The Spiritual Path of Snow

By Jenn Weede

The first time I rode powder, I found God. In that orgasmic, “Oh God, oh God, oh God!” kind of way. So, it’s not surprising that when I left New York City to pursue my spiritual path, I was lured to the snowy Rocky Mountains. I fell in love with a skier, and learned to alpine, Telemark and Nordic ski, solidifying my beloved connection with snow.

But most spiritual paths shun the physical, or prescribe very specific physical engagements, such as asanas, for progress on the spiritual path. Eager to understand my spiritual path, I studied yoga, meditation, reiki, alternative healing and Eastern philosophies. I attended seminars and workshops. I wore a turban and chanted in a dead language with a dead guy on a video screen at an all-day white tantra (far less exciting than a red, sexual tantra) meditation. But I was still searching.

No shoe I tried quite fit. During intensive Kundalini teacher training, the teacher and I had a teeth-baring confrontation like young bucks defending their very survival. The emotionally charged dispute’s negative energy pierced the next day. I couldn’t shake it.

Overnight and throughout the next day the gods of tranquility blanketed almost a foot of snow on bare earth. The snow fell and kept coming until all was quiet. I waxed up my old Karhus and skied out my door. Every flake softened the sharp edges of the world into puff pillows. Silence pervaded. Joy effervesced like an artesian spring, in a contented “Ahh, God,” kind of way.

In the previous day’s yogic physiology class turned quantum physics, the instructor lectured that water carries energy exponentially more efficiently and profoundly than air. And, given its cyclic nature, its effect can reach a broader audience. So I reasoned that if I skied in the snow, joyously sending out blessings and forgiveness and understanding, the energy of those feelings could become exponentially greater than myself, as the snow, a form of water, melted and then evaporated and ascended again into the air to fall elsewhere. Perhaps the healing could even reach the five or so miles up the road to my antagonist. Not fifteen minutes into my ski, he drove by, and instead of anger, I felt peace.

A primary tenant of Taoism is nature as guru. A primary means for accessing one’s spirit is slowing down and listing to the subtleties in the silence. Snow teaches both. But the truth is that accessing one’s spirit, hence, one’s spiritual path, is an individual process. If snow brings peace and joy and a connection to the whole, to what is divine, then how can it not be a spiritual path? Albeit one whose trail I must break on my own each time; tracks I must set, not follow.