Coming Home in the Snow

Frozen fountains line the streets all over town, abstract sculptures carved out of milkglass, created by artists unseen. Caught in the frigid grip of the coldest weather in years, they seem surprised to be standing so still, the casual bubble and froth of their natures ice-paralyzed, immobile as cathedral stone.

Above me, like whole notes on the staff of a Gregorian chant, the fat doves have huddled together in twos and in threes along the power lines, heads lowered, feathers puffed, orange beaks tucked under grey wings. While to my left, looking rather perturbed at the weather now descending upon them, a sepia flock of Canada Geese crowds the rapidly whitening lawn of the courthouse, all mutters and scowls as they wonder exactly which of them is to blame for this sorry miscalculation of winter locales.

There is no colder place than a city in snow and I have stayed too long at the knit shop. Already the snowflakes are falling, tiny ermine clad fireflies pirouetting around me, cheerfully greeting a landscape they rarely, if ever, see. Already the lights are being switched on in the old houses along my way, coats being shed, supper on the stove. I watch as the people scurry home on the sidewalks, heads pulled inside hoods, hands plunged into pockets.

I take a deep breath and raise my face to the slate sky, just to feel the tiny fingers of ice touch my skin. I hug my sack of new nut-brown lambswool just a bit closer.

Oh, how I love to be out in a twilight like this.

But just as the snow begins to fall harder, and the sheepy grey of the sky turns to soft navy blue, I see the lights of the cottage burning quietly before me and suddenly long to trade my wellies and scarves for fur hugs and tea mugs. I turn the key in the lock and the old door cracks open. I feel the warmth from the fireplace, smell The Songwriter’s homemade chili, hear the chipper refrain of the kettle.

The very best of both worlds in one day.

Painting by Henri Eugene Le Sidaner

The Writing Submission

With no small amount of trepidation, I have entered the writing contest at Clarity of Night.

Instructed to create a piece of fiction of no more than 250 words in length, contestants were told to take their inspiration from this photograph.

Here is the result of my effort.

It was an enjoyable exercise.

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Feathers

Through an opening in the green curtain he could just see the garden, asleep in the wintertime sun. An unclosed curtain through which a vertical stripe of morning light occasionally touched his shoulder like a knighthood.

Don’t let them close the window, he thought.

You won’t require an open window, the voice replied.

He didn’t try to turn his head this time. He knew no one was there.

How much longer?

Not long now, I should think.

He wished he could share what he knew with those gathered around him. They all seemed so pale now, almost invisible.

As the afternoon weakened he could once again hear the paper soft flutter of wings. He closed his eyes to see them. Feathers. Feathers of white, blue-black, grey, falling and flying like snow. Coming down from the ceiling, drifting in through the windowglass. He liked the black ones best. He secretly wished for the black.

Soaring up on the wind currents, flying out over the oceans, glissading through the glen. He had coveted that casual liberty since his boyhood. To run and run, to lift away. An unspoken longing buried deep in his soul.

You can go now.

I can? Where should I go?

Anywhere that you wish.

The silhouette of a hawk casts a violet hued shadow into the dimly lit room. The bird briefly hovers outside the window, then spreads its black feathers, lifts over the bare tree tops and is gone. To glide on the winds of December.

Painting above by Sir John Everett Millais

A Shade of Pale Blue

I have the highest respect for T. S. Eliot, not only for his prodigious talent as a poet, but also for his extraordinary ability to christen cats. However, I have to disagree with him on one fine point. April is quite simply not the cruelest month. Yes, I was born in April, but that fact carries no weight in my argument.

Ask around, especially amongst creative people, and I think you shall find that January is most often the month when ideas tend to stall, the well of inspiration may develop an echo, and the spirit can take on a shade of pale blue. I have always attributed this first month malaise to the shuddering crash down of Christmas. One minute we are living inside a snow globe of lights and festivity, and the next, well, we are not. There are those who will lay blame to the inclement weather, or the mailbox brimming with holiday bills. Others swear the reason lies squarely upon the face of the bathroom scale, a numerical result of the many sweet indulgences of the just departed season. Whatever the reason, once again this January, I have heard from more than the normal number of those who feel a tad blander than usual.

