Watching and listening beyond the fence of Snow Louisiana in the morning stays with me – nola.com

When I think about the snow from 2025, my mind is filled with so many moments filled with awe-coming into Blizzard conditions with my daughter to LSU lakes, the construction of a snowman and the pure miracle of all this. However, one moment will probably stick to me the most when the weeks turn to months and the months turn around for years and I remember this event. It happened the day after the big snow, which led to the accumulation of more snow than I ever dreamed of South Louisiana.

This morning, I recovered from my astonishment from the previous day and went through normal movements to prepare for work. As I do most mornings, I stopped to look at the window of my bathroom. It has an inconspicuous view of our small backyard, but I love it anyway – especially in winter, with its long morning shadows when our neighbors’ trees are naked, and through the branches I see beyond the fence to watch the sun crawl into the lakes LSU.

Long ago. Somewhere I read that watching the morning sun without one’s glasses (or through glass of all kinds) was a good thing. So, most mornings, regardless of the temperature, I take a few moments and open the window and look at the lakes.

Usually I do not even notice the widespread bustle of the people who are preparing for their day. Cars are increasing to LSU. Hundreds of people go along the edge of the lakes. The buses bounce to the campus. Students get their motorcycles. It happens a lot.

On January 22, the day after the big snow, I stood in this window, wondering in the visual performance of our snowy courtyard, roof, trees and fence. With the extreme cold, I thought if I had to push the window open. In the end, I decided, “Why not?”

I was not prepared for what happened afterwards. When I opened the window, what I heard – or soon what I didn’t hear – surprised me.

He was silent.

Do not peek out of the birds.

Not a car that drives on the road.

Not the grunting of Walkers votes.

No motorcycles.

Nothing.

This moment was the most typical silence I ever remember. I stood there, struck by his beauty, grateful for the experience and actively tried to take it.

I couldn’t help but smile and remember a children’s story written by Benjamin Elkin about the noisy young prince named Hula-Balu, who lived in Hub Bub, the most noisy city in the world.

Prince Hula-Balu loved a mine and the noise that he and his friends could do with pots, pans, whistles, drums, bugs, trash bins, whatever it is. No noise was loud enough for the prince S For his birthday, he asked his father, the King, for the strongest noise in the world. He wanted everyone to scream – everything at once. The king sent a proclamation and organized exactly the thing his son asked for.

But when the time came, the prince, the king and everyone else decided that they would enjoy the show. Instead of cacophony, the scene unfolds a lot like Snowmaking Wednesday in the morning, which I enjoyed in January. Instead of participating in the noise, the prince and everyone else decided to be quiet so that they could hear the melee. Instead of disturbance and disturbance, they eventually felt complete silence.

And the prince loved him. The moment changed everything for him. From there, the kingdom became famous for its silence – even its police whistles were soft.

I understood how the prince was feeling.

In a world that often feels like everyone I know or see, it wants all the noise – I am included in the occasion – that the quiet was one of the most notable moments that I have experienced in a long, long time. She literally felt good with my ears – not to mention my heart and brain.

I stood there, with the cold, rushed, taking the miraculous moment. Like the snow, I knew it couldn’t continue, but I wanted it to continue as long as possible.

In the end, a car got somewhere down the street. I heard the snow crisis. Then the bird sang a short song before silent for a few more minutes.

Then, somewhere in the distance, I heard a person laugh.

Where the laughter happened, it remains a mystery, but it was cordial and wonderful – and warmed my heart on a cold day. When the world is silent, the sound travels in fun ways.

The snow has long melted. The usual noise and noise of the world resumed. However, I continue to behave and be grateful for that rare morning silence. It was a reminder that sometimes, in the middle of the busy deadlines and meetings and haste, the silence finds its way – if only briefly.

Maybe, just maybe, these fleeting moments of silence are enough to remind us how to listen more closely – not only the world around us, but also the quiet spaces inside.