January 19, 2026
There is something about snow that changes the rules.
The last couple of days here in New Jersey have been quiet in a way that feels earned. The kind of quiet that settles in slowly and does not ask for attention. Snow does that. It takes a loud, cluttered world and gently turns the volume down.
It reminds me of earlier winters, moments like the one I wrote about in Snow Falling in the Woods, where nothing dramatic happens, but everything feels different anyway. Snow has a way of making ordinary scenes feel briefly set apart, as if time agreed to pause without being asked.
We do not always notice beauty when it arrives loudly. But when it arrives softly, we tend to look up.
Thought of the Day
“Nature gives to every time and season some beauties of its own.” Charles Dickens
This Thought of the Day feels especially true when the world is covered in snow.
Winter does not add much. It takes things away. Color fades. Sound dulls. Movement slows. And yet, what remains often feels more honest. Trees stand bare without apology. Streets look simpler. The horizon feels closer.
Snow does not try to improve the world. It temporarily strips it down.
There is something grounding about that. When everything is white, it becomes easier to see shapes and outlines. You notice the curve of a branch. The way light lands on rooftops. The soft edge where the sky meets the ground.
Nature does not offer beauty all at once. It parcels it out across time. Some seasons give abundance. Others give restraint. Winter gives permission to pause.
That pause matters. It reminds us that not every day needs to be productive, colorful, or loud. Some days are meant to be quiet, reflective, and a little slower than we planned.
If you let it, snow teaches you that stillness is not emptiness. It is a different kind of fullness.
Question of the Day
Do you prefer watching snowfall during the day or at night?
There is something undeniably comforting about snow falling under the glow of streetlights. At night, snow feels private. The world narrows. The darkness makes each flake visible, and the quiet feels intentional.
But for me, there is something about watching snow at dawn.
That moment when night gives way to morning, and the world slowly reveals itself. The snow does not sparkle yet. It just sits there, soft and patient, waiting for the day to decide what to do with it. Morning snow feels honest. Unperformed. Like it does not care whether anyone is watching.
Daytime snow shows you what changed. Nighttime snow lets you feel it.
Neither is better. They just invite different kinds of noticing.
Snow days have always carried that invitation. A reminder captured well in The Magic of a Snow Day: When the World Pressed Pause. Snow alters our relationship with time, even if only briefly. It slows us down without asking permission.
So whether you find yourself staring out a window at glowing flakes or watching the morning light uncover what fell overnight, the real question might be this: when the world slows down, do you slow with it?
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