Why Snails Make Silver Trails

A Microseasons Bedtime Story

Once upon a time, there was a Snail who crawled along the floor of an ancient forest.

Each day Snail watched moss gathering on stones, ferns uncurling, beetles in their hidden work. A chorus of birdsong rang from the branches overhead, a roof of sound that held this sacred world together.

But one morning, something was missing.

A bird lay quietly upon the ground. Eyes closed. Beak slightly parted. Head at an angle no living creature would choose.

With soft tentacles, Snail gently touched the downy chest, feeling for a heartbeat.

Wake up little bird.

Nudged it tenderly.

Please bird.

But there was only silence where the song should live.

Just the day before, this same bird had sung along with siblings in their high-nested home. The warbling melody still hovered nearby, untethered.

Snail gathered the music before it could fade—folded it up—like a small parcel, and tucked it inside their shell for safekeeping.

They made a solemn oath: I shall collect Vanishing Things, so they will not be forgotten.

---

The List of Vanishing Things proved infinite:

Cacophony of frogs before the pond fell silent.
Yip-yips of foxes at play.
Venus shining before streetlights blurred her face.
Tang of creek water running cold.
Hoofbeats on packed earth.
Seasons ticking in measured time, before clocks taught the world to hurry.

Each fragment, a weight carried.

One night, during a terrible sky-drumming, Snail cowered in their shell while the forest filled with wind and rain.

Even this booming will fade. 
These zig-zag flashes of lightning 
will end. Everything ends. 

Someone must save it—
before it all disappears.

Snail slept not a wink.

---

As morning arrived with hunger and the weight of worry, a Red-Velvet Mushroom had appeared overnight—extra large and delicious. Snail ate until their body felt heavy with its goodness. Velvet on the tongue. Earthy-sweet and filling.

Snail curled deep in their spiral bedroom,

and lapsed into a dream inside a dream.

The Shell became a wondrous place with many rooms.

Each chamber hummed with music. Wind harmonies piped through curving hallways. Rain percussion drummed the roof. Bass notes of earth pulsed up from below. Crystal formations grew into tiny chandeliers—catching light, splitting into fragments of every color.

In the center, a hearth fire blazed, growing larger and hotter, wanting to consume every Vanishing Thing.

I am weary from trying to contain it.

And I cannot.

Snail woke to hear an evening song fragment drifting on the breeze. It was a cricket singing comfort for a friend.

When Snail set out gliding again, something marvelous happened.

All the collected beauty now flowed outward like quicksilver—a shining ribbon-trail streaming behind, catching light.

As darkness fell, a mouse family searched for their grandmother’s resting spot.

The silver trail illuminated their path: beneath ferns, around fallen leaves, winding down between the roots of an old Oak tree. When they found the sacred space, they stopped and placed their small hands on quiet moss.

The bed still held her warmth.

---

To this day, Snail glides on.

Leaving light.

Good night, sleep tight.

---

O Highest Wisdom,

who circles the great circle,

who envisions the whole world

as one living path,

you have three wings.

One soars above the sky.

Another moistens the ground with sweat,

While the third flies

everywhere at once.

—Hildegard of Bingen, in Symphonia

Dear Ones,

The idea of mono no aware was the inspiration for this tale. It is a way of describing and savoring the transient beauty of all life.

I feel this tug of the heart as I practice observing the microseasons, especially while walking in the forest. For me, there is always a distinct feeling of nostalgia for something that I know is passing away—a feeling so ordinary and so holy all at once.

I think it’s the realization that every living thing in the world is constantly changing and making way for something new. And like the tiny snail in our story, we cannot stop this passing, as much as we might try.

…in Japan this beauty is often described by the term mono-no-aware—the poignant loveliness of the fragile universe. The Japanese imagination eulogizes that which is destined to fade and cherishes what is impermanent. It is in the very nature of fleetingness that we can feel the full impact of this delicate presence.

—Mark Hovane, The 72 Japanese micro-seasons

---

My special thanks to Fog Chaser for the Peaceful Piano For Deep Work playlist, which made a soundscape for my imagination while working on this tale.

Matt’s music has been medicine, as well as a creative tool for me for some years now. I find his wide-ranging catalog of original music perfect for yoga, forest walking, meditation and doing any sort of concentrated brain, spirit, or body work.

You can connect with Matt and enjoy his music, writing and photography here.

Friends, I will see you in a new microseason.

xo Ann

---