Turn over a snow globe, twist the music knob, twist and watch the magic. A perfect world encapsulated within a small dome of glass. Every detail visible and protected. Impenetrable to any outside force. You gaze as your mind wanders, soothed by the music softly emanating from a tiny rotating box. Snow gently wanders down, settling on a street, a house, a lamppost – anywhere it can find a home. For most of my life, it felt like one of those flakes fell on me every time the globe turned.
In 1990, at only 4-years-old, I moved to a magical place called Park City. I remember the first day it snowed – daddy taught me how to make a snow angel, definitely one of the greatest things EVER! I grew up through the wild white winters and perfectly temperate summers and found myself lucky enough to attend college in state where my Greatest Snow on Earth© and mountains were never far. College ended and I wended my way back to those mountains, teaching in their schools, exploring their trails, watching them grow. If told I would live there for the rest of my life, I would feign hesitation but then say, ‘OK’ – Life was good.
Then came September 17, 2013 – A day that will live in my memory forever. That little girl, who spent all of her life in those mountains, taking in its fresh air, soaking up every ray, every powder turn, finds herself somewhere she only ever saw in the movies. Sure I had visited, been the textbook tourist at the Statue of Liberty, Broadway, Times Square – but a permanent resident? Fuggedaboutit!
A snow globe is only temporary. Eventually the music stops. Sure you can wind it up again and get lost in its music and magic, but the music can’t continue forever. That first snow globe will always be there, resting on its shelf ready for its next turn, for its music to play as its snow softly falls – but everyone who has ever owned a snow globe knows you can never just be entranced by one – the music box needs a separate harmony, a new tune all its own.
Looks like my new snow globe is shaped like an Apple. . . is this really where dreams are made of?