I sip my coffee and look out through the great windows into the distance where, mysteriously, the few lights that dot the remote mountainsides have been softly and quietly disappearing. And now, in the first light of morning, I can see the white wall of snow silently marching into my life to mute my day’s intentions. Across the third oldest river in the world it lingers, leaving me in this place, so fitting for morning, of being between states: childish wonder and joy, relief only a slave of toil knows, disappointment for goals postponed, hope, reticence, peace, and exhilaration. The snow seems to pause in its advance, having me completely surrounded now, as if to say, “Consider the space, not what you fill it with.”