Speaker 1: You find it on a Tuesday afternoon in a small
Speaker 1: thrift shop on the corner of a street you do
Speaker 1: not usually walk down. The shop is full of things
Speaker 1: other people have left behind, old lamps with cracked shades,
Speaker 1: piles of books with yell old pages. You have come
Speaker 1: in because it is raining and you do not want
Speaker 1: to walk home in the wet, and the shop is
Speaker 1: warm and quiet. You move slowly through the aisles, picking
Speaker 1: things up and putting them back down. Nothing calls to you.
Speaker 1: And then on a shelf near the back, behind a
Speaker 1: stack of old records, you see it. It is a
Speaker 1: snow globe, about the size of a large apple, sitting
Speaker 1: on a base of dark wood. Inside the glass there
Speaker 1: is a tiny village. You can see the small houses
Speaker 1: with their peaked roofs, the church with its steeple, the
Speaker 1: square in the center with a tree, and around it
Speaker 1: all snow, not the thick, chunky snow some snow globes have,
Speaker 1: but fine, delicate snowflakes that float and drift like real snow,
Speaker 1: like the first snow of the year. When the flakes
Speaker 1: seem to hang in the air before they land, you
Speaker 1: pick it up. It is heavier than you expect. The
Speaker 1: glass is smooth and clear, and the wood base is
Speaker 1: worn soft, as if many hands have held it before you.
Speaker 1: You turn it gently, and the snow begins to fall
Speaker 1: inside the globe. The tiny flakes swore and settle on
Speaker 1: the roofs and the branches and the ground. It is
Speaker 1: very small and very complete, this little world inside the glass.
Speaker 1: And then you hear it. It is faint, so faint
Speaker 1: that at first you think it is coming from a
Speaker 1: radio somewhere, but the shop is quiet. There is no radio.
Speaker 1: The sound is coming from the snow globe. It is music,
Speaker 1: a small, simple melody, like a music box or a flute,
Speaker 1: playing a tune you do not recognize, but that feels
Speaker 1: very old and familiar, the way a lullaby feels familiar
Speaker 1: even if you have never heard it before. It is
Speaker 1: a gentle tune, the kind that makes you think of
Speaker 1: snow falling and fires burning and warm rooms at the
Speaker 1: end of a cold day. You hold the globe closer
Speaker 1: to you. The music is still there, soft and clear.
Speaker 1: It rises and falls like breathing. You look into the
Speaker 1: globe at the tiny village, and you feel something shift
Speaker 1: inside you, a settling, a quieting. The rain on the
Speaker 1: windows seems very far away. There is only this, this globe,
Speaker 1: this music, this small, perfect world. You buy it. The
Speaker 1: woman at the register does not look up from her
Speaker 1: crossword puzzle. She takes your money and gives you a
Speaker 1: small paper bag, and you carry the snow lobe palm
Speaker 1: in the rain, holding it carefully against your chest. That night,
Speaker 1: you sit in your chair by the window with the
Speaker 1: snow globe in your hands. The room is dark except
Speaker 1: for the lamp beside you, which casts a way warm
Speaker 1: circle of light on your lap and on the globe.
Speaker 1: You turn it gently, and the snow begins to fall.
Speaker 1: The music begins to play, and you watch the village
Speaker 1: inside the globe is alive in a way that a
Speaker 1: snow globe should not be. The snow falls and falls,
Speaker 1: but it never seems to pile up. It melts and
Speaker 1: rises again, like breath in winter air. The light inside
Speaker 1: the globe changes slowly from pale glue to warm gold
Speaker 1: to deep purple. The tiny windows of the tiny houses
Speaker 1: glow as if there are tiny people inside, sitting by
Speaker 1: tiny fires. You cannot see them, but you can feel
Speaker 1: the warmth of that village, small and safe inside its glass.
Speaker 1: You hold the globe closer, and the music fills you.
Speaker 1: It is not just sound, It is a feeling. It
Speaker 1: is the feeling of sitting by a window on a
Speaker 1: winter evening, watching the snow fall, with a cup of
Speaker 1: tea and nowhere to go. It is the feeling of
Speaker 1: being held. You let the music wash over you, and
Speaker 1: you feel yourself letting go of the day. The small
Speaker 1: worries on your shoulders begin to dissolve, like the snow
Speaker 1: inside the globe. Over the next few days, you discover
Speaker 1: that the globe changes, not in any dramatic way, but
Speaker 1: the village shifts gently with the seasons. On the second night,
Speaker 1: the snow has stopped. There are tiny green leaves on
Speaker 1: the tree in the square. The houses look warmer, their
Speaker 1: doors open. The music has changed too. It is the
Speaker 1: same melody, but it sounds like summer, like sunlight and
Speaker 1: warm evenings and cut grass. On the third night, the
Speaker 1: leaves have turned gold and red. The snow has begun
Speaker 1: to fall again, but lightly, as if the village is
Speaker 1: just beginning to remember winter. The music is softer, now slower.
