When I think back to the snow of 2025, my mind is filled with so many impressive moments – walking in blizzard conditions with my daughter with LSU lakes, building a snowman and the pure wonder of all this. For a moment, however, will probably remain with me the most while the weeks turn to months and the months turn over for years and I remember this event. This happened the day after the big snow, which led to an accumulation of more snow that I never dreamed of it in the south of Louisiana.
That morning, I recovered from my astonishment from the day before and that I went through normal movements to prepare for work. As I do most of the mornings, I stopped to look out the window of my bathroom. It has a breathtaking view of our small courtyard, but I still love it – especially in winter, with its long morning shadows when the trees of our neighbors are naked, and through the branches, I can see beyond The fence to look at the crawling sun crawling in the LSU lakes.
A long time ago. I read somewhere that watching the morning sun shameless (or through the glass of all kinds) was a good thing. So, most mornings, whatever the temperature, I take a few moments and open the window and look at the lakes.
The calm of a snowy Louisiana morning was magic.
Usually, I do not even notice the omnipresent agitation of people who prepare for their day. Cars zoom towards LSU. Hundreds of people walk along the lakes. The buses bounce towards the campus. Students increase their motorcycles. Many things happen.
On January 22, the day after the big snow, I was standing at this window, amazing by the visual spectacle of our courtyard, a roof, trees and a snowy fence. With extreme cold, I examined whether or not to press the open window. Finally, I decided: “Why not?”
I was not prepared for what happened next. When I opened the window, which I heard – or rather what I did not hear – surprised me.
It was silent.
Not a glance of birds.
Not a car riding on the road.
Not the mreaming on the voices of the walkers.
No motorcycles.
Nothing.
This moment was the quietest calm that I remember. I stood there, struck by its beauty, grateful for the experience and actively trying to take it.
I couldn’t help but smile and remember a childhood story written by Benjamin Elkin about a young noisy prince named Hulla-Baloo, who lived in Hub-Bub, the noisiest city of the noisy world.
Prince Hulla -Baloo loved a heckling – whatever the noise that he and his friends could make with pots, pots, whistles, drums, upheavals, garbage cans, whatever. No noise was strong enough for the prince. For his birthday, he asked his father, the king, the strongest noise in the world. He wanted each person to shout – all of a sudden. The king sent a proclamation and organized just the thing his son asked.
But when the moment comes, the prince, the king and everyone decided that they would appreciate the show. Instead of a cacophony, a scene takes place a bit like the snowy Wednesday morning that I appreciated in January. Rather than participating in the noise, the prince and everyone decided to be silent so that they can hear the fray. Instead of tumult and agitation, they ended up living a complete silence.
And, the prince loved it. The moment has changed everything for him. From there, the kingdom became known for its calm – even its police whistles were sweet.
I understood what the prince felt.
In a world that often resembles everyone that I know or that I see wants all the noise – myself included on occasion – this calm was one of the most remarkable moments that I have experienced since very a long time. It was literally felt good at my ears – not to mention my heart and my brain.
I stood there, the cold rushing, taking the miraculous moment. Like snow, I knew it couldn’t last, but I wanted to continue as long as possible.
Finally, only one car ride in a street somewhere. I could hear the snow crack. Then a bird sang a short song before being silent again for several minutes.
Then, somewhere in the distance, I heard only one person laugh.
Where laughter happened remains a mystery, but it was generous and wonderful – and I warmed my heart by a cold day. When the world is silent, the sound moves in a fun way.
Snow has long melted. The usual buzzing and agitation of the world have resumed. Even so, I continue to hang on and be grateful for this rare morning silence. It was a reminder that sometimes, in the midst of the delays and meetings occupied and hurried, immobility finds its way – if only briefly.
Perhaps, just perhaps, these ephemeral moments of calm are enough to remind us how to listen more closely-not only in the world around us, but also to calm spaces inside.