I can assure you that I am not immune. If there is ever a month when I am ripe for melancholy, it is this one. After scaling the mountain of Christmas, with a grin on my face, wooden spoon in my hand, waving red ribbons aloft in the air, I suddenly find myself just a wee bit depleted. But, I know this bad fairy of old. Therefore I make certain my quiver is full of arrows designed to shoot him right out of my house.

Shall I share just a few of my secrets?

1. Head out to the theatre for some escapist movies, and don’t refuse the popcorn. Do remember that these are not the weeks for an Ingmar Bergman film festival. Lighter fare is a must. Perhaps a screening of The Fantastic Mr. Fox.

2. If it is too icy to get out, then television can help, but only if you have something like Doc Martin or Graham Norton - Jeeves and Wooster or Hamish MacBeth. Stay away from those hideous reality shows at all cost. Best idea, rent the Marx Brothers’ Duck Soup.

3. Long hot baths - with bubbles galore. The scent of vanilla is highly recommended. The bad fairy hates it.

4. Fill your house with white flowers. I have used this January trick for years. Very effective, it provides such a clean winter feeling after all the riotous colour of Christmas.

5. Seed catalogs, and magazines featuring articles on spring fashions or exotic travel destinations, are by far the best choices for late night reading by the fire, at least for the next few weeks. Having something to look forward to, like peony gardens, white linen blazers, or trips to the seaside, helps to banish the bad fairy every single time.

6. Of course, last but not least, if you are fortunate enough to have two furry dogs who love to take long walks in the cold, then you are one giant step closer to regaining your happier self. There is something to be said for sweet companionship and fresh, icy air. And Edward and Apple would like me to remind you that wonderful, furry dogs can be found at any adoption shelter in any town or village all over the world!

So Feel Better, All!

A Worthy Goal

The final hours of a blustery decade were packing their bags to depart, no doubt grumbling over the poor visibility this night was providing, for an exaggerated fog had descended, to embroider the streets with swirls and swells of grey. It seemed somehow fitting that this decade of trouble should be forced to slip away in the mist, denied the grandstanding departure a clear, star-filled night would afford.

Just behind the glowing windows of our favourite neighborhood cafe, we four friends sat enjoying our final meal of the year, cozy, warm, talking, laughing, saying yes to dessert. Naturally, as round most tables on this night, the talk eventually arrived at thoughts of plans, dreams and resolutions for the baby new year right upon us. We thought at first it might be diverting to choose goals for one another. This was entertaining for a while, but when the conversation gathered up ideas of square-dancing and monster-truck rallies, we knew the plan was doomed.

Later as we walked through the fog, my friend, the painter, told me her chief goal for the year was to endeavour to find her “true voice” in her art, to discover and interpret the genuine essence of herself. As I considered this later that night, I thought, should not that be the goal of everyone, artist or writer ... butcher, baker, candlestick maker? To resolve never to have one’s sleeve tugged by what others may do, nor be ensnared by the trends of the day? To be, not a mimic nor an echo, but a clear crisp voice of authenticity in a murky world of performers, those frantic to do what the others do, to think what the others think, to look like the others look.

Each of us, I believe, has been bequeathed by the heavens our very own colour palette with which to paint the canvas of our life. How sad if we spend our time here on earth longing for the reds and browns used by someone else and never notice the magnificent blues and greens that are ours.

Authenticity.

A most worthy goal for any year.

