High in the sky above the roof of the world, a tiny snowflake was born. It was the smallest snowflake that had ever formed — barely a whisper of ice, with six delicate arms no bigger than an eyelash. As it floated downward through the cold blue air, it looked at the world below and felt very, very small.
Below it stood the great mountain Chomolungma, the highest place on earth, whose white peak pierced the clouds and touched the edge of heaven. The snowflake drifted closer and closer until, with the softest possible sound — almost no sound at all — it landed on the mountain's summit.
"I am so small," said the snowflake sadly. "You are so vast and so ancient. I am nothing compared to you."
The snowflake was surprised. "How can that be?" it asked. "I just arrived this moment. I have no history here."
The mountain was quiet for a while. Then it spoke again, slowly, the way mountains always speak. "Every glacier that carves my face," it said, "began as a snowflake like you. Every river that brings water to the villages below, every flower that blooms in the meadows in summer, every child who drinks clean water — they all begin with one small snowflake landing on my summit. You are not nothing. You are the beginning of everything."
The snowflake thought about this. It looked down at the vast mountain beneath it, at the glaciers gleaming in the sun, at the rivers threading their way through valleys far below, at the tiny green meadows where yaks grazed peacefully.
And the snowflake shone with joy, brighter than it had ever shone before. Because it understood at last that being small was not the same as being unimportant. Every great thing begins with something small.