My apartment window was the perfect place to witness how frosty weather transforms the Hudson River. It’s easy to appreciate the beauty of winter when you’re indoors, and far away from the cold. This is a portrait of one of the snowiest days this year, and I saw it for more than what it was.
As the snow fell, the barge that was floating in the distance became barely visible. I was reminded that once I move, memories of this apartment will become obscure and distant, much like the barge. This time next year, I will no longer have this view. But with a change of scenery, comes a change of perspective.
Dyson runs straight into winter like it’s an invitation. In the middle of all that white, he’s a dark, eager shape cutting a path through the churned-up snow, tennis ball held tight like a prize he earned fair and square. His ears are up, his eyes are locked in, and his whole body says the same thing: throw it again.
Snow has a way of rewriting a place. It softens the edges, hushes the street, and makes even familiar ground feel briefly new. Every footprint becomes a small story—where you went, how fast, how excited you were to get there. Dyson seems to read the page as he goes, adding lines as quickly as he can.
There’s a particular joy in watching a dog take the cold personally, like it’s not something to endure but something to conquer. The air might sting, the snow might melt into slush later, but right now it’s all possibility. A ball, a run, a return. Simple rules, endless rounds.
Maybe that’s the best part of days like this: the reminder that you don’t need much to feel full of it. Just a bright green-and-blue circle, a stretch of snow, and someone who comes back every time like it’s the first time.
The snow turns ordinary errands into something cinematic. A sidewalk becomes a small stage; the wind edits the scene for you, softening the edges, erasing the sharpness of the day. In the middle of it all, two boyfriends lean together for a quick selfie—cheeks cold, jackets zipped, the kind of closeness that feels practical and tender at the same time.
“Boyfriends be Blizzard” sounds like a joke you say to keep your teeth from chattering. But there’s truth in it, too. When weather arrives with teeth, you find out what you keep and what you let go. You keep moving. You keep laughing. You keep someone close enough to share warmth, even if it’s only for the length of a photo.
The street behind them is blurred with snow and motion—parked cars collecting white, a fence beaded with slush, the day reduced to a few muted colors. A paper bag swings from one hand like proof that life continues: coffee, groceries, something simple carried home. The storm doesn’t stop the routine; it just asks you to do it slower, shoulder to shoulder.
In weather like this, the world feels smaller and quieter, as if everything beyond the falling snow is far away. And in that narrowed space, affection is louder. A kiss on the cheek, a grin caught mid-flurry, a shared pause before stepping back into the cold.
Growing up, summer was hot and winter was cold. Every year, at the same time, it was the same cycle of shoveling snow, getting ready for track, running the garden hose in the back yard, and picking up walnuts. My childhood home, with its stone walls and carpet covered floors, sat still as the years flowed by.
When you grow up, your world appears to be smaller and darker, but with this house it just kept becoming brighter and bigger. The old colors, brown, pink, and blue of the 80s, are replaced with eggshell, yellow, and soft smoke. When you walk into the house, you can see the work my parents have put into the house all these years. The house feels settled, not cluttered from time or laziness, not sterilized from remodels or upgrades.
One of the best traits of an old stone house is how it lives along side you. In the summer, it stays cooler from the night and wind flows leisurely though it. In the winter, the stones hold in the heat and keep the air not too dry and not too damp. You can hear the house living all the time. The boards and the walls creak and groan. Cracks crawl along the plaster, sometimes peaking and sometimes closed.
Ghosts of the past inherit this house. They never haunt it, they have become part of its soul.
The snow is falling, dusting a white powder over the property. The wind whistles and sneaks up my flannel and sweatshirt coat. That same coat has been hanging in the laundry room of the house for as long as I can remember…the coats that my dad, brother, and I have taken out to rake leaves, start fires, and shovel snow over and over again throughout the years. The coat is something I never really remember as being part of the house until I instinctually grab for it, put my hands into the pockets and travel down the back wooden stairs.