Making a List

At the close of the twelve month, every year without fail, comes the annual round up of Lists. Every media outlet, it seems, feels compelled to share their collections of best of and worst of, of smashes and flops, most shocking, most scandalous, who is in, who is out - top ten lists that sail in like a fleet of paper ships, loaded down with a cargo of trivia and destined to disintegrate in the tide of real news stories to follow. The Songwriter is not a fan, beleaguered, I think, by the sheer unoriginality of the yearly idea. As for myself, I find them fairly entertaining, much in the same way that I like to read the Proust questionnaire at the back of Vanity Fair magazine and watch the youtube video of a cat trying to work a copy machine.

As we now find ourselves, not only at the end of an ordinary year, but also the end of a decade, I thought it might be rather fun to participate. And whilst I have no idea who’s in or who’s out, and frankly, if it were up to me to compose a list of world-wide scandalous behaviour, I would find it impossible to restrict myself to a mere ten choices, I thought a top ten of notable books and movies would be a better idea all round. Mostly, I was right on this, although I found it best not to take the process too seriously. One is bound to leave something vital off the roster and wonder if it is important enough to get up in the middle of the night to turn on the computer and rectify the situation. I decided it was not. So here are my thoughts as they came to the front of my brain, rather in the same fashion as those old magic eight balls used to provide the answers to our childish questions.

Question is uttered: “Will I marry a prince?”.....

Answer floats up: ”Reply Hazy. Try again”.

Nevertheless, I do hope you enjoy my spontaneous lists, devoid of particular order and highly personalized though they may be. They are a compilation of just some of the movies that made me want to see them twice, and but a few of the books that caused me to travel a bit deeper than the print on the page - all from these last ten years. I also hope this list prompts you to compose your own and remind me of all the ones I left out.

Books:

Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell, by Susanna Clarke

Harry Potter -all, by JK Rowling

The Sea, by John Banville

Homegrown Democrat, by Garrison Keillor

Gilead, by Marilynne Robinson

The Road, by Cormac McCarthy

The Architecture of Happiness, by Alain De Botton

God’s Politics, by Jim Wallis

The Corrections, by Jonathan Franzen

Olive Kitteridge, by Elizabeth Strout

Movies:

The Queen -- A near perfect movie

Doubt -- Truth on the screen

Being Julia -- Such witty, wicked fun

Harry Potter and the, well, everything -- Magic

The Lord of the Rings, all three -- Enchanting. More like history than fantasy.

Little Miss Sunshine -- l laughed till I got a stitch in my side

Ladies in Lavender -- Sublime and heartbreaking

Gosford Park -- So many movies rolled into one. Each one utter perfection.

Finding Neverland -- A beautiful portrait of artistic inspiration

Oh Brother Where Art Thou -- Brilliant

Nanny McPhee -- Even the set designs were delightful.

and yes, I realize this makes eleven instead of ten. I told you my lists were highly personalized.

****************************

Also, try as I might I cannot remember who the kind reader was who recommended to me the gorgeous book Fugitive Pieces by Anne Michaels. I took your advice, however, and read it. It is truly an amazingly beautiful book, one that I purchased in hardback to keep in my library. Thank you, and do remind me if it was you!

Wings

The beating of wings is a deafening sound for those who have ears to hear.
Like a flock of wild birds, the days of the decade are flying away - rising up like a cloud from the floor of the forest, lifting away from the hot desert sand. A boiling eddy of hours encircling my thoughts, soaring high in the air to vanish forever in the winds of December, destined to land on the unwritten page of history, to light in the unsung verse of song.
What shall we make of this bevy of days, soon to be gone from our sight? A fractious brood, without question, with more than its fair share of raptors within, scattering darkness and mayhem throughout these ten years. But also amongst them were sweet swallows and doves, the everlasting wisdom of the owls, the song of the robin on a clear morning in May.
It is a bittersweet feeling that sits in my heart as I watch them mount up to leave this old earth.
But now, look! Just over the clouds I can see them!
Drifting down from the heavens through the ringing of bells comes a fledgling congregation of hours, a happy assemblage of days - flawless, clean, each and every one a sparkling second chance. As they land on our rooftops, and light on our shoulders, may we welcome them all with the wisdom and grace we have gathered together from the days gone before.
May we share the love we have been given, may we listen much more than we speak.
May we live with hope and with purpose.
May we walk in beauty.

