FEBRUARY 4, 2021 – If for no other reason, this blog serves as a mental exercise—for the writer, as well as the reader. Each day I must think of a topic, assemble thoughts about it, organize those them into sentences, then pare them down to 500 words. You the reader must then exercise your mind to read, assimilate, and synthesize what I’ve written . . . then utter, perhaps, a “huh” or a “hmm.”
I view myself as an illustrator sitting on a collapsible, three-legged stool in front of a portable easel parked along . . . oh, let’s say the Seine. On a fresh sheet of paper, I use a hunk of charcoal to bring some idea or story into view. Then, rain or shine, it seems, two or three generous passers-by stop to have a look. This process gives me great satisfaction. Perhaps at the core of it is the element of surprise—often I don’t know what the piece of charcoal will do, and of course, neither do passers-by, until it moves upon the sheet.
Today, as I ambled toward my usual place along the river Seine, the charcoal in a side pocket of my old tweed jacket was sending signals. “What about this? What about that?” I heard it say in a kind of Morse code as it clicked against 2-franc coin serving a life-sentence (imprisoned in the pocket years ago . . . for good luck).
I resisted. “Non,” I told the charcoal.
“Pourquoi?” asked the charcoal.
“Parce que, au jourd‘hui—je voudrais un ‘blank slate.’”
The charcoal offered no resistance. By chance or intent, I can’t be sure, it had moved to the corner of my pocket, away from the coin, which, as always, was firmly entrenched in the opposite corner.
But by the time I’d set up shop, as it were, the world around me was snowbound. Instead of a “blank slate,” the easel was now a “snow slate.”
. . . My seat by the Seine is a sofa in our reading room. I face a window affording a glimpse of the blizzard outside. Snow falls relentlessly and its accumulation muffle all noise, blanket all imperfections. On occasion, a dog walks by, leading its owner by the leash. The dog is in heaven, pushing its snout delightedly into angelic dust. The owner—bundled up, leaning into the driving, stinging snow—is a reluctant follower. I then see a vehicle roll by silently and cautiously, like a cat padding its way to shelter, perplexed by nature’s onslaught.
I have yet to approach my “to do” list for the day—assembled in my own oblivion before nature imposed its will. Suddenly to the top of the list appears, “SNOW REMOVAL.”
It’s a chore but also a reassuring reminder: say, think, do what we will, but nature’s still in control. Plus, there’s nature’s reward, winter’s manna: skiing up the Eiger, across the Aletsch Glacier, and down the Jungfrau of “Little Switzerland.”
Today, my place by the Seine today bears the sign, “SNOW SLATE. BACK TOMORROW.”
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© 2021 by Eric Nilsson
