The Warmth of a Snow Angel

The long dark nights of the winter in the northern hemisphere offer the occasion to recall and dwell in memories that appear in the waking dreams of nostalgia. Trauma can do strange things to memories. Memories are often blocked. Thankfully, age seems to be able to heal some of the scars, so trapped memories can be released and emit the light and warmth of the hearth located in the heart.

I was 14 the summer I met Cathy. She was 15, tall, strong and blond. I had joined the local judo dojo the fall before. My father had died four years earlier, killed by a drunk driver. I felt that I needed to gain strength and fortitude to be able to protect myself. I was not athletic, but I was determined. Within a short time, I learned the discipline required to mentally and physically make mind and body work together and quickly advanced and was in the same class as Cathy.

We were both striving for our personal best, fighting with ourselves, as well as each other in competitions. Even though Cathy always held the advantage, I had my merits. I was a quick learner. We were natural partners.

I once read a version of Gilgamesh and Enkidu, who were equals in fighting. We were the female version. She was the ruling queen, and I was the wild woman, her equal. We enjoyed and respected each other and were ready to do what was needed to bring out the best of the spirit of the aboriginal creature inside of us. We were both wild animals who were prepared to work on gaining the strength to face nature’s challenges head on.

Work with the strength of the opponent, that was the motto of our club.

We trained together, running several miles throughout a week, to the dojo and back or just for fun. When the long nights and cold winter set in, one night just before Christmas, the magic happened.

The first snow fell. Thick wet flakes formed a fluffy padding on the ground before crystals are created when the underlayer gets melted by the weight of the snow above. The Inuit call it pukak.

We decided to do our run barefooted.

I still remember the initial feeling of cold, then as my blood warmed my body, the joy of running barefoot in short judo pants and a sweater. We ran on the cushion of snow, buoyant as we crossed this semi-solid water surface, breathing like dragons with frost on the tips of our hair, on the top of our head and in our noses. We were part of nature. Guided by coloured lights of Christmas on houses our footfalls fell silent on snow under the moonlit sky, as we past heavily laden snow tipped branches and strange creatures of the night. We ran like animals, aware that we were not just prey, we were predators, lethal weapons.

We started laughing, knowing we were young, alive and full of what it is to be a human animal who safely can frolic in the snow.

We were following the rite of initiation equivalent to barefoot fire walking. The trick was to keep the feet moving, not too fast or slow and most importantly to have no fear, for that opens blood vessels too far. We moved with the earth and with heaven. We were committed to succeed and thrive. We were working with the strength of the opponent.

I do not know how I missed the signs that something was different after that night. It was not within my scope of awareness to see that anything made us special or different. Nothing seemed unusual. It had seemed like we were perfectly natural.

With age, I can see a bit more clearly how taking the initiative to understand the human beast as part of nature might have set us apart.

We stood out. That spring we became the show girls for the local judo club and would perform a display for audiences frequenting the local department stores. We drew in the crowds. Youngsters would come and watch and the next week the registration would double. We started teaching Saturday mornings. We worked together after school at the family diner, plus trained 3-5 times a week, running to the club and up the five flights of stairs. We threw ourselves over a pyramidal stack of 6-10 people, grabbed an invisible belt and spun round high in the air then did a break fall, slapping the mat and jumping up and running to do it again.

Competitions were a different thing. Cathy and I were opponents and Cathy usually won. Somehow, that did not matter. We were fairly evenly matched, and it was only a matter of time before I would win.

But time was not in the cards.

The next fall, Cathy got a mysterious pain, then was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. So unusual for a 16-year-old. I visited her in the hospital and through her tears of laughter, she begged me to stop being funny because laughing hurt. She died shortly after.

Just recently, as winter approaches and the cold settles in, memories of my friend returned. When I was repairing the wing of the angel from a nativity scene with a shell, she appeared in my mind’s eye. When eyes are moist vision improves.

Apparently, some of the trauma of Cathy’s sickness and death, has been healed. It still amazes me that the years of friendship we had shared had become an invisible blur. Cathy came to me in the form of a snow angel filling me with joyful nostalgia. I recalled the amazing feats we were able to accomplish when the mind is focussed and the exhilaration of that run on new fallen snow, laughing at the cold.

Through my friendship with Cathy, I recognize the strength we both gained, to face adversity. I can accept, as did Gilgamesh, that no one can escape death. I know that we did our best to use the strength of the opponent, be it physical, environmental or mental, We shared an extraordinary period of time and many amazing adventures. Best of all, I still feel the flame rekindled in my heart, that illuminates how judo served to teach me the intended hoped-for lessons I felt that I needed.

That run on the new fallen snow, as a wild woman and queen, gave me the confidence to know that I am strong and smart enough to guard my domain, with warmth and comfort by harnessing the power of love and being loved.