Thursday, December 22, 2011
Monday, December 19, 2011
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
Monday, December 12, 2011
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
I stand in the crabapple grove, with five magpies arrayed on the branches with the brown apples, all of us enjoying the sunshine of a short afternoon. I think, two weeks, fifteen sleeps. And when I wake up on the fifteenth day it will the First Longer Day. The best day of the year for me, perhaps, when viewed that way, the most sacred day of the year. It is the day that fall, our long fall into darkness, is over, the sun stops and turns, and returns. Winter begins. The Light grows, as though in a mother's belly, until in early February, even the sleepiest of us awakens to awareness that the days are getting longer.
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
Spring, just passing through, but continuing the decades long banishment of cabin fever. The last winter I actually had cabin fever was 1984-85. Snow came on October 16th, 2 feet of it, and did not leave until nearly May. In February, going mad, we cranked the heat in the residence, played the beach boys and ran around in shorts, drinking from umbrella-ed drinks and having water fights. It was a great relief. But there has never been a winter since that has been as bad. And today, spring stopped by for a visit. On my walk to the crabapple grove there were five children, building a snow person. From my angle she looked like a wide prairie farm wife with a pioneer bonnet. Two piles of ice chunks released from the road way while it was possible to dislodge them. An eight car train calling its way across the train bridge. The wind, moving the branches of the pines as though they were ships in the sea.
Friday, December 2, 2011
In theory, according to Newt Gingrich, I was not out salting the ice covered sidewalk this morning because it had rained in December in Saskatchewan. In theory I did not ice skate my way to work. I did not stand in the sunshine of a low winter sun with a March wind ruffling my hair, the smell of fall leaves turning to the wine of soil and think of daisies budding out. No, in theory, according to Mr. Gingrich, I was wearing my overcoat, my beautiful big blue overcoat, and not my jacket. I was, in theory, wearing my rainbow scarf and my red hat, and my black leather mitts: because it is December in Saskatchewan and it is therefore -20 degrees Celsius, not +2. In theory there is snow on the ground. About a foot of it, and lovely packed trails along the walks and in the parks. Trails on which the snow crunches underfoot and allows me to stride along. Today is all white and blue and crisp, in theory. Not grey and brown and slippery. Ain't winter beautiful. In theory.
Thursday, December 1, 2011
We had a meeting today. I was asked to take notes. I was asked to take notes with Henry. I like Henry, you know that. His cute smudgy little face and all. But notes...I wanted to strangle him, or perhaps the note taking feature, or more likely the person who created the note taking feature. Okay, not strangle, twap upside the back of the head though. Like Gibbs in NCIS. All the way through it was 'did you mean this?', did you mean that?', and if I didn't say no each time it would put in the incorrect word. Grrrrr. I mean, sure if I poke and prod Henry enough, somewhere there will be an off switch for this stupidity, right? But where? Really, where? I am all for the exploring like a two year old, but sometimes, at my age, I just don't have the time. I switched pen and paper.