I love snow. The beauty mesmerizing. The dancing flakes lightens the air.
The child in me awakens every time the colder breeze sends rain twirling into laughing drops. I leap into my coat and boots to head outdoors to form another soul from the white stuff.
Unfortunately, the wet, packing snow is destructively beautiful. Snug in the house, roasting by a crackling fire, I kept hearing branches creaking and breaking. So I jolted outside to find my beloved birch looking like a willow. And on the opposite side of the tree, three hefty limbs broke in half. Not to mention a stately, 50-foot tall white pine in the way back, leaning heavily towards the earth. I will need a potent night cap if Im to make it through the dark tonight. And lots of prayer.
Still, it is magical to stare wonderingly at the pristine beauty of a country, In the Middle of Snow, who relatives, generations before you, once called home.
That family once honored the past with stories of Finland. The great-grandparents who entered the US, through Ellis Island, settling in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, being comfortable with the familiarity of their homeland in a foreign country, told those memories. Settling, they built a family, in a village of Finlanders, joining the ranks of those who worked the iron ore mines, who supped on pasties and ran together, in unencumbered flesh, through the snow, to warm themselves in saunas. Together.
Today alone. Scattered snowflakes.
I always welcome to know more about my heritage, hence my search for Finnish blogs. I need connection. This circle of life i yearn for, feeds the purpose of answering who i am.
But who can answer the why questions? Why leave home, slowly abandon your language and culture, to come to a wild land that is not necessarily more welcoming. The answers remain as vague as the memories. I am destined to melt, never fully knowing. Remain fluid, never answering the question but providing a journey for my children.