It snowed in London yesterday, so I took the opportunity to walk to my local park. I stopped at one of my favourite spots, a small bridge overlooking a pond with a tree growing out of an islet in the middle and a small waterfall rippling in the background. The pond was partially frozen over and trails had been cut through the thin ice by ducks swimming to and fro from the shore. The bare branches of the tree were dusted with snow which was lightly shaken away whenever a bird landed or departed from them. At one point, geese flew overhead, migrating from the pond on the other side of the bridge for a change of scenery and to take advantage of an elderly woman throwing crumbs from a bag to the ducks in the water.
I've walked across that bridge countless time before, sometimes stopping to enjoy the moment before moving on, but rarely has the simple sense of life in and around it been so noticeable. I've written before about my walks around the park and my enjoyment of the small details which are so easily overlooked. This time, the half an hour I spent looking out across the little pond made me aware of how much the lockdowns of the past year have deprived so many of us of the experience of watching life innocuously unfold around us, whether in trails through an icy surface or snow displaced from a tree branch. It has also deprived us of the human contribution to that tapestry, the traces of our existence we leave behind not only as part of our own stories, but as additions to the stories of others. Specifically, in this case, a tiny snowman.
Although most of the snow had melted by the time I arrived at the park, somebody had built a small, smiling snowman on top of the bridge rail facing the pond. I have no idea who this person was, what inspired them to build it or why they built it there. Although I doubt it took very long to put together, the effect of its presence long outlasted the interest of its creator. Almost everybody who crossed the bridge stopped to look, laugh and enjoy it. Families gathered around for photographs. This little creation, likely long forgotten by the unknown person who built it, provided more unexpected joy than I've seen in the better part of a year.
Spontaneity is a vital part of experiencing pleasure. There are plenty of ways to derive happiness and satisfaction from the known and the planned, of course, whether that be the routine of attending to a plant, building something or following a recipe. As important as all those things are, the little snowman was a reminder of how essential the role of the unexpected is to providing inspiration and joy as well. I doubt whoever built the snowman planned to do so ahead of time, or at least not specifically there and in that tiny shape. The rare circumstances of settled London snow provided the inspiration, an opportunity somebody took to amuse themselves (and possibly others) before moving on. In turn, that impulsive expression of pleasure created similar moments of pleasure for others when they came across it later on. The photos they share and stories they tell will spread those moments further.
That little snowman was the outcome of so many unassuming choices and randomly aligning circumstances that, hyperbolic as it may seem, its creation has something of the miraculous about it. Any bigger, any more elaborate and it would not have fit in so perfectly with its meditative surroundings. Anywhere else in the park and it probably would have gone largely unnoticed. Indeed, later on my walk I came across another, much larger snowman, a wonderful creation in its own right complete with colourful hat and period-appropriate facemask:
Let it never be said that this is not a truly superb snowman. A lot of work went into it, the hat and mask are fabulously funny, as are the wonky arms and the carrot nose. It is in many ways a perfect snowman. All involved should be proud. Despite this, although I stopped to get a photo of it for this essay, it was telling how little attention it was receiving. It wasn't far from one of the park's major paths, so was hardly out of the way, yet countless people passed it by with little more than a cursory glance. A few people jogged over to admire it, yet compared to the tiny, quieter snowman on the bridge, it was virtually ignored.
As wonderful as it is, the big snowman did not have the same sense of random chance which the small one on the bridge exuded so beautifully. The big one demonstrates more deliberate choices, from the hat to the mask, and is located in a place where snowman might be expected to be seen on a snowy day. It is distinctive and expressive and impressive, but almost too much so. The big snowman is asking passers-by to enjoy it as a specific reflection of the creativity of those who built it. It is funny, it is somewhat clever and it is admirable, but it is those things in a very individualised way.
The bridge snowman, on the other hand, is located somewhere snowmen are not usually to be found. Its discovery elicits not only the joy of finding a snowman, but finding a snowman unexpectedly. It is at once extraordinary, in that it is a snowman on the rail of a bridge, and yet its design is, undoubtedly quite by chance, perfectly in keeping with its surroundings. Just as the pond behind it has a zen-like quality in its snapshot of the calm motions of moment-to-moment life, the bridge snowman communicates in great depth with nothing more than a smile. The big snowman has a facemask, an amusing and slightly bleak reflection of the time in which it was built. The small snowman does not reflect the times, but provides something universal and invaluable to them: a sign of happiness and reassurance, a greeting at a time when such things have been stripped away from so many who need them the most. The big snowman says 'look at me!' The small one says 'I see you.'
By the time I write this, both snowmen will be long gone. Like the snowman from the eponymous short film which has become an essential staple of British Christmases, the story ends with both returning to the ground from which they rose. I hope whoever built the big snowman got their hat back, at least. They are gone now, yet their short lives lifted those of so many who came across them. They live on in photos, in anecdotes shared between friends and family, in me for unexpectedly enriching what I had expected to be a routine amble around the park for fresh air. All the while, the unknown people who built them continue their lives with no idea of how much their creations added to the world, existing so briefly and yet for so long. Lockdown has denied many of us the joy of being surprised. Perhaps, unexpectedly, it can help us appreciate it too.
