A Day Granted by Snow

Entry No. 50
Dear Faithful Companion,

Snow days are rare, and perhaps because of that, they arrive as a kind of unplanned grace. Today, the world slowed under the weight of fresh snowfall—thick, persistent, and unapologetic. Work shifted homeward, routines softened, and the pace of the day adjusted itself without asking permission. What began with the familiar stress of coordination—ensuring staff knew not to report in, confirming everyone was safe off the roads, and re-balancing tasks for a distributed team—soon settled into something calmer. Once the initial responsibilities were handled, the day unfolded not as an interruption, but as a quieter version of order.

Working from home offered small, unremarkable gifts that reveal their value only in retrospect. Passing Jesse in the hallway between meetings. Sharing lunch at the kitchen table rather than through hurried messages. Pausing together to look out at the steady fall of snow before returning to our respective work. The driveway demanded attention more than once—second, third, and fourth passes required—but even that felt less like burden and more like participation. These moments are possible because of things once unimaginable: reliable technology, flexible work arrangements, and a home office space we built with intention. Yet beneath all of that, what I appreciated most was the simple fact that we spent the workday together, side by side, because the weather insisted we do so.

Snow days also reveal something quieter about responsibility beyond one’s own doorstep. After tending to our own driveway, there is a natural pause—shovel still in hand, snowblower humming softly—where one looks down the street and notices who might be struggling. We have lived here for over a year and a half and still do not know all our neighbours well. But days like today offer a different introduction. Lingering a little longer. Walking to the end of a driveway. Offering help without ceremony. Not for thanks, not for recognition, and certainly not to make a point of it—but because this is what good neighbours do. They ease one another’s load when it grows heavy.

There is an old proverb that comes to mind: “A society grows great when people plant trees whose shade they know they shall never sit in.” Clearing a neighbour’s driveway is no grand gesture. It will not be remembered long. But it is a small act that makes the day easier, the street safer, and the world marginally kinder. The quiet call from the end of a driveway—“Can I give you a hand? I’m already out here.”—carries more weight than many louder declarations of goodwill. We would do well to practise more of that.

As the snow continued to fall and the day drew itself toward evening, I was reminded that not all progress is made through acceleration. Some days are meant to slow us just enough to notice what is already good: shared space, mutual care, and the dignity of helping without expectation. In a world that often celebrates speed and spectacle, there is value in days that ask nothing more than presence and steadiness.

Verbum Ultimum

Some days are forged in effort; others are granted in quiet. This snow-laden pause reminded me that a well-lived life is built not only through ambition and drive, but through shared moments, neighbourly duty, and the grace of unhurried time. To work well, to love well, and to help without being asked—these are not interruptions to purpose, but its truest expression. I move forward grateful for the slowing, resolved to carry its lessons onward

Until next we meet, with ink as my witness and virtue as my guide.
JCB