May we show tolerance and kindness to our fellow travelers on the way.
And may we have fun!
A Happy New Year to All!

“My idea of man's chief end was to enrich the world with things of beauty,
and have a fairly good time myself while doing so.”
Robert Louis Stevenson

She Rests

One blonde.

Two weeks.

Three tall trees decorated.

Four large batches of homemade fudge.

Five green garlands draped.

Six dozen homemade cookies.

Seven Etsy sales, wrapped and shipped.

Eight arrangements of red and orange roses.

Nine fir wreaths hung in the windows.

Twelve handmade Christmas boxes.

Fourteen knitted garments for gifts.

Thirty-six gaily wrapped packages.

One hundred seventy-five handmade Christmas cards.

And now,

she rests.

In monogramed pajamas with her hair piled up high. With a seductive stack of new books at her elbow and hot cider simmering on the stove. A brand new Mac is being hooked up....from a most generous Santa Claus who knows she’s been good. Somewhere down the hallway, a Songwriter is playing a new ukelele, happy music drifting through the cottage rooms, the sound punctuated with occasional squeaks from a dog toy or two... for Santa was good to them all.

But still,

she rests.

Read and doze, nibble and nap, curl up, stretch out.

Watch The Man Who Came to Dinner and The Bishop’s Wife one more time.

Daydream and sleep. Relish the novelty of a vacant mind.

A movie? Dinner out?

Maybe later.

Painting by Victor Gabriel Gilbert

*****Hey, a question for my kind readers. With the arrival of my new Mac, the size of the type here on my blog looks bigger.

Is that a good thing for you all, or not? Weigh in with your opinion, do!*****

Friends at Christmas

My gloved hand places some coins into the cast iron kettle of Salvation as the bell-ringer wishes me a Happy Christmas. I pull the hood of my cape up to shield myself from the biting wind and hurry along up the crowded sidewalk, sharing smiles with the people passing by, every face a reflection of holiday cheer. Just up the hill to the right I see my destination, frosted windows glowing, a holly wreath on the door, one of my favourite lunchtime cafes, and the most festive spot for a Christmas lunch with an old friend.
The bell on the door jingles like a laugh as I enter.

Such a treat of the season, these lunches and teas, dinners and brunches. No matter our schedules throughout the year, Christmas is the time when my friends and I make those special appointments to meet face to face, over Earl Grey or coffee, mulled wine or Diet Coke. It is quite Dickensian, I know - for who can forget the reformed Mr. Scrooge inviting the astonished Bob Cratchit out for a discussion of his greatly improving circumstances “over a Christmas bowl” - but this time of year, a phone call just won’t do. I do so love these holiday get togethers.

There is tea with the witty friend who seems to handle everything in life with a wink and laugh. We discuss shoes and boys, health care reform and climate change, make-up, skin care and which actor makes the better Mr. Darcy on film... in short, a real girly- girl lunch with a side order of seriousness. Lots of drink refills and lots of laughs.

Then there is the brunch with the Southern belle, the equestrian - she who wants me to take up riding again - who loves dogs and antiques, old houses and grand design. We discuss travel and books, dogs and horses, paint colours, Christmas ornaments and fabric swatches. She has the best stories, the best gossip, the best tall tales of the eccentric South.

There is the lunch with my oldest friend, the lovely photographer. She is the friend with whom I speak in shorthand, who knows what I am thinking before I speak, who laughs at my jokes before I tell them. She is the one who wants me to write a book, who believes I can do anything. Oldest friends are sweet blessings indeed. We have shared so many Christmases together.

