Snowfall in Appalachia

There is something spiritually moving about snowfall in Appalachia. During the winters, I spent a lot of time upstairs in our old block house. It stayed warm from the wood heat rising to the downstairs ceiling, heating the floors. When the snow began to fall, I raised the wooden framed window and watched. The air was crisp and cold, with a hint of wood smoke and pine. Big white flakes drifted slowly to the ground, as if time had slowed. Snow covered the bare tree branches and dead grass in a purifying cloak of white.

When the snowfall cleared and night fell, the bright moon added to the magic and drew me out of the warmth of the house. Moonlight and snow illuminated the land. The moon cast tall, ghostly shadows that swayed as wind skimmed the treetops, giving the forest the feel of a Gothic cathedral. An occasional moan and creak broke the silence.

I followed deer tracks down winding paths, maybe from some primal instinct, my wild Celtic bloodline seeking furs to ward off the cold. There’s a deeper connection than modern science can explain. I am in harmony with the primeval land, as were my ancestors. One thing I know for sure, my spirit is intertwined with the roots of these hills, and my heart beats with the rhythm of the land.