Unreal Landscapes of Beauty

Snow Country Altay: A Meditation on White When the plane landed at Altay Airport, the moment I opened the door, the answer seemed written in the biting cold wind—the minus twenty degrees air pierced through my layers of protection like countless fine needles. It was an extreme clarity, an undeniable, unavoidable proof of being present. The "white" that covered everything. This white was so complete that my eyes felt a physiological discomfort—like suddenly seeing bright light after being in darkness for a long time. I gradually understood: to reset all the noisy thoughts, to reset all the pointless anxieties, to reset all the self-important matters. Standing on the boundless snowfield, I experienced for the first time that "smallness" is not a derogatory term. When humans are no longer the measure of all things, when the self no longer occupies the center of vision, a peculiar freedom naturally arises. The silence here has weight and texture. When the wind passes through the birch forest, it is not a "howl," but the subtle rustling of snowflakes rubbing against each other, like countless tiny bells whispering. From afar comes the jingling of copper bells on horses' necks—not a harsh metallic clash, but a soft resonance wrapped in ice and snow. The most magical thing is that I can hear my own breathing as a deep, steady rhythm, gradually syncing with the pulse of this land. The continuous flow of water in Kanas Lake, the sound of its collision with stones at the interface of temperature, and the mist it produces are all layered and beautiful—truly stunning, unreal beauty! At the same time, I feel the vitality beneath the ice! It made me realize that ice is not a symbol of death, but another form of vitality—a life wisdom that learns to thrive within limitations. I thought of the "warmth" in my life—those conveniences easily obtained, those comforts taken for granted. Have we forgotten the essence of warmth? The day before leaving Altay, I pondered these things in the wooden cabin... I knew I was about to return to a world full of sounds, colors, speed, and demands. But I was no longer the same person who set out. This snow country gave me three gifts: The first is a "sense of scale"—letting me know that beyond the human world, there exists a grander, older rhythm. The second is the "wisdom of subtraction"—the deepest satisfaction often comes from the simplest things: a breath of clean air, a handful of unpolluted snow, a stretch of undisturbed silence. The third is the "breath beneath the ice"—learning to keep the flow of inner life alive despite the limitations and pressures of life. The snow of Altay will eventually melt in spring, flowing into the Irtysh River and onward to the distant Arctic Ocean. But the "white" I carry will slowly melt in my heart, seeping into every corner of my life, becoming a quiet coordinate when facing the noisy world. The snow country speaks no words, yet it has answered all questions.