And then there is the friend from the low country who arrives every year for a Christmas visit. She is the one who loves Keats and Hardy, who speaks French and longs to reside on the Ile Ste Louis. We always visit used book stores and knit shops, see a movie, and linger over long, long breakfasts.

There is the chap who shows up on Boxing Day with a truckload of firewood for a Christmas gift. There is the Songwriter's boyhood friend who sneaks up on the front porch on Christmas Eve to silently leave a sackful of gifts to rival anything Santa ever dreamed.

Old Friends.
One of the many treats of the festive season.
One of the many reasons I love it so.

Christmas

It came upon a midnight clear,

That glorious song of old,
From angels bending near the earth
To touch their harps of gold:
“Peace on the earth, good will to men,
From heaven’s all gracious King.”
The world in solemn stillness lay
To hear the angels sing.

Edward and I wish a most Happy Christmas for all our sweet readers.
May it be peaceful and cozy, merry and bright,
and may you all have a blessed moment of quiet
to hear the whispers of the animals and the song of the angels.

Winter

Through a door buried deep in the woodland, one carved by the ancients on a day long ago, the Old Man enters. Gone are the casual visitors now - the springtime picnics, the cotton lawn dresses that danced through the clearing on mid-summer’s eve.
The forest belongs to the Old Man once more.
He steps cross the threshold and smiles as he drinks in his lifeblood of sharp December air. Slowly he strolls down a pine-needled pathway, where the mummified leaves of his brother-season, only just now departed, still occasionally crackle neath his suede covered feet, while all around him ancestral trees stretch their ebony arms up, up to the leaden grey sky far above.
His silver blue robes trail behind the Old Man like peacock feathers, leaving snowflakes and ice crystals along in their wake. He claps his delicate hands, only once, and the light from the sun, so recently golden, suddenly changes to alabaster - becoming one with the snow covered scene, it sets all beneath it aglow with the fire of ice.
The tiny ones, nearly invisible and brief as a wish, return once again, to dance with the Old Man at twilight, as the snowy owl glides through the wind, as silent as a reflection.
Tangled up as they are in strings of fairy lights and clefs of carols, the humans are unaware of the magic reception just now unfolding within the dark woods. Yes, Old Man Winter has arrived, having completed his wanderings on the other side of the orb, and the landscape belongs to him now.
So put down the pudding spoon!
Come and celebrate!
Run through the white meadows, skate paisleys over the frozen ponds.
Celebrate, with bells on the horse's halter, ribbons round the white dog’s neck... with bright eyes and pink cheeks, with mittens and scarves, firesides and hot chocolates.
For after all, as the wise Old Man teaches,
if we never know cold, how can we hope to recognize warmth?
Welcome, welcome!
Winter!

Scenes From Edward's House At Christmas

Glad Christmas comes, and every hearth
Makes room to give him welcome now,
E'en want will dry its tears in mirth,
And crown him with a holly bough.
Though tramping 'neath a winter sky,
O'er snowy paths and rimy stiles,
The housewife sets her spinning by
To bid him welcome with her smiles.

Each house is swept the day before,
And windows stuck with evergreens,
The snow is besom'd from the door,
And comfort crowns the cottage scenes.
Gilt holly, with its thorny pricks,
And yew and box, with berries small,
These deck the unused candlesticks,
And pictures hanging by the wall.

Around the glowing hearth at night,
The harmless laugh and winter tale
Go round, while parting friends delight
To toast each other o'er their ale.
The cotter oft with quiet zeal
Will musing o'er his Bible lean;
While in the dark the lovers steal
To kiss and toy behind the screen.

While snows the windowpanes bedim,
The fire curls up a sunny charm,
Where, creaming o'er the pitcher's rim,
The flowering ale is set to warm.
Mirth, full of joy as summer bees,
Sits there, its pleasures to impart,
And children, 'tween their parent's knees,
Sing scraps of carols o'er by heart.

