The Day after the Storm

I love big, ferocious snow storms, and I live in just the right place to encounter them. My old farmhouse on a cliff, overlooking the Bay of Fundy, is just the place to be. It has been weathering storms for over a hundred years and will likely weather a few more. I look forward to the new tunes my old house will play, when it becomes a wind instrument.

For the most part, things are generally easy to get storm ready. Flashlights have fresh batteries, tub is filled with water, tea bags are out on the counter and the radio is all set to go, on CBC. Enough wood sits by the wood stove and the cupboards are full.

When it appears a storm is really on the way, I set out for town to pick up a few last things. The town in the valley is unusually busy. My friends and neighbours are the sort that will always want to be well prepared.

My mission is often a trip to pick up milk and dog food. I hate canned milk in my tea. By the look of the liquor store parking lot, many have other priorities. Although toilet paper is always on preparation lists, the crush in the grocery store generally centres around the potato chips.

In town all is abuzz. Here comes the storm. Here comes the storm.

I drive up the Oxbow, on the North Mountain and set off down toward the shore. In the distance, the sky is slowly filling with the foreboding, but beautiful, dark, grey clouds. The sea isn't unusually wild. My old dog, Moses, is now calm when storms are approaching. In his younger days, he would usually get restless, many hours or even days, before a big weather event. Now, I think he looks forward to some good, one on one time, on the couch with me

One of my traits, that I am most comfortable with, is that I am a patient waiter. In a long line, in the bank, I can space out and be one with the universe, as a teller kindly peruses a customer's pictures of a relative's recent wedding. However, when a big storm is on the way, I get a little antsy. "Let the grand show begin."

The holly bush taps on the living room window to let me know it is time to take my seat. I plunk down on the couch, to watch the fire in the wood stove rise with the wind. Before long the sea is roaring and crashing, the windows rattle, the outer door thunks, the barn door slams ( This is not a good thing.), and Moses snores. I am enclosed in a no person band.

When the lights flicker and the frig begins to make odd noises, it is time to light some candles. Candlelight never fails to add a special hush to the music.

In time, I rouse the dog and send him out into what is becoming a blizzard. I let his snowy self in and
we climb the stairs, and plop ourselves down on the woollen blanket laden bed. I crawl under the covers and go to sleep listening to the dulcet tones of the weatherman waxing eloquent about cold and warm fronts, possible sea surges and now the ever elusive vortexes. The house continues humming a lullaby.

In the morning we waken to the sounds of  a snow muffled world. I slide into the reality of the post storm world. The driveway is filled with high drifts, some dishes need washing and my usual morning warm bath is an impossibility.

The sea still roars but there are the mundane tasks to attend to.

The electricity eventually returns and a more normal routine begins.

But what was that I just heard on the radio. "A significant snow storm will be arriving tomorrow."

Let's sing Odes to Joy

Despite the lively flames dancing together in my wood stove, and the sunlight casting curious shadows on the snow puffs, resting on the holly leaves, outside my living room window, it is impossible not to feel the sorrow in this old world of ours.

Sometimes, I think joy slips more easily into hearts that have been cracked open. Somehow, I have miraculously retained the joy of childhood.

Even in darkness, a moment of joy often lights up my universe.

When I hear a sweet voice of one of my grandchildren on the phone, or even better, get to read a familiar story to a little one on my knee, I am held in joy.

Joy is not a sweet Christmas tree ornament of a word, but a powerful emotion that sustains life and enriches living. A moment of delight lasting a lifetime.

As a baby, I was held in joy as my mother, with her beautiful voice, recited her favourite childhood poems to me, as she rocked me in an old familiar chair. This is a place from where goodness grew.

My first memory of an outside joy, brought a specialness of a colour into my life. I was just three or four, when I went to my first ballet with my parents. I was perched up atop several gentlemen's winter coats, so that I could see over the seat in front of me. It was late at night, I was in an unfamiliarly grand hall, and the Bolshoi Ballet were dancing Sleeping Beauty. I was taken into a dream and joy was there. Every so often I come upon a unique tone of soft blue and am with those dancers soaring in  the air, whose beauty still holds joy.

