers into an orange. I am pulling back the pith and the skin watch as oils spray skyward in this act of separation. Memory hits and I remember California, this time last year, same center of the winter season, sitting in the middle of a bed. I was in Oakland then, diving deep into my own next steps and questions, surrounded by a halo of potentials and chocolate and citrus. How I’d escaped the cold, and how that winter the snow never came, but we still lapped up seasons’ radiance and sunlight in the form of fruit juice regardless.
Our senses elicit and enliven associations — parts of our minds, bodies, and experiences. When your senses light up, what stories do they tell? What memories do the seasons give you? What do your senses, memories, hopes and aspirations, imaginations for the future have to say? And what’s present now?
This week, we’re exploring sensations: if you’re in NYC, join in for Taste + Write: Meditating on the Senses this Thursday from 6p - 7p. I’ll bring the snacks and the prompts, you bring yourself and a notebook. Think of it like a date for your senses; a relationship building through the act of noticing, tuning in, and paying attention. A way to delight in the intricacies of experience and deepen the experience of the delicious. Then, stay for creative practice as we flow with Suminagashi Basics.
upcoming experiences:
2/13 Online: Letter Writing
2/13 Online: Journaling for Love
2/15 Taste + Write: Meditating on the Senses
2/15 Suminagashi Basics
2/21 Ink/Play new!
2/21 Suminagashi 2: Meditating on the Landscape new!
nourished by, nourishing:
Reading: Letters to a Young Poet by Rainer Maria Rilke. Making: Connections, chocolate chip cookies laced with fig. Had a great time at the farmer’s market this past weekend selling journals and connecting with some of you there! Today’s letter process tastes like mango and oat in smoothie form, lingering hints of coffee; feels like damp hair drying and dry winter skin; sounds like water drops on metal window sills and cars driving by; smells like laundry. What do you sense in your environment?
Creative Nourishment is a reader-supported publication by Kelly Odette Laughlin. I’m an artist, writer, and teacher located in NYC, and the founder of Odette Press. I lead creative workshops throughout the city and beyond — and I’d love to work with you and your creative spaces. Learn more about my work here, and reply to connect.