Time, Frozen

Time is like a river, the old saying goes. Always changing, yet ever the same. Summer is like the river; an eternal now, always the same, one day indistinguishable from the next.

But come winter, time freezes. We can see in four dimensions. Last night a deer walked through the woods. It lay down here and slept with several of its fellows. Sometime around dawn a coyote bounded through the snow, chasing a rabbit. A squirrel climbed down this tree, ran across the driveway and went up that tree. Here, a skier fell down. There, a man walked his dog. He was an inconsiderate lout, based on what he left behind.

Winter gives us second sight and superhuman powers of locomotion: we can see through thick forests and find animal trails that are completely hidden in the summer. Mere mortals become expert trackers. We can stroll through marshy bogs and dense thickets with nary a scratch; winter has stripped the leaves away, snow has crushed the brambles, our coats are armor against the thorns. But lakes cloud our X-ray vision: they are still mysterious broad snowy expanses, seemingly solid, but slush and thin ice could be lurking out there anywhere.

On the river, time is frozen on the surface. Our vision still extends into the past. As we walk we can look back to see exactly where we've been. But beneath the snow and ice time is still flowing forward, always beyond our sight.

Winter gives us time to remember, to look back, and to look forward. Snow is a physical manifestation of memory. Looking back at their tracks in the snow, two men walking along a river must agree on where they have been.

But we as a nation have come to a juncture where those same two men, if they are from opposing political parties, will look back at the last few years and completely disagree on the basic facts of everything that has happened.

If we cannot agree on where we've been, how can we possibly hope to find a way forward?