Impatience is one of my primary character traits.
When I bake bread, I gravitate to the oven practically every minute. I open it, the heat warming me, to check the progress of what isn’t yet bread but still a sticky vat of batter.
When I watch a movie, I have to occupy my mind with a secondary activity — folding origami, maybe, or practicing my Arabic handwriting.
Even as it angrily whirls outside, the snowfall reminds me to stop, to be still. And for once since graduating, I stop ruminating on my commute, my lack of a big-kid apartment and the fact that I’m too old to shop in the junior section yet too young for the women’s section.
Right now, for once, I’m still, calm, suspended in the moment. The snow is swirling, flying, floating, pelting my face. It’s the impatient, hurried one.
The snow reminds me that stillness isn’t synonymous with passivity. Rather, it’s an active opportunity to pause and capture the present. To take silly, squint-laden, windblown photos with my little sister. To wipe the delicious remnants of a s’more from my face.
To confront in writing what often makes me uncomfortable: the choice to be happy and thankful even as snow — or uncertainty — swirls around.