To tell a story.
How to write a parable, parse a tale, relate a truthism? How, when memories have been remembered, experiences experienced and the newness has gone stale? I find it in a moment, a flash of a frame, an iotum. A snowstorm that is vast, swirling, calling, rising, falling - for a moment stills, catching my breath. From this maelstrom, a query, a cognizance, an inspiring - a single crystal coldness in ungloved hand.
Within the storm, the one is insignificant. Yet this snowflake is the greater of the two. The tiny frozen vapor holds the complexity of the cosmos. In the sky, on the earth, in my palm - it disappears.
It is of itself and of the infinite. A story of the cold, the heat, the in between. Bold stratification and mercurial motion. It encompasses and is contained by all - eternal, exquisite, fleeting.
Within it, I stand alone, alongside all of creation, a spark burning bright for but a moment.
Focus draws back, back, back to me and mine.
What is the meaning of all this? Of life? Of being? she asks.
Where is the theorem, the crux, the proof?
It is here, I say. It is in this snowflake.