Day seven, frozen pipes

I’ve had sleepovers in three different friend’s houses now, and one at my studio.  The houses I’ve stayed at in town play constant musical obsessive repetitive drips in counterpoint to their ticking analogue clocks.

Our entire small city shares the consequences of too-shallow water mains and fast-creeping frost. We are either frozen here, or dripping – the latter by decree.  Idly, I wonder if we are beginning to live the consequences of climate change….

looking east from studio

Weather forecasts predict that spring thaw – the deep thaw that will reach our pipes – is still weeks away. The arctic blast that has swung low and stayed over central Canada still snarls through woolens, through layers through mitts and toques – our shoulders are hunched at our necks, our jaws set as we continue to trudge, to shovel to scrape.

We stay inside mostly.

Made into introverts by this enduring, deep cold, we whisper in the slow slow approach of Spring, 2015.

Inside Winter

It’s the kind of snow there’s a constant More of.  The plows and trucks and blowers, out all night long are still going strong at 10am.  Cars slide gently sideways to stop signs. Kids and grown-ups both are thoroughly snow-suited, booted, winter-gloved and touqued as they kick & trudge through piled white, falling white, blowing  – white everywhere.  Dogs leap and dive in it; parked cars have long since disappeared, save for a stripe of colour along their sides.

Third-floor roof of the studio building.  Looking Southwest across the harbour
Third-floor roof of the studio building. Looking Southwest across the harbour

The coffee tastes better.  The blankets are warmer.  The books are more intriguing; the art more tantalizing now that there’s time to look deeply.  The music has such clean white space around it,  it’s almost visible.

PicnicTable_Dec2013

I’ve dug out my knitting projects.  I find myself puttering,  replacing buttons, fixing collars, darning holes in old sweaters.

Just heard the opening phrase of a new song:  3 cello voices, descending, one rising, to A minor; hold.  Then vocals…

Roof_doorDec2013

I’ve said this before, but it’s true enough to say twice:  I love what winter does to me.