Snow was always magical to me when I was a kid. When it snowed at night, my sister, brother and I would go downstairs in our house, close the curtain behind us, and turn on a dim outdoor patio light. The glint from the bulb illuminated the snowflakes falling to the earth and as we looked up into the darkness we were transfixed by the illusion of the falling flakes appearing like stars shooting past us as we streaked in a spaceship to the moon or beyond.
Nowadays I usually see snow as a nuisance, something that makes it hard for me to drive, or fly. Being out of town when Jonas hit, my flight was cancelled and I spent the night in Atlanta. But flying back to Asheville, my annoyance quickly went away as I watched the familiar mountains now otherworldly with the snow.
The next time I fly the snow will be melted, and most likely I will be impatient to get to my destination. But for the few minutes I flew over them, I imagined myself exploring distant Himalayan peaks. I was transported to my own personal Shangri-La and felt like a child again. The snow transformed both the suddenly strange and enchanted peaks, and me.