Around the globe, art, especially music, brings joy to hearts and lives of suffering and brokenness. For the most part it is not high art.

Joy does not come at our bidding, but we can help create welcoming places.

Community singing is an act of joy, when singing comes from open hearts, joy flows in and joy flows out enriching lives, enriching the community.

When I first joined a small choir, some time ago, I sat near a mother and her two grown daughters. Both daughters were strong singers, whose voices lifted up their mother's voice, when she sat between them. Sadly, they are no longer there. I remember the merry singing, but what I remember most is the joy that they shared, giving each other a hard time throughout the rehearsals, that flowed into their singing.

Joy is not found in rules. Let's sing odes of joy.

This Summer, Now on to Next

This summer

  my garden got off to a good start and before too long became a vegetative entanglement.

  everything seemed to break - dishwasher, dryer, clothesline, car wheel, bed, front screen, barn door,
   radio, alarm clock, bathtub faucet, cellar door, wood stove, cellar window. some of these issues
   have been addressed, some haven't.

  won $450. worth of lobster in a Lion's Club Draw.

  took the cash and put it towards a very efficient wood stove, although I had dreams of one big
   shore party.

  my wood, ordered in May, didn't arrive until late October.

  friends and family helped (well realistically) stacked the wood very interestingly using the
   a creative method. beehive shaped stacks of wood are works of art and dry wood effectively.

  discovered that having a bum knee is not only painful, but socially limiting.

  went to a boat launch where the boat didn't launch. a good time was had by all.

  was so happy to experience the little white church on the cliff  (1860) transform to take on the
    extracurricular responsibilities of Saturday morning local market, local art centre, community
    gathering spot and hub of creative renovation.

  watch neighbourhood child sprout.

  missed the fresh tomatoes that weren't, thanks to the unwelcome visit of Hurricane Arthur.

  didn't paint the front porch especially the bright pink floor and front stairs

The summer that will be is beckoning to me already. For christmas I received a wonderful gift, from my daughter.  My lawn will be mowed by someone who isn't me. The porch floor and steps will get painted this summer.

A Toast to Christmas Present

A toast to Christmas Present. I raise my glass.

The older I get the more simple and complicated Christmas seems to be. This year is no different, and oh so different.

Those I love most celebrated Christmas together in Toronto, this year. My younger daughter, her husband and my three year old grandson flew from The East Coast to join my older daughter and my two granddaughters to experience a new Christmas. The adventure began with much generosity of spirit.

Knowing I was very welcome to join in the festivities, I chose to stay in this old house on the cliff  to be with them from afar. I have so much faith in the generation that follows me to celebrate well and I also know my proclivity to drop "bits of wisdom" unsolicited, into conversations, I didn't want to add to the joyous chaos

Facebook was alive with their activities. I observed a perfect holiday, knowing such a thing does not exist. Christmas is a time of grand excitement relieved by the odd, mandatory meltdown. I was spared the wrinkles in so much merriment.

Towards  the end of the visit my daughter from Halifax developed an impressive case of strep throat, but made it onto the plane, visited a clinic and arrived home to sleep for eighteen hours.

It is hard to explain how important it is to me that my daughters love each others company. I come from a large extended family that through time has dwindled. My generation did not go forth and multiply.

My aunt Barbara and my mother, Myra, seldom if ever went more than a few days without being in touch with the other. They were both creative human beings in unique ways, and perhaps had a sprinkling of the magic of pixelated sisters. From childhood into adulthood, there was endless, though sometimes sadly interrupted, family fun while they both lived. The cottage life on Lake Simcoe, was always a refreshing break from the harder realities of the outside world. At times it is hard to believe that such a time and place ever existed.

Sixty-five years ago today, on New Year's Day, my seven year old sister died at home of a now curable form of childhood cancer. There has been too much projecting the of that sweet, young life into the future, but there has always been a warm safe place for her in my heart. It is impossible to wipe all the possibilities away.

Knowing my daughters are close and that my son in law and grandchildren were part of the joyous mix, brings warmth to my life and tears to my eyes.

A toast to Christmas present and New Year wishes for all that is good in 2015. I raise my glass