Lamppost

 

 The world is white. A blanket of freshly fallen snow softly drapes over everything, the swings and slides outside our apartment building, the benches along the paths, the fences and gates. It is piled up like giant, fluffy pillows outside on the windowsill. Fresh, pure, beautiful, and thus far untouched by man, the snow simply begs to be admired and experienced first-hand. This isn't the sort of snow one unabashedly dashes into without cares or concern. It is a peaceful, quiet snow. It asks for a slow walk, for appreciation, for respect for its pure beauty.

So, bundled up in hats and scarves and coats and boots and gloves, we went out to meet the snow. Strolling along, we could only guess at where the path was. The world was white, quiet, and peaceful. It was truly magical.

We walked to our best friends' thousands of times while living in Russia. The walk wasn't too terribly far. There were fences to walk past, a path to follow, and a forest to pass by on our left. And there was a lamppost. Just a lamppost...commonplace, everyday, ordinary, no. In our white wintery world, on our journeys to our friends' house, it was magical. The world of snow and ice and the snow-drenched lamppost became our Narnia. We would trek along the path, passing the great dark forest, and see the light of that lonely lamppost and feel hope. Our young, childish minds took us on an adventure every time we passed it. The walk to that house was wonderful and anticipated, because of that one lamppost and the adventures it held and places it allowed our imaginations to take us.

I long for the effortlessness, ease, and simple faith of childhood. Oh to be whisked away to a land of mystical creatures and eternal winter by the mere sight of a lamppost along the pathway, snow-covered and magical.