It is street theater at its best. The chairs sit center stage in the snow, bathed in the early morning light, surrounded by cars hidden under white hills.

Now and then, a person huddled in a coat walks by, stepping tentatively in boots that struggle to gain a foothold. There are two children's plastic armchairs -- a bright pink and a blue one. Across the street is a rocking chair. Down the block is a low stool and then a canvas lawn chair. A little farther on sits a straight-backed wooden chair.

Each chair makes me think of a person sitting upon it. These are not elegant, fancy, only-to-be-used-once-in-a-while-chairs. These are instead well-used, well-lived-in chairs.

And so I walk the street and imagine a graying woman rocking as she knits a scarf. She smiles at me and waves as I wave back. Two little sisters sit upon the blue and pink chairs and play a clapping game, then hurry inside to get warm.

A man sits in the lawn chair sipping lemonade. A book lies open upon his lap and his sunglasses carry my own reflection as I pass by. Upon the stool, a white cat perches delicately, her tail swirling around her.

And there is a woman in a starched, flowered dress sitting in the straight-backed wooden chair looking ahead calmly and resolutely. She is lost in thought as I slowly pass by.

If we view the chairs only as place markers for cars, then they can only say to us, "Don't even think of parking here." Instead, what if we think of the chairs as beckoning to us to pause and stop and sit awhile, the way the snow begs us to tread quietly and slowly enough to notice the transformed earth around us.

It is difficult, even dangerous, to travel and so we park ourselves inside our houses, gazing outside or venturing forth on foot. There is no hurry -- we are not expected to go to work or school.

It is possible to linger long enough to hear the crunching sound our boots make along the way; see the icicles hanging from the roof; smell the crisp air; taste the snow as it disappears on our tongue; pinch the powdery white feathers.

And what if we pause long enough to imagine people sitting on the chairs and conversing with each other about us as we walk along in the snow?

I imagine Emily from Thornton Wilder's play, "Our Town," sitting on the straight-backed chair with her dress tucked underneath her legs and her clasped hands upon her lap.

In the play, Emily sits next to other people from her town who have died. The dead sit in neat rows across from each other in their graves as they comment on how the live folks don't stop and look at each other enough; don't stop and listen to each other enough; don't stop and hold each other enough.

The lessons of the snow are the lessons of the play. In Act III, Emily has a chance to travel back in time with the Stage Manager as her guide. She chooses the morning of her 12th birthday; however, soon after she is transported, she cannot bear it and begs the Stage Manager to take her back to her grave.

She says, "It goes so fast. We don't have the time to look at one another. ... Oh, earth, you're too wonderful for anyone to realize you!"

Let us allow the snow to inspire our sense of wonder, imagination and desire to pause. Who could be beckoning to us from a particular chair on a certain street in the midst of the white hills?

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