This Blizzard of 2013, affectionately called Nemo, has blown into town and is howling at me. The strange forms taking shape outside my window created by wind and snow, could only be imagined, until now. My house is Varykino palace-turned-ice castle in Dr. Zhivago. I am Yuri writing my famous works in the dead of a Russian winter as the wolves wail.
This February Revolution of sorts is intended to sweep out the old and bring in the new order. It’s easy to imagine my life as a Russian novel, house-bound from five foot drifts, blaming everything on Tsar Nicholas II and the Romanovs. Maybe, when all is said and done, something will have altered in my life. Probably not a new government, but something incremental, measurable, in how I see.
This storm is a gift, with perverted elegant-but-evil curves, at once tragic and beautiful. To stop and see and not to curse, to watch and not to speak, to have awe and to interpret, and simply be aware is a start. When I think of Russian novels, I think of the light and dark, the beauty of the writing, the tragedy of circumstance…much like the twisted forms out my window.
I count myself fortunate to experience nature in all its schemes. I hope you do too.