Ice, Weight, and What Remains

Jason Smith
8 minutes ago
2 min read

A Middle Tennessee Winter Reflection

Middle Tennessee doesn’t get ice storms often, but when we do, they leave a mark.

For a brief moment, everything slows down. Fields glaze over. Fence wire carries a clear, fragile edge. Branches bend under a weight they weren’t built to carry. There’s a strange quiet that comes with it—beautiful and uneasy at the same time.

Ice has a way of revealing things. It highlights every line, every curve, every weakness. What looks delicate up close can be incredibly destructive when it accumulates. Walking our property after the storm, it was hard not to notice both sides of it. The way light moves through frozen water and air bubbles form in icicles. You can observe the details of these small wonders through a loupe. I always have mine, you never know when you come across something you might need to take a closer look at.

Icicle on our fence with sunset background

The way a single branch can snap once it crosses a threshold. The way something that took decades to grow can come down in a night. That contrast feels familiar. Beauty and loss often arrive together.

When Trees Fall

In the days after a storm like this, cleanup becomes the focus. Roads open. Driveways clear. Limbs get dragged to the edge of the property. Eventually, most of it disappears—hauled away, chipped, or burned. That makes sense. Safety comes first. But sometimes, when the rush slows down, it’s worth pausing to look at what’s actually on the ground. Many of the trees that fall in ice storms aren’t rotten or diseased. They’re healthy hardwoods that simply carried more weight than they could handle. Oaks, maples, walnuts, ash—trees that grew slowly, quietly, and with purpose. Seeing buds sealed in ice is a reminder that even after damage, there’s still potential locked inside.

What Can Remain

Not every fallen tree should be saved. Some truly are best left to return to the soil as firewood or mulch. But others can take on a second life—one that keeps a connection to the place they grew. A cutting board made from a yard tree still carries its story into a kitchen. A small wooden iPad stand can hold daily routines, recipes, work, or letters. Simple objects, yes—but meaningful ones. They aren’t souvenirs. They’re continuations. There’s something grounding about using wood that came from your own land. It keeps the storm from being the end of the story.

A Different Way of Looking

Ice storms remind us how quickly things can change. How fragile systems really are. How beauty and damage can exist in the same moment. They also invite a different kind of response—not urgency, but intention. If a tree has come down on your property, it’s okay to slow down and ask a simple question:Is there something here worth keeping?

Sometimes the answer is no.Sometimes it’s surprisingly yes. Either way, paying attention matters.

Middle Tennessee will green up again. Buds will open. New growth will come.

What we choose to do with what’s left behind is up to us.