December 8, 2016
A twenty degree angle, up from the east to the west. After 36 hours of fierce but invisible wind, the snow has begun. I’m relieved.
ah, this year, this year.
As I would with child coming down from his destructive tantrum, I want to dose this year with a well-laced hot toddy and tuck it firmly into bed, so we may all have the chance for some self-care. A break from the nonsensical, irrational, incessant howling we’ve endured to breathe in simple things.
Even for an hour, to be simple, straightforward.
All of us are on a four-lane superhighway it seems, doing our best to be generous, to be kind, but oh so beleaguered, so worn out.
The Chickadees sing in the slanting snow.
Despite the breathtaking antagonism, the astonishing indifference, the unrepentant mean-spiritedness witnessed and endured these past few months, they still sing, cheerful. They have done this every winter, for as long as Chickadees have been chickadees.
Third-floor roof of the studio building (2013). Looking Southwest across the harbour
It follows then, that if the Chickadees sing, so can we.