Verified by 
Personal Perspectives
Hearing Winter: Listening to Nature With Care Lessens Fear
Personal Perspective: In uncertain times, the season's sounds offer comfort.
Posted March 20, 2025 Reviewed by Michelle Quirk
Key points
- Doing something real that needs doing can make us feel less powerless and help address anxiety.
- Lively music, like snow squeaks and bird tweets, can lift spirits and calm fears.
- Fear, chaos, and uncertainty are real, but infusions of goodness have power greater than any dark moment.
Toward the end of January 2025, temperatures dropped. A serious deep freeze settled in. Earlier snowfall covered the ground of my Western New England town, and icy patches remained on side streets. One morning I woke to a thermometer reading of minus-6: six degrees below zero! Bright sunshine made the white snow glow. Ice on tree limbs sparkled. The sky was so blue it seemed to vibrate. I learned that when snow gets this cold, it squeaks underfoot.
I took extra time for my morning run, watching my steps along the frozen route. At my age, a single fall could wreck my life. I listened for the sound as each boot landed: Ordinary snow crunches had turned into squeaks.
“It’s so cold I heard the snow squeak!” I told anyone who would listen. “Yes, I love that,” said my neighbor. “Yeah, it’s cool,” my granddaughter said. “It’s always great!” said my son. They’d known for years. I still marvel when I hear snow squeak.
February’s President’s Day Weekend storm began Saturday. Heavy snow was still falling when I woke in the night to check its progress. Every object I could make out—roofs, chimneys, bushes, trees, along with streets, walks, and driveways—lay nestled under a deep blanket of white fluff. The next day, sipping tea, I watched flakes turn to sleet. Hours of freezing rain landed on the fluffy white surfaces, but before daylight ended snow was falling again.
Beginning with 8 to 10 inches of snow on Saturday, the storm had now lasted more than 24 hours. At dusk I struggled to clear a path down the sidewalk in front of our house, heaving aside shovelfuls of heavy wet snow as fresh snowflakes landed. My shoulders ached, but accomplishing my task gave me comfort—I could do something real that needed doing; I wasn’t completely powerless. This addressed my increasing anxiety about the world beyond my town.
Overnight, all that water and slush turned to ice. For days the temperature rarely rose above freezing. A shortage of salt meant only main streets were clear. Travel on sidewalks and side streets remained treacherous. Nevertheless, when the sun came out its bright light was marvelous, implying warmth despite the cold. Children rode sleds down the slopes. Even beneath cloudy skies snowy roofs and yards sparkled.
While uncertainty and vague dangers advanced in the world beyond my view, my shoveled path through squeaking snow that sparkled gave me comfort.
And daylight was lasting longer...
February’s last Thursday dawned gloomy, the whole sky a flat gray. Snow lingered on rooftops and in piles on the ground. My weather app showed heavy snow falling, but outdoors light rain fell instead. A layer of slush covered sidewalks and steps; bare streets all appeared wet.
Weeks of bad news left me frightened and sad. I needed an infusion of goodness. My favorite band, The Gaslight Tinkers, had a show Thursday night. Despite the rain, I decided to see them.
The Iron Horse filled quickly; they’d played their first show here a dozen years earlier. With welcoming smiles and worried head shakes, we showed the ambivalence of unsettled times, sharing anxiety and longing for hope.
Before their first song had ended, the small dance floor was packed. Carrying the band’s remarkable energy—love made visible—their music filled the air. Wholehearted goodwill surrounded me. I saw joy on all the faces. Joy and happiness! Every single person!
As if taking its cue from my need, the next day’s sunshine dazzled in the wind-dried bright clear air. These times are scary—today’s news is even scarier than yesterday’s—but I rejoice in recalling that evening—the dancing and the smiling faces everywhere. Anxious people were lifted from darkness by music. I want to hold forever the joy surrounding me at the Tinkers show.
It’s March. Officially, Spring is here. Outdoors the sun is warm. Green shoots peek through dirt emerging from beneath ice and leaves. Birds rejoice in the day with their songs galore. This morning I heard mourning doves’ coos outside my window. I lay still in my bed, letting the sound fill me with hope.
Fear, chaos, and uncertainty are real, but if we can hear the sounds of snow squeaking, Spring birds wildly tweeting, music inspiring us to join strangers dancing our hearts out—these infusions of goodness have power greater than any dark moment.
