This week, we received record-breaking snowfall in Louisiana. When I looked out at the blanket of snow yesterday morning, still fresh and untrod, draped liked sheets over furniture in a vacant house, I remembered watching the snow fall on December 18, 2017. It was not the same snow.

This week, the snow didn’t march in with ice and rain. It fell quietly as we slept, continuing most of the following day. When I stuck my head out to check the pond, toss the cat in the snow, and take pics, the sound of the children on the hill in the arboretum behind our house delighted my heart.

The 2017 snow was different. I had surgery the day before the snowstorm. The storm announced itself with ice and winds. We lost power and, because I could barely move due to the five incisions in my belly, I just sat as my family scrambled. I sat as snow and ice collected on my pepper plants. The temps dropped, and the most I could do was help problem-solve from the recliner: put pots on boil to warm up the room so our birds don’t freeze; look in the other hall closet for more sheets to cover the plants; and can someone hold Luda?

Luda, my daughter’s elderly dog, was staying with us. I could tell something was wrong, but I couldn’t have her in my lap. Every muscle twitch hurt. Outside I could hear the cheerful children on the hill in the arboretum, but inside my eyes burned with anger and sadness. I wanted the children to hush and the snow to go away.

This week, I reminded myself that the same event can delight one and throw the other into despair. As the children giggled down the hill behind us, I imagined the despair of those without enough shelter and food to survive this cold.

The Divide

Delight and despair have filled my social media feeds this week because the same event fell in different ways on two halves of our country. It was not the same for everyone. I don’t use my platforms to politic, share memes of dread, or taunt “the other side.” But I’m comfortable drawing a weak parallel and stating an intention here.

I would be much more comfortable turning off my social media and turning away from that “other side.” But I’m a white, middle-aged, straight woman, and my privilege isn’t threatened by the snow that fell this week. I’m not directly endangered. I have shelter. I have a network of support should the lights go out. And I’m well. I’m not turning away.

The divide between despair and delight is crippling. Memes and comedians are often delightfully funny, but they are only exacerbating the despair. Conversations across the divide are damned-near impossible. I intend to lean into those difficult conversations, to find common ground even when it seems inconceivable, so we can build bridges of compassion even if we can’t reach understanding. I intend to start somewhere.

In 2017, I had to focus on the healing of my post-surgery gut. I could not stand up and help with protecting pipes and plants. I couldn’t even hold Luda, who hovered next to me longing to be held less than twenty-four hours before she died. Just getting through that cold day was all I could manage. Today, I have a lot on my plate, but I’m strong, I’m sheltered, and I’m well. I know it’s not the same for all of us. This time, I can show up for those who need to sit this one out, I can be the one who reaches across the divide.

©Pennie Nichols. All Rights Reserved. 2025