Speaker 1: On the fourth night, the village is deep in winter again.
Speaker 1: The snow falls, thick and fast, and the houses are
Speaker 1: warm and glowing. And the music is the music of
Speaker 1: the first night, the lullaby. You watch it every night.
Speaker 1: You sit in your chair and hold the snow globe,
Speaker 1: and you let the music and the light take you
Speaker 1: somewhere quiet and safe. You do not try to understand
Speaker 1: how the village changes. You do not try to figure
Speaker 1: out where the music comes from. You simply accept it.
Speaker 1: Some things are gifts. They do not need to be explained.
Speaker 1: The globe becomes part of your evening. After dinner, you
Speaker 1: make tea, You sit in your chair, You pick up
Speaker 1: the globe. You turn it gently, and the world inside
Speaker 1: begins to move. The snow falls, or the leaves rustle,
Speaker 1: or the light changes from gold to purple. The music
Speaker 1: begins soft and clear, and you close your eyes and listen.
Speaker 1: You feel the weight of the globe in your hands,
Speaker 1: solid and warm. You feel the smoothness of the glass.
Speaker 1: You feel the worn wood of the base, soft with
Speaker 1: the touch of all the hands that held it before you.
Speaker 1: You think about those hands. You wonder who held this
Speaker 1: globe before you. Did they sit in a chair like
Speaker 1: this one? Did they watch the snow fall and feel
Speaker 1: the same piece. You will never know, but you feel
Speaker 1: connected to them through this small glass world that has
Speaker 1: passed from hand to hand. The seasons change inside the
Speaker 1: globe and outside your window, too. Autumn turns to winter,
Speaker 1: the trees lose their leaves. Snow begins to fall in
Speaker 1: the streets, real snow, thick and white. You watch the
Speaker 1: real snow fall and the tiny snow fall, and the
Speaker 1: two feel like the same thing, Like the whole world
Speaker 1: is a snow globe, and some one very kind is
Speaker 1: turning it gently. You hold the globe closer. The music
Speaker 1: fills the room. The snow falls inside the glass, tiny
Speaker 1: and perfect, and the village glows with warmth. You feel
Speaker 1: your breathing slow, You feel your body grow heavy. The
Speaker 1: lamp casts its warm light, and the globe catches that
Speaker 1: light and holds it, glowing like a small sun. In
Speaker 1: your hands. You think about the village inside the globe,
Speaker 1: the houses, the church, the tree in the square. You
Speaker 1: think about the people who might live there, sitting in
Speaker 1: their warm houses, listening to the same music. You think
Speaker 1: about how they must feel safe, how they must feel
Speaker 1: at home. You feel that way too. You feel safe,
Speaker 1: You feel at home. The globe is warm in your hands,
Speaker 1: the music is soft and clear. The snow falls and falls,
Speaker 1: and the world outside is quiet and white, and the
Speaker 1: only sounds are the music from the globe and the
Speaker 1: soft breathing of the night. Your eyes grow heavy, the
Speaker 1: gullet blurs in your hands, the tiny village becoming awash
Speaker 1: of light and snow and warmth. The music slows, or
Speaker 1: perhaps it does not slow, and it is only you
Speaker 1: who is slowing, your thoughts drifting away like the snow,
Speaker 1: like leaves on a river. You do not put the
Speaker 1: globe down. You hold it in your lap as you
Speaker 1: drift towards sleep, or perhaps you fall asleep in the chair.
Speaker 1: It does not matter. What matters is that you are warm,
Speaker 1: and the globe is warm, and the music is playing,
Speaker 1: and the snow is falling, and you are safe. You
Speaker 1: are held, You are home, and you sleep deeply and peacefully,
Speaker 1: the way you slept when you were small and the
Speaker 1: world was simple, and some one was watching over you.
Speaker 1: The globe watches over you now. The music carries you.
Speaker 1: The snow falls, soft and endless, and you fall with it,
Speaker 1: deeper and deeper into sleep, into peace, into the quiet
Speaker 1: heart of the night.