The Tiny Reprieve

The last time that we got together here, the images were as in the depths of winter, drifts of snow piled up against the car, blanketing the driveway, and the thoughts that crossed my mind were much the same, with visions of sugar plums dancing in our heads and snuggling down for a long winters nap, and all that sort of thing.

Tomorrow is the first of December and we've gotten a tiny reprieve from the inevitable layer upon layer of the white stuff since then. The snow has been melting gradually and today I felt that it would be a crime to let it pass us by so I put a saddle on Sierra and then the three of us went for a walk. I didn't get to go up into the woods unfortunately because the heavy snow had bent many of the little birch saplings down across the trail so that it was impassable on horseback. In the summer, I think that Don and I will take out some of them back ten feet or so from the trails so that next year, the trails stay open. Oh well, the sun was shining, only a slight breeze and I didn't get dumped. I think if I had different horses, maybe a couple of old bomb-proof quarter horses, I wouldn't always feel so blessed that I ended the ride on top of the horse. But Ambra and Sierra are Arabs through and through and in some regards match the stereotypes perfectly. I've often thought that while some horses would succumb in a crisis very quickly, because my girls are so reactive, they would survive much longer because they're immediate inclination is to head for the hills. Fortunately for me, they are very well behaved and well trained so they listen pretty good.

I've spent so many of the moments that I have alloted to me, waiting for the other shoe to fall, certain that something was going to go wrong, even in the midst of a good life. But I think that I am finally learning to live "in the now" and to appreciate this day, this hour, this moment, without the fear that it might be taken away. I suppose that my early way of looking at life would have been considered very pessimistic. Don on the other hand, has always been much more optimistic. While I am agonizing over whether or not we could/should take a chance on retiring at the time that we did, Don was always the one encouraging me that it will all work out, it'll be just fine.

The thing is, when you are always waiting for the worst, you get so caught up, that it gets very easy to not enjoy what is good about today. So today, I went riding over the hills and snowy fields, and I made a point of noticing all my blessings and right now, it is all just fine.

Winter Song

In the dark hours of the night, when the world was still and sleeping, the snowflakes began to fall, adding to the whiteness that already blanketed the blueberry hills. It was not a muffled stillness that awoke me, but the sound of the wind, rushing and pushing through the bare branches of the trees, shaking and rattling them like the bare bones that remind us of the summers past life. The sounds that woke me were the groaning of the old house as the wind hurled itself against the walls, seeking an entrance to even this haven that was safe from its onslaught. Carefully pushing the covers aside and slipping into a robe, I went down the stairs, stepping cautiously in the half light of early morning. It was hard to see what was happening on the other side of the kitchen window because the wind had blown little clumps of snow up onto the glass. Only the dark, tossing branches of the big maple tree outside were visible, all else being indistinct in a grey-white shroud that blurred the lines of the world.

The family room was still warm from the previous nights fire. A new fire, another day, and the routine that would fill the weeks ahead had begun again. Another act in this grand play that is life. Quiet strains of classical music drifting around the room, weaving in and out with the sounds of the wind outside creating our own winter song.

It's early yet but the fan that sits atop the woodstove spins feverishly, a sure sign that the fire inside has been burning for a while already. Diesel and Max are laying on their little pad beside it, basking in the steady warmth that radiates off it, warming the room and keeping the winter cold at bay. While Diesel dozes, Max lays up against him, finding comfort in that touch, even as he gnaws on his chew toy. His teeth snap and pop on it. Maybe his vigor will help loosen up some of the baby teeth that refuse to let go even though his adult teeth are almost in place. I wonder if Diesel is pleased in his little doggy mind, that Max is there? Does his world feel complete because there is another dog in the house? Max teases him unmercifully, crashing and running over him, whirling and feinting at him, all in an effort to goad him into a typical dog play response. Sometimes all Diesels fears and anxieties disappear momentarily and he joins in the fray and I swear that he truly grins for the sheer joy of it all. Other times, he crumbles into a little brown heap of phobias and anguish, screaming and quivering. Anyone who thinks that animals can't suffer from mental illness have never met Diesel.

This will be a day for inside things, art projects, sewing, maybe a tv movie or a video. The snow that still blows and dances outside precludes the trip to town that I'd contemplated last night. The last two packets of flower bulbs that are laying on the steps inside the barn will not get planted after all and Ambra and Sierra will snooze in their stalls. And the wind will howl and the fire flicker and pop, and we will be thankful for all that we have.

Who really cares?

You know, I was going to start this piece with a trite description of what the weather has been like over the past few days, but then the thought suddenly occurred to me, "who really cares?". Have you ever launched into a description of some event in your life, or a situation that you were dealing with, and have that thought suddenly pop into your mind even as you are mid sentence. And as your lips are still moving, and you look at the person that you are talking too, you feel an overwhelming desire to just quit talking, but you know that if you do that, while you may feel some momentary relief as a result of giving in to that urge, it will quickly be followed by the uncomfortable notion that some might think you are nuts, unless of course, you feel compelled to give an explanation in which case, you are only exchanging one long, winding explanation for another. Who really cares?
We fill up our days and our communications with the mundane, finding safety I suppose in these words that act like a screen to keep our souls safe from the curious eyes of the world. It is easier than talking about the things that touch us in the most intimate of ways, pain so exquisitely pointed at the core of our being, emotional hurts that we cannot bear to speak of, humilitiations, joys....our own private stories. Do we really want to tell our truths? And how do we decide whom to tell those truths to?

Or maybe I'm just tired.

Bonsai garden....

