Advent Calendar Day 13
On this thirteenth day of our Holiday Rituals, I pause beside a quiet window, watching the rain fall as softly and mysteriously as a story unfolding – how I wish it were snow. It feels like turning a page — gentle, deliberate — as I think back to The Snow Child by Eowyn Ivey.
The Snow Child holds a special place in my reading ritual: part fairy tale, part elegy, and deeply rooted in longing. Set in the Alaskan wilderness of the 1920s, it tells the story of Jack and Mabel, a couple haunted by loss, until one winter’s day when a mysterious little girl appears, seemingly born from the snow itself. She is wild, silent, enchanting — the embodiment of both grief and hope.
What I love most is how the novel weaves the natural world into its emotional landscape. The snow isn’t just a backdrop — it is almost a character, shaping the lives and the sorrows of Jack and Mabel. Through its white hush and biting cold, Ivey captures the tender tension between beauty and danger, between what is real and what is imagined.
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In her prose, there’s a soft kind of magic: the way snow muffles sound, the way footprints vanish, the way childlike wonder and adult grief can co-exist in one small body. For me, reading The Snow Child feels like returning to a memory I never lived — a dream where longing becomes flesh and then dissolves again, leaving behind the echo of possibility.
There is also something deeply ritualistic in the couple’s daily routines: their homestead life in isolation, their small gestures of care, the unspoken ache between them. Winter becomes a season not only of survival but of quiet transformation. I often think about how their solitude teaches them to listen — to the land, to each other, to their own unspoken wishes.
“We never know what is going to happen, do we? Life is always throwing us this way and that. That’s where the adventure is. Not knowing where you’ll end up or how you’ll fare. It’s all a mystery, and when we say any different, we’re just lying to ourselves. Tell me, when have you felt most alive?“
Eowyn Ivey, The Snow Child
Why It Feels Like a Holiday Ritual
Stillness as sanctuary: Much like the quiet moments I carve out during December — lighting a candle, simmering a drink, choosing a book — The Snow Child invites me into a space of reflective calm, where grief and beauty meet in the hush of snow.
Nature’s intangible gift: The magical realism in the novel feels symbolic of how the holiday season gifts us small miracles: the soft hush of falling snow, the way memories glimmer, the hope that emerges in silence.
Hope born from loneliness: The story doesn’t shy away from loss, but it gently reminds us that even in emptiness, possibility remains. And in a season often associated with gathering, that reminder feels deeply wise.
Each year, I like to revisit The Snow Child in early December. I make a cup of mellow tea (I think of something like chamomile with a hint of vanilla), tuck a wool blanket around my shoulders, and read late into the night, by the soft glow of a lamp. The pages feel like slow snowfall — each sentence a flake that lands quietly on my imagination.
Invitation to You
As the snow piles up on the page and in your mind, I invite you to reflect:
Have you ever read a book that felt like it was made of snow — delicate, fleeting, yet somehow alive?
What winter rituals do you hold close: watching a snowfall, writing by candlelight, reading under a blanket?
Written by Alexandra Poppy
Writer, reader & curator of The Ritual of Reading
I’m Alexandra, the voice behind The Ritual of Reading. Somewhere between a stack of novels and a half-finished pot of tea, I keep finding traces of the life I want to live—slower, richer, filled with stories. The Ritual of Reading is where I gather what I love: books that linger, places with a past, and rituals that make ordinary days feel a little more meaningful. I write from Paris, where elegant bookshops and old-fashioned cafĂ©s offer endless inspiration—and I share it here, hoping it brings a spark to your own days, too.
