Missing a Moment



I am sitting at a desk in front of a tall, bright window in England. For the first time all winter it is snowing: proper fat flakes tumbling to the ground in a flurry of white. I am excited like a child. But let’s get this out of the way straight off: I am not a snow bunny. This isn’t going to
be a post about how enchanting winter is and how much I desperately want to be back in New England to experience it. I am under no illusions about the harsh reality that is a Maine winter. If you think about it, everything is more difficult in the snow (except sledding, which is decidedly easier in the snow than on, say, dirt). Dress carefully: more layers than phyllo dough. Pity the exposed flesh that got missed in the bundling. It will feel January’s bite. Step out the door. Hope the snow doesn’t get into your boots. Begin the rhythmic bend and push of the shovel. Your reward: a chance to scrape the night’s frosty breath from the windshield. Repeat daily. All of this I know in my bones. It is part of me. But I didn’t realize just how much until last week when I began to really feel the lack of snow in York.

I began missing Maine, missing snow and cold crisp air, red cheeks, damp hair. I miss the hush as heavy snow closes in around you. I miss the stubbornness of a winter wind, pushing on walls and between buildings. Unaccountably I started hearing the low rumble and scape of a snowplow now and again; was convinced the rattle of the window could only be Jack Frost knocking. In those moments I missed home. Not just Maine, but being in my home, warm and snug. In my mind I am in my duvet, the one I bought in China, on my mattress, the incredibly comfortable one I saved for. I turn over and look out the window: the world’s jagged edges are softened with a flawless blanket. At another moment I missed being in my studio on a cold winter day. In my mind the full-length glass door is a lamp of shining white light illuminating my desk as I apply bold colours to the page in front of me. I shiver as a draft from the door brushes my neck. The radiator clicks and snaps as warm water runs through the house’s veins. Right now the moment I miss is the dark stillness of a winter night. The wind blows and snow falls. Street lights cast a pink hue and indigo outlines on an icy canvas. I rest my head on the back of a large, plush chair, reveling in the warmth of a cozy blanket. A feline shadow jumps up, moving through my line of vision – a silhouette on the frosty window. She jumps down, has things to do on this bitter winter night. But just for a moment she is mine, like the memory of snow.
None of this exists anymore. Those places do not belong to me nor I to them. Maine will always be where I am from, but I have no home there because right now my life is here. This realization has forced me to view this wave of homesickness differently. Asking myself, “what do you really miss?” is an opportunity to get closer to the heart of the emotion. I have found that what I really miss is a moment. But a moment can never be caught. Once passed it becomes a memory like a water droplet crystallizing into a snowflake, beautiful in its new form. And that’s all right because with today’s snowfall Yorkshire has given me new moments to revel in. Moments of green gardens blanketed in white, of rough medieval stones against a layer of frozen harmony, of Narnian lampposts in the midst of swirling snow. Each snowflake a moment past, a memory made.







8 comments

  1. This made me cry a little.

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    1. Though I shed a few tears while I was remembering home, writing about it and putting it in context with my surroundings now was such a cathartic experience. I love that power writing holds.

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  2. You have a very poetic turn of phrase to go with your keen photographer's eye. Very nicely put. Though I would argue that you belong where you feel you belong, and that merely leaving a place, for however long that may be, does not mean you don't belong there, at least a little bit....

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    1. Thank you Mark! I will try to remember that as it is something my heart has a difficult job believing sometimes.

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  3. The photos are beautiful ----and the words even more so! I love the truth and vulnerability that comes forth in this piece, Aimee. You are an inspiration!

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    1. It's easy for me to find inspiration in my surroundings here and it makes me truly happy that you can find some inspirations in my reflections. Thank you!

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  4. What a beautiful description of the feeling of winter. I love sitting in my chair by the picture window, mist rising over Frye Mountain, steam curling on my tea cup, remembering your beautiful smile...

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  5. Thank you Lynne - for your kind words and a lovely image of home. I can picture your view...serene.

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