Snow Under Your Feet

I was sitting at the kitchen table just after breakfast thinking about what to do, and, like so many nine-year olds, I didn’t have sense enough to keep my wonderings to myself. “I’m bored. What’s there to do?” I asked.

Without any hesitation, my mom, washing the breakfast dishes said, “Grab the dishtowel and wipe these dishes; then go shovel the snow.”

This was 1962; I had recently lost my sight for the first time and was finding my way into blindness. Because there were some chores around the house I disliked and because I was testing the limits of what I could get out of doing because I was blind, I pleaded greater helplessness than my capabilities. I had already tested the dishwashing and wiping projects, and so I knew that I was stuck there, but snow shoveling?

As I went to the end of the counter to get the dishtowel, I said, “But I can’t see the sidewalk. How can I shovel it?”

Laughing, Mom quipped, “I can’t see the sidewalk either. The snow is covering it.” Then, with more patience, she said, “Peter, think about it. You know where the sidewalk is, and you know there is snow outside. You know how to shovel. You even like to shovel snow. So, if there’s snow under your feet, you need to shovel it.”

“But how will I know where the edge of the sidewalk is,” I asked, hoping this might change the decision.

“When you hit the grass edge, you stop,” she said.

“But what if I miss the edge of the grass and shovel out into the street,” I asked, thinking that I could arrange that easily.

“I’ll watch from inside and, if you get out in the street, I’ll come get you.”

“But what if I go too far,” I asked, not wanting to do too much shoveling.

“Then the neighbors will come out and thank you,” she laughed.

I knew I was stuck, but I had to try one more time. “But, what if I throw the snow too far and it gets on the neighbor’s driveway?”

“I’ll come out and clean up afterwards if that’s a problem,” she said.

So, when the dishes were dried and I had complained again about finding the right place for the frying pan, I put on my hat and coat, my boots and mittens and headed out into the snow.

It was my intention to prove that this was a chore that needed to have sight to be done properly. I started to scoop haphazardly and indiscriminately, but, after a few scoops of snow, I discovered that it was too difficult to keep my bearings and continue to do a bad job.

Besides, Mom was right; for some perverse reason, I liked to shovel snow. I was proud of the fact that at nine, I could handle the full-sized shovel, and, besides, cleared sidewalks made it easier for me to get around. So, after a few more feeble attempts at looking helpless, because I knew that my mom and sister would be looking out the window, I finally went back to the side door and started over. This was my introduction to my dance with winter.

What I discovered that day is that snow shoveling isn’t about seeing so much as it is about rhythm. Shoveling involves a kind of dance one does with winter. It is not elegant, but the foot-plant, scrape, brace, lift, throw and shuffle of snow shoveling are rhythmically dancelike.

After the muscles are warmed up and your rhythm gets started, the mind is able to disconnect in order to consider other issues, problems, and concerns. At times, the repetitious movement has given me time to pray, but that came much later. On that first day, I learned the fundamental steps of the dance and gained a sense of accomplishment. An hour later I was finished.

When I came back into the house, I was hot; I was tired; my clothes were wet with sweat. I was done, and Mom was waiting at the top of the stairs. She said, “I almost came out to get you, and then you finally set your mind to do it. We’ve got the cleanest walk on the block. How ‘bout some hot chocolate?” I don’t know whether her praise was true, but after that day I was hooked. I could shovel snow and it was good.

I learned several things about problem solving that day that have proved helpful throughout my life, but the single best lesson I learned that day was to shovel the snow under your feet. There is no trick to this. If, in the midst of winter’s dance, you feel snow under your feet at the end of the shuffle, go back and scoop again. It is this last step that has influenced so much of how I approach life.