“God is an experience,” an old man told me as he reached for another cookie. “Not a thing or a concept. God is an event.”

I thought about this last night while I watched the snow come down, my nose pressed against the cold glass like a little kid—not judging or wanting, just watching. They’re calling it Winter Storm Blair. I’m not sure when we started christening snowstorms, but like everything else these days, the weather is branded and marketed, which leaves me even more disappointed when it fails to perform as advertised.

When I was a little kid, and I imagined the distant future, I always pictured people being nicer. They wore similar outfits and smiled and got along.

Meanwhile in Washington DC, they’re certifying the presidential election, and there is no insurrection this time because the man who tried to overthrow the government won. The other day, I performed some dark calculations while running around the pond: If I get lucky and live to eighty years old, I’ll have spent a tenth of my life with a grifter-clown as the leader of my country.

Yesterday at the library, there was a low-level thrum of anticipation as Winter Storm Blair approached, a subtle magnetic force that pulled us a little closer. Strangers smiled at one another. They told each other to keep warm and stay safe. A snowstorm might be the last benign unifying event.

They advertised fourteen inches, but we only got six. Still, it’s enough to soften the world a little. Enough to remember childhood winters and marvel at all this strange material from the sky.

Most of all, I’m grateful to be surrounded by snow because I can finally enjoy The Coldest Season in its proper context.