Yesterday evening was magical – one of those winter nights where the moonlight gently touched every glistening flake of snow and that winter silence was settled heavily on the Earth. It was futile to try and stay inside, almost appalling to consider the thought of not stepping out to experience it.
No joke. It was magnetic.
My husband and I are incredibly lucky to live next door to a gorgeous reserve in Cheyenne called Lion’s Park. There are no lions there, which I find highly misleading; however, there is an expanse of woodland surrounding an absolutely pristine lake – the kind where kids swim in the summer time and fathers and sons make memories fishing together on the docks regularly. It’s a precious place and we’ve enjoyed the privilege of living so close by.
On a winter night like this, the moonlight brushed its light across the frozen lake and over the glistening backs of ducks huddled in the cold. And it was cold. The kind of crisp cold that makes for the most perfect snowflakes. As we walked around the lake trail at midnight you could see the tiny, paper cut designs catching light from several feet away. They were balanced upon each other, fluffy and light and oh so perfect.
And then I bent down to lightly pick some up on my smooth, black glove and just about lost my mind.
Nothing prepares you for an epiphany – a spark – those out-of-the-blue moments where all of a sudden the world is as small and as vast as the desperately beautiful snowflake balanced upon your fingertip.