Memoirs of a Snowflake

 

In the moment before my first memory, I feel a wonderful lightness, a floating sensation that isn’t truly a sensation because I don’t yet know who I am or that I am. But then I feel a coming together, a sense of going that is my becoming, my awakening. And that is my first memory.

I feel completely insubstantial as I float in a sea of white. It feels comforting and peaceful, like home. Childlike curiosity drives me to explore myself, and I find that my body is growing. Delicate tendrils of ice spread out in beautiful, unique patterns from the tiny part of me that was my beginning. I take joy and fascination in becoming aware of myself.

I feel the presence of many brothers and sisters. We are all growing, all newly self-aware. The whiteness takes form, too—she is our cloud-mother, and her presence fills our budding awareness. We are hers and feel at home in her.

You are growing very well, she tells us. Soon it will be time to leave for the world below.

We are afraid to leave her because she is our home, our mother. If we leave her, we will die. We don’t know how we know this, but we do.

Don’t be afraid, she tells us. Every end is a beginning. You lived before you were born to me and you will return here after your time below is through. Every death gives way to a new rebirth.

The words of our mother-cloud comfort us and help us forget our fears.

The time comes. We begin our gradual descent together, drifting slowly downward into the night. Staying close together helps us not to be afraid. Soon, our mother is far above us, still bidding us farewell.

When she is gone, we are alone in a sea of white. It is silent all around us. To lift the silence some of us begin to sing silent songs of thoughts, songs that we can all hear together in our minds. We sing of our mother and our brothers and sisters, of our anticipation for the world awaiting us below. Though we all share the same fears and anxieties, our individual thoughts and feelings are as unique as our crystalline bodies, and each of us adds something different to the thought-song to make it rich and beautiful. Soon, we feel confident and happy in ourselves. We miss our mother, but we are ready and excited to begin our lives in the world below.

After a little more time, we begin to see shapes in the murky whiteness: outlines that gradually become clearer and more distinct as we continue our descent. We see lights and shadows, shades of reddish-grey, and great lumbering shapes moving across the whitewashed surface of the world.

We sense the additional presence of millions and millions more of our brothers and sisters. They are the ones who came before us. We greet them and ask how they are doing.

Some of them return our greetings and welcome us with great joy. They say that they are quite comfortable and have been doing very well. They describe the new world to us, a world of trees and streets, cars and people, things we have never known while living and growing with our cloud-mother. Their words fill us with wonder, and we look about for the things they described, though it is difficult to see anything clearly. The noises, too, are muffled and unfamiliar.

Others reply that we shouldn’t think too much on the strange new things of this world. When we arrived we had a good view for a short time, they say, but soon we were covered by others until we couldn’t see anything. But there is nothing to fear. It is quite cozy and comfortable, and you will never feel alone.

Others, though, give us dire warnings.

Watch out! they say. Take care! These humans are not harmless creatures. They step all over us and crush our beautiful bodies into oblivion. And heaven help you if you land in the street! If you do, you will die in a mess of sludge and oil and grime.

Their words frighten us and remind us of the death that awaits us. Some of us wish they had never come, and long to return to our cloud-mother where such pain was unknown.

Others from below treat us as if we are mere children.

Just wait, they say. When the cloud-mother stops sending her children and the sun rises bright and terrible in the sky, you will hear the slow sounds of death and waste away in a sea of unpleasant, warm monotony. If you don’t die, you will each merge together until your bodies become one sheet of transparent glass. In this way, your days will drag out until you melt into death, utterly forgotten.

Many of us don’t know what to think of these words. I don’t know what to make of them. The fear I had before of leaving my cloud-mother comes back, making me feel helpless, and for a brief moment I panic, wishing I had never come down.

But then I remember her words. Every end is a beginning. You lived before you were born to me and you will return here after your time below is through. Every death gives way to a new rebirth.

I will not end. I have not ended. I have lived before and will live again—I will not be erased or eradicated. Even if I lose my individuality, in my rebirth I will again rise unique.

I look down and see a figure below me: a human, smaller than the others. She sticks out her tongue to catch me, but as I fall slowly towards her waiting mouth, I am not afraid.