Behind the silo, around the barn, I hear the hum of nearby cars and a volunteer fire siren whining into the white and soft ash sky. Now that I sit here writing, I get the image of the whole scene as if it were a Murakami setting. Amongst the faded and mundane, there is a slowly growing feeling, one of mystery or curiosity.
When the field is green and the sun is bright, you can stand quietly and listen, listen to one world push up against another. When I was younger there were farm fields all around the house and everywhere I went. Slowly I watched fields and hillsides stripped and turned into copies of homes. The roads and the places feel less secret, less inviting to travel.
I once walked these fields and ran these woods with bare feet and boredom. In the snow I am content with this melancholy and space.
| I wake to a quiet and snowy morning, grind some beans, and make myself coffee. Snow has clung to my summer window screens, making it appear that it has accumulated up to the first floor of the apartment building. After washing some dishes and taking a shower the rest of the building starts to stir. At the front of the building my landlord bickers with a kid from the block about the height of the snow and where best to measure it. They haphazardly plan the best approach to clear the length of sidewalk and barter the cost to shovel the snow.
$20 for a path, $45 to clear it all – it’s the same for every house
[image_frame url=”7388″ action=”open-lightbox” rel=”snow”]They spot a snow drift on the roof, its reaching off into the sidewalk, they compare it to Mount Everest or a Snow Sculpture of a bird. They worry if it will fall and hurt someone, admittedly it has me curious. I cannot decide if it is funny or sad, the futile effort or the lack of actual effort they have in shoveling snow so early. After a while it is quiet again, then a guitar slowly plays a rambling melody downstairs.[image_frame url=”7380″ action=”open-lightbox” image_caption=”Snow on my bedroom window” rel=”snow”][image_frame url=”7379″ action=”open-lightbox” image_caption=”Neighborhood Kid Shoveling” rel=”snow”]I decide to venture out and layer up to a snowy wonderland. The snow drift on the roof is microscopic compared to the rest of the neighborhood. The hilarity of it all, my building’s sidewalks are some of the best.
A man with a snow blower, cross-country skiing, sounds of tires spinning to nowhere; are a wintery mix of sound and white light. Like two ships in the night, my friend Mikey and I pass each other in the park , never knowing until we are both too far away to meet.[image_frame url=”7384″ action=”open-lightbox” image_caption=”Snowy track of McCarren Park” rel=”snow”][image_frame url=”7386″ action=”open-lightbox” image_caption=”McCarren Park Building 1″ rel=”snow”][image_frame url=”7387″ action=”open-lightbox” image_caption=”McCarren Park Building 2″ rel=”snow”]I arrive home, snow crystalized over my M-65 field jacket and creating a cuff on the bottom of my jeans. As I walk into my apartment the snow quickly begins to melt and I can almost hear that small crackling of ice melting on my hat. It’s time for something warm, a cozy blanket and some brainless internet entertainment. The light is pale and blue in my living room, the wind is howling, and the city appears calm, if only for today.[image_frame url=”7395″ action=”open-lightbox” image_caption=”m65 jacket snow melting” rel=”snow”][image_frame url=”7398″ action=”open-lightbox” image_caption=”the back yard snow” rel=”snow”]| Read Insta-comments -> http://bt.zamartz.com/1WDZzY7
| So I’m a little obsessed with my food processor the past couple days. It is such a super useful christmas gift! So I have made a soup, creamed broccoli and now Baked Rosemary Potato Chips. The food processor just slices them so even it makes me swoon!
Baked Rosemary Chips ~ 10min prep 15min
– Heat oven to 375 – Sliced Russet potato (I did 1) – Brush both side of potato slices with olive oil – Place on baking tray and sprinkle on ground rosemary – Bake until they are just about to turn golden brown or until fully golden for the extra crispy version! – Check in at about the 5 to 8 minute mark and flip
