At the height of it, when I looked up towards the sky, it felt further above than usual, with all the space in between inhabited completely by these slowly, softly, spiralling flakes. One could tell it was the kind of snowfall that would present itself for at least a few days. By afternoon, everything was cloaked in tufts of white; rooftops, treetops, vineyards, apple fields, the church tower….

It felt relaxing. Because we live in an Alpine valley that is not higher than about 900 feet, we don’t always get to enjoy snow. When it does arrive, I experience it with a tenseness, afraid it will dissolve into rain any moment because it isn’t cold enough. Each time it happens, it feels like a grand event, and the little town gets to partake of the winter landscape that speckles our horizon. Yesterday we visited the town Christmas market, a small, casual affair, with many little shops selling handmade objects and spent the evening at the Glühwein stand, the little circular booth, set up in the town square for most of December, that sells mulled wine. It felt Christmassy and exciting, because the snow continued until late at night and covered everything with a soft silence.

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I walked a lot more confidently in the snow this year, compared to the year before, a clear sign of my body having acclimatised itself to the landscape. Of course, it all depends on the right kind of shoes, but I have a distinct memory last year of feeling dislocated, and of realising that dislocation is a physiological experience, it is the body with its muscular network and its circulatory system that struggles to adjust, to feel aligned with the environment in which it finds itself. It is not to say that I no longer feel the dislocation, just that it doesn’t announce itself as significantly. Everyday the number of months since I left India increases, making it the longest I have ever been away. Every now and then I see myself return, in my dreams, and I always am unsure about how I will feel. I know there will be a kind of reverse-dislocated feeling. Everything will feel louder than what I have grown used to, I will have to reorient myself each time I get into a car. I will marvel at the convenience of being able to take a taxi without having to shell out a small fortune. I will delight in many small little things and satisfy cravings I never imagined having until now, like for besan or til ladoos, which I rarely ever ate when I actually lived in India.

On the other hand incredible things have been happening to me professionally that I hadn’t anticipated. I have a fairly large personal essay in a prestigious Austrian art magazine, and I took pride in seeing my name on the cover in the company of many contemporary thinkers. I was also moved to see that the entire piece had been translated into German. It’s really wonderful to be able to also access my text in a language I didn’t know until a year ago. There’s an Italian translator who is very keen to see my work published in Italy. There are artists keen to have me contribute to their work, and I feel like I am part of a growing network of artists and writers who think differently and who live non-mainstream lives. 

For the first time in my life I feel ‘accomplished’, even though I struggle to fully articulate what that means. I think it’s this notion of growing in confidence, no longer wrestling with the demon of self-doubt, having a deeper consciousness of what is not beyond me. For a very long time I was pushing my body to exceed itself. I think I’ve learned to collaborate with it instead. I am nurturing it with enthusiasm and being more forgiving of its inefficiencies. I am kinder to myself than I’ve ever been, and maybe that contributes directly to feeling more accomplished, eschewing success for something more meaningful—self-love.

Deliberating on the life and times of Everywoman, Rosalyn D’Mello is a reputable art critic and the author of A Handbook For My Lover. She tweets @RosaParx

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The views expressed in this column are the individual’s and don’t represent those of the paper.