It All Adds Up

 Last weekend marked the first real snowfall of the season.  It was an early one, and unlike typical early snows, this one was significant, and it was cold enough for the snow to stick around.  Looking out my window throughout the day, I noticed the snow falling, but didn't give it much thought.  The snow itself wasn't dense; the flakes were small, and we weren't being dumped upon.  What I didn't give credit to was the continuous nature of the storm, and the persistence with which the snow continued to fall all day and through the night.

The next morning, however, was a different story.  When I went out to clear my car before heading for an early dip, I was shocked to see just how much snow had accumulated on it.  There was much more than I had anticipated, and I silently gave myself a pat on the back for getting out of the house with enough time to properly tackle scraping and brushing off the storm's remnants. 

As I worked to unearth my car, I reflected on how much the slow but steady snowfall had amassed over time, and how this same principle could be applied to so many other aspects of life. It was like seeing the adage regarding drops of water in a bucket eventually filling it up, taking place in real time.  The lightly falling, innocent-seeming snow that had persisted for most of the day resulted in an impressive pile, built one flake at a time.

I went for a run later that morning and thought about how this principle played into so many aspects of life.  The very run that I was completing was a prime example.  It was an easy, short one, not designed to be anything more than a way of putting mileage on my legs and reinforcing muscle memory and endurance for the longer runs that inevitably come later in my training plans.  On paper, these short runs may seem inconsequential, but much like those tiny snowflakes, they add up over time, allowing me to add distance and durability without the negative side effects of injury or overuse.  

Realizing that this practice of small investments for large returns begs the question - what investments are you willing to make in yourself to reap the benefits down the road?  It can often feel like a large undertaking to start a new practice, like journaling or meditating, or anything that requires a time commitment in our already busy days.  But what if we looked at the small picture, instead of the big one, and only focused on the five minutes of journaling, or fifteen minutes of quiet reflection that would kick-start these practices for us?  What if all we focused on was being like those snowflakes and allowed ourselves to persist with intention for a few moments each day?  What might grow as a result of our consistency and commitment to ourselves?  I think the answer could be just as surprising as the pile of snow on my car was that morning.