Whence cometh divine flakes which floateth into my eyeball at early dawn? I believe that running in snow or warm rain tops most sublife experiences I typically have. I mean I should have been between flannel sheets at six a.m. this morning, leading the unexplored, nonnationalgeographic life of routine and nonexposure instead of throwing myself down a silent cul-de-sac (into the Arctic wilds of snow-emblazoned utility boxes and driveways) in a silent, breathful pace. Should have been in bed. I've never been too sensible. However, once out, it truly was worth it to experience that joy in being in the raw, on the fringe of society in which Nature reasserts itself as the conduit of what is elementally good. Nothing else can imposter this. (Annie Dillard examines both the positive and the cruel in nature in her wonderful book "Pilgrim on Tinker Creek.")

When I was younger, on my parents' farm, I always needed to escape the small home where we lived, and, so I would go on woods walks all the time. (One time in junior high, I even brought a copy of Wordsworth to this amazing clearing by cedars and mossy big rocks -- I can still see it now -- and at one point, I felt that old transcendental surge -- or perhaps it was the holySpirit swoosh -- or perhaps it was the recollection of prebirth, or prelapsarian life -- or Pan -- or psychological respite -- anyway it was real enough then to recall the tingle of it even now.) But, snow woods walking was extremely memorable: the tracks, the sounds within the silence, the unfamiliar familiar, the perfect icing on a log, the accentuated movement of the dark creek. It was all so beautiful. Although we never traveled, I felt faraway in another space and time where a poor hill girl was invited with flourish.

So this morning, heading out into the snow for a four miler, those old feelings rushed back and made me inspired to once again notice and be a participant and be grateful for the open invitation.