I've been laid low by a virus for the past couple days. Lack of sleep, periodic coughing spells and lack of interest in food have all combined to leave me just a bit worn out, even when I've just gotten up in the morning. But I'm on the mend I think and then I can start taking care of Don, because he is beginning to sound a little sniffly. We haven't had a cold/flu in so long, I guess we are due.

The morning has dawned, warm and golden. The sunshine streaming through the kitchen window feels pleasant and lights up the plants that I have on the window sill. Some people like African violets on the sill over the sink, a lovely array of pinks and purples, blues and lavenders. But I have little bonsai in training. Mind you, they aren't your typical junipers and japanese maples. These are plants that do well indoors and they are small size (called mame which is pronounced "mammy"). When we lived in BC, I had quite a nice little collection of great bonsai. As nice as some that I see on a bonsai website that I like to go to. But they ranged in size up to 2' high, quite large really and with correspondingly large pots. Unfortunately, when we moved, it wasn't possible to fit the big pots and all into the car so I donated them to the local bonsai club to be used as raffle prizes. I thought that when we arrived here in NS, I would give up the bonsai hobby. Too much work and maintenance. While I don't have the big ones anymore, I have started a few small cuttings with the intention of developing this very small size. In the event that we ever move again, particularly into an apartment one day when we are really old and rickety, I can take a few little plants with me.

I have a little fuschia and I'm developing a small flowered chrysanthemum, as well as a few Chinese elms. Chinese elms are actually interesting as a bonsai subject. They are a tree that will grow up to 50' tall, but you can maintain them in a size that will fit in the palm of your hand and as the small pot size restricts their growth, the leaves are correspondingly tiny. The pictures above are of the fuschia and chrysanthemum, part of my indoor garden.

When I Was a Child...

When I was a child I read voraciously. The printed word was the passion and I read books beyond my years, each of which carried me into another world where I could live the lives of people who's existence seemed far more exciting that the one I trudged through day after day. Instead of walking along the sidewalk on my way to school, I often found myself stepping through a woodland path, lined with the quiet blue of violets and touched by the sweet kisses of the warm summer sun, filtering through the lace canopy of trees that hung overhead. The sound of birds calling to one another was the music that followed me along that peaceful road. Hardly lifting my head as I stepped off the curb became an act of picking my way across the water-worn rocks that poked above the brook that forever found its way down to the sea. The blaring horns of city traffic were not worthy of notice in the face of the clarion calls of trumpets and the clash of armour and booming artillary or the whispered words of a lover scorned. These were the worlds that I moved about in, like a wraith that longs for what once was, lonely, haunted, and haunting.

Then my children were born, and the books were put away. The act of my sitting, whether to read or to write a letter, became a signal that I was available to be climbed on or simply cuddled with. Good purposes all, but not something that could be done at the same time that I was trying to find out what had happened in that other world. Printed words and far away places and times were set aside for the place in time that had become my new lot in life.

But now, the children are long grown and gone, and only one grandchild who tomorrow, will again be far away. Our big projects are winding down and the winter winds are on their way. My eyesight began to change a long time ago and I'm wondering how long it will be before the reading glasses from the pharmacy will meet the increasing limitations that I find myself struggling with, so the art that I used to fill the time with before is becoming less comfortable to do. I am turning back to the books that used to draw me in and allowing them to illuminate my world again. Paint their pictures with words carefully chosen. Giving back to me the worlds that I used to haunt

Sunset Years.

Now that the big chores are done, the list of projects diminished to where we can putter or put things off, I am finally facing retirement. What to do? Of course there are the day to day things to do, the things that keep our days moving forward, a moment at a time. But when I sit quietly, as I have learned to do of late, and just be, then I find myself wondering....is this all there is? I have no passion it seems, not like I used to. In a time long ago, I was passionate about my garden, my horses, my art, and found then that the day to day demands of life got in the way of those things. Now those things have joined the day to day things.

How do you rekindle a passion, or find a new passion or a meaning or a purpose? Is this all there is? How many decades are left to me to wonder these thoughts aloud and in the quiet of my mind? Is this all there is?

Maximum Dog, Mad Max....

I don't think that I've introduced you all to our new dog and just by saying that, I think that I've put Don and I squarely in the arena of old folks who dote on their little mutts with an intensity usually reserved for first time parents. A couple days ago, Don called me upstairs to his office. He had come across some old videos that we'd made several years ago, of Casey, Lucy and Diesel. We stood there watching and remembering Casey and Lucy, remembering how Lucy would come when called and then drop flat to the floor to be petted or how Casey would prance over to be petted and then be so nervous that she could only take it for a moment or two. Right now Don is sitting on the couch with Diesel sleeping in his arms, unable to do anything because "it will disturb the dog". I tell you, they have us wrapped firmly around their hairy little paws!

Anyway, this new little guy is named Max and is also a Chihuahua although I do think there might be a little something else mixed in there. But he is a little guy, only about five pounds. Where Diesel is short legged and solid and chunky and moves like an ancient dog, Max is long and very lean and active and athletic. They are polar opposites. Max loves to play and wrestle and tries to antagonize Diesel into getting involved but he really has to work at it. More often than not, Diesel just stands there and takes the abuse and as you can see in one of the above pictures, often seeks refuge in the dog kennel when he just can't take it any more.

We sure love these little dogs. They make us smile constantly. Diesel with his tongue peeking out and Max, always wagging his tightly curled little tail. Because winters are harsh here, we remodelled our bathroom that is downstairs. There was a shower in it and we replaced it with just a little tiled lip and then tile a foot up the two walls. I filled it with gravel and on the wall hangs a hand held shower. That is the puppy potty. They can lift their leg against the tiled wall and then we rinse it down right away. It is perfect and they are learning to use it quite easily. Mind you, you can teach a dog to do just about anything with love and a treat.