The Frozen Wood



The Frozen Wood can only be found on the coldest days of the harshest years. Stark gray, orange and brown, shivering beneath winds blustering breath. The Frozen Wood moves slowly, an icy dance with nowhere to go, bending branches to break.

IMG_5192Brooks run through the Frozen Wood, where they flee or if they’ll last until nightfall, no one can know. They move, only, and until they can move no more. Trees lean in to one another, chattering leaves, shuddering trunks, stilling themselves for anther gust.

IMG_5191The Frozen Wood makes everything unseen visible. Hiding is for Summer Woods, pregnant with green to bursting, intertwined branches and vine, hollows concealed. In the Frozen Wood, what was safe becomes exposed.

IMG_5153There are paths through the Frozen Wood, roads to somewhere anyone can go. Where cars speed by and strangers linger, where cities grow and worlds collide. Where everything thaws, sliding by to tomorrow. In the Frozen Wood, time stills.


The Frozen Wood is full of jagged edges and hidden nooks where only icicles can fit. Rocks and branches press together, trying to escape the snow invaders on all sides. A silent war of what is, and what has come.


The Frozen Wood is a chilly playground. It’s a slide that never ends. It’s a mystery that must be solved. It’s a death to be avenged. There is laughter in the Frozen Wood, and also tears. There are ends that melt into beginnings.

IMG_5200When walking in the Frozen Wood, remember always your way home. Where chocolate can be heated, and fires lit, where wool blankets the hills of pillows instead of snow, where laughter resounds and stillness flees.

Go to the Frozen Wood one day, if you can find the way.


All photographs contained in the post belong to Rebekah Faubion.

Snow Fall

Out of the bosom of the Air,
      Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,
Over the woodlands brown and bare,
      Over the harvest-fields forsaken,
            Silent, and soft, and slow
            Descends the snow.
Even as our cloudy fancies take
      Suddenly shape in some divine expression,
Even as the troubled heart doth make
      In the white countenance confession,
            The troubled sky reveals
            The grief it feels.
This is the poem of the air,
      Slowly in silent syllables recorded;
This is the secret of despair,
      Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded,
            Now whispered and revealed
            To wood and field.
By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Looking out my window last night, the heavy blanket of snow my Brooklyn street was overlain with, made all who lived here momentarily stand still under it’s weight. It bellowed and whistled at us, at once cocooning our world with it’s dangerous arms, and warning us to the warmth of our homes.

We have begun to pack, and the frenzy of it has made me weary. Next week, we will load a truck and set off. And, seemingly, New York has given us one more unforgettable memory to hold in our hearts as we do.

Being storm-bound is often the only way for New Yorkers to still themselves. The City, in all her glitter and brilliant intrigue, is a mistress that steals your energy. But when the weather screeches at us, it is a harsh ally. Reluctantly, we take her call. We hide inside.

The beauty of snow fades rather quickly, and with its majestic fading, the quiet ceases. The work begins. We clear a path to the trains, and salt the cement beneath our shoes so we can bustle to-and-fro. The call of the City is louder than the whisper of the wind in the snow-banked streets.

She will always win.

Ground and sky swirl silver and white, a life-size snow globe in a city made of concrete. A playground capsule where we are in awe of what nature can do.

For a moment, this is all there is, the snow and the child in the snow. The balls made of it. The Men built from it. The world veneered in it. And I am thankful to breathe in the coldness of snow because you never forget the cold, or the fingerprint it leaves on your bones.

I will carry that with me forever.