A thin layer of snow covers a path lined with long rows of trees on both sides. The branches are bare, and the sky hangs low in a cloudy milk-white. Along the edge of the path, someone's footprints are stamped in disarray, and far off, the figures of two people walking sway small in the distance.
In a scene like this, the breath lengthens on its own. Cold air passes the tip of the nose and travels down to the chest, and shoulders that had been raised come down by about a hand's width. The eyes rest on a single point at the end of the path, then quietly let go of their focus.
What the mind does on a winter path is mostly to set down its hurry. Steps grown careful against slipping become shorter than usual, and as they shorten, the mind stays with the one step being taken now.
When you come upon a patch of piled snow, try listening to the sound for about three minutes. While the squeak of it pressing down travels from the sole of your foot up to your ear, other thoughts are pushed back for a moment. If you cannot hear that sound well, why not slow your steps a little.
The same kind of listening opens up in front of the evening dishes as well. While the sound of water strikes the bowls, you need only notice how much force is in the fingers holding the plate. Whether the tight grip against slipping loosens at some point, or stays the same right through the last dish. Like the short steps on a snowy path, the time your hand stays with a single bowl also changes a little.
The people at the end of the path may be listening to the sound of their own footsteps too. The snow holds that sound for a while, then quietly erases it.