Old customs! Oh! I love the sound,
However simple they may be:
Whate'er with time hath sanction found,
Is welcome, and is dear to me.

Verses from the poem, December, by John Clare
Photographs taken 'round the cottage

"We’ll take care of each other and we’ll all sleep together in a real pile.”
from the movie Where The Wild Things Are

I was born a bit too early for Maurice Sendak’s delightful book Where The Wild Things Are to be one of my treasured tomes of childhood. But I fell hard for the movie. When the wild things spoke of their love for “sleeping in a pile”, I was enchanted. These oversized creatures, furry and feathered, would all pile on top of each other, and finally, after much squiggling and snuffling around, with everyone comfortably situated, they would sigh a big sigh and sleep the night away - safe, secure, all for one and one for all. From my seat in the theatre with a tear in my eye, I was totally charmed.

And, as we all know well, life so often imitates art....

We had strange night of weather last week, one to make the old-timers look to the sky and shake their heads with a worried look. Winter-rainy and December-cold all the long day long till midnight came round with an eerie stillness. Where had the wind gone? Where was the rain? We heard it first at two am, that sharp whipcrack of thunder. The bedroom was hit with a nanosecond of the white hot glow of lightning. A thunderstorm in December?
Edward, who tolerates storms in daylight but has never been overly fond of lightning in the night, considered it wise to move from his customary spot across my feet at the end of the bed, much closer to the center of things. So, he plopped down between us just as Apple hopped up to take over the feet-warming spot. She settled in immediately, but Edward was still unconvinced that this was the absolute safest place to be and I felt him make his way further up the bed, lie down and sigh his most contented sigh.
A few seconds later I heard the Songwriter laughing and he whispered...”Are you awake?? You have to see this. Edward is sleeping on my head.” Sure enough, the poor Songwriter looked exactly as though he were sporting a polar bear hat, for Edward’s big furry head was resting right atop his own.
More quiet giggles and then....”Hey, we’re Sleeping In A Pile!!”
And do you know, those Wild Things have something. There is indeed a delicious comfort to be found in a pile of sleeping loved ones atop a feather bed in the midst of a strange December thunderstorm.
I can most highly recommend it!

“I could eat you up I love you so”
from Where The Wild Things Are

Frost

Much like the fox buried deep in his den or the robin tucked up in her twiggydown nest, I am exactly where I should be. Snuggled in feathers and linen and down, I feel the welcome weight of a furry white dog lying across my feet as I ebb and flow through the dawn. An icy wind blows through the windchimes, those cathedral bells of the morning that dangle throughout the thorny rosebush scrambling over my window. They are calling me to rise.
I burrow further down, in no hurry to partake of the coldest day yet this season. But eventually, reluctantly, I open one eye. Yes, it is just as I thought. The flamboyant Jack Frost has been at work through the night, I can see his artistic flourishes on the borders of my windowpanes. He will have painted the garden with silver, for his colour palette never alters. A nomadic soul, he travels the globe hand in hand with the cold, an itinerant painter of polar renown. The hoar frosts of Yorkshire, the frozen shoreline of St. Kilda, the rime rink lake in Maine - all bear his shivering signature.
He has found his way now to my very own garden and the sheen that emanates from his latest lifesize creation has changed the morning light that streams across my sleepy face. Sharp and insistent, it pierces the quiet room like a laser, with no intention whatsoever of allowing me to remain in my bed. It nudges, it taps, it calls to me of the tasks of this December day.... cake baking, present wrapping, cookie doughs and Christmas cards.
Ah, but is that not the goal of every great artist? Do they not wish for their work to inspire, to lift their audience out of themselves, to spur them on to greater things? And who am I to deny the artistry of Jack Frost.
I have seen his handiwork this morning.
So, I rise!

"Frost is the greatest artist of our clime - He paints in nature and describes in rime."
Thomas Hood
1799-1845