It snowed here in New York City two weeks ago, one of the few occasions this winter. My morning walk to work across Central Park alternated between icy and slushy, but the dog owners were out with their pets nonetheless. Some of the parks here allow dogs off-leash between 9 p.m. and 9 a.m., and each morning I pass at least 150 canine citizens and their owners.
On this particular day, I noted an especially large group of people chatting and dogs romping midway through the park. Then I saw why. Looking out from a small hill nearby was the biggest snowman I had ever seen. Fully 10 feet high, he sported a long scarf and carrot nose, and the warm happiness he gave to those around him belied his cold construction. I marveled at the effort that went into this super-snowman, wondering how many people and hours it took, and then wondering at what hour of night this labor of love occurred, since the snowfall hadn’t begun until well after dark.
Whatever work went into the snowman paid off in dividends for those who saw it. I took a photo to spread my wonder and joy, sharing it with anyone who would look. That’s the way joy works, after all; it’s not a gift given for our own consumption, but a gift meant for sharing.
