Listen to the First Snowfall here.

At this time of the year, my world always begins to lose its voice. Not because the crushing weight of bureaucracy muffles it, but because the elements are putting the acoustics of my soundscape to sleep for a little while. At least, until the summer.

It does not happen instantaneously. It happens gradually, like a weary mother that wants to put her young ones to bed. It's a kind of magic that's a subtle erasure. Every year, I have no idea what will change first.

This year— it was the car horns.

When I step outside, it takes me minutes to discover that the percussive bark of a car horn three miles away has been dulled to a puff of buffeted air. The once bustling distant freeway quiets into a low, continuous, whisper, as if the roads themselves are closing their eyes, ready for a deep and intense sleep.

This is always the first sign that snow has arrived. It's a spell, cast on the soundscapes of the world, a great, and profound, silencing.

I pull on my coat and step outside. The air is the first thing I notice. It doesn't have a lingering smell of exhaust or the ghosts of other bodies before me. It is a metallic, all encompassing, cold that strips all nuances of the city's textures and scents. For a moment, the cold is the magic that encompasses the entire world.

Then comes the movement.

My foot leaves the safety of my apartment door. It moves forward. It sinks into a feeling that can't be described any other way than magic. My shoe comes to meet a soft, yielding, give. A sensation that feels like sinking into air. Air with an unexpected blend of solid structure to it.

My foot descends deeper into the softness. Then, comes the sound.

There's a percussively high pitched crunch that's the lovely sound of a million tiny crystals, each a perfectly frozen star, breaking and scattering underneath my sole. It's a kind of worldly music.

After gaining my balance, I take a tentative step, then another, then another. It's a two-part chord. First, the descent. Then, that satisfying CRUNCH.

I am no longer walking. I am composing a rhythm against the most profound silence I will hear all year.

This rhythm against silence helps to appreciate the miracle.

Silence is the heart of the miracle. It isn't an absence. It is the presence of something else. It is the percussive sensation of mother nature putting the city under her blanket for the winter that creates a holy quiet.

I stop walking, and then just stand still in the middle of the sidewalk. I tilt my head up, listening and feeling. I let individual flakes land on my skin, my lips radiating a smile of joyous wonder. I can almost feel each individual flake landing on me, kissing me gently with its presence before melting.

Sighted people always say seeing is believing, as if there is no other truth. There's an alternative truth. You don't need to see to feel the magic landing on your skin. You don't need to see to witness the world being redecorated, one flake at a time. You don't need to see to listen to the world hold its breath.

The only thing that's required is your patience and willingness to perceive. You just have to stand in the remade world and let it transform you.

Listen to the First Snowfall here

If you enjoyed this essay, you might enjoy American Christmas by Adriana Herrera.