Wild creatures roam after dark. Even in the city.
I came noisily up my driveway this evening, slamming car doors and chatting as I crunched up the walkway. Light from the windows above cast a silvery fan on the lawn. Suddenly, my eyes focused on a small wild rabbit, silent as a statue, crouching on my lawn. A little brown bunny. It seemed to be holding its breath. In a moment, it whisked away into the darkness. Maybe it has a warm nest somewhere in the tangled edges of my backyard. If rabbits come, can spring be far behind.
Monday, December 6, 2010
Sunday, December 5, 2010
suddenly awake
I once had a profound thought in the middle of the night, but by morning it had evaporated like mist.
Those fragments of time between sleep and wakefulness, when the mind is accessible by both memory and the moment, can yield surprising insights, or gibberish. Gibberish is the more likely default for me and I've laughingly recounted dreams and fragment thoughts alike to my patient husband.
Yesterday, a sinister virus laid me low, and I spent the morning and afternoon fitfully sleeping. As I rose and fell between wakefulness and slumber, I found myself remembering my father's death, and was trapped by thoughts whirling in a circle, ever sadder and darker. I knew I must somehow break free and in a moment, words came to me, scrolling across my mind like the news on CNN. "Man cannot thwart the purposes of God."
I was suddenly awake.
Those fragments of time between sleep and wakefulness, when the mind is accessible by both memory and the moment, can yield surprising insights, or gibberish. Gibberish is the more likely default for me and I've laughingly recounted dreams and fragment thoughts alike to my patient husband.
Yesterday, a sinister virus laid me low, and I spent the morning and afternoon fitfully sleeping. As I rose and fell between wakefulness and slumber, I found myself remembering my father's death, and was trapped by thoughts whirling in a circle, ever sadder and darker. I knew I must somehow break free and in a moment, words came to me, scrolling across my mind like the news on CNN. "Man cannot thwart the purposes of God."
I was suddenly awake.
Friday, December 3, 2010
foodie
My mother has discovered the Food Network.
I found her happily watching Ricardo mince, slice and dice.
"It's eveything we love about cooking, without the work," I observed.
"And without the dishes!" she laughingly added.
I found her happily watching Ricardo mince, slice and dice.
"It's eveything we love about cooking, without the work," I observed.
"And without the dishes!" she laughingly added.
frosty the snow midget
I had a Currier and Ives moment. Early last Thursday morning, I was drawn to the window, tea in hand, to gaze out over a white, white world. Snow had fallen through the wee morning hours and was still silently and steadily falling.
My morning brain jolted awake.
Grandchildren. Quick. Snow. Play.
We bundled up and rushed out the door. Our watches must have been synchronized because as we pulled into their driveway, out of their house they tumbled, like miniature Michelin Tire Men, roly poly and ready to go.
We exhausted the possibilities of snowy fun and the mitten supply, and then headed back to Grandma and Papa's house. A virgin lawn lay before us there.
Neighbors were working on a snowman. The giant snowball base could hardly be pushed, and was pulling up snow right down to the grass as it rolled slowly forward. We were inspired.
We formed the starter snowball and pushed. The snow was so dry. We tried again. And again. Advice was called across the chasm between the front yards.
They completed their snowman base and added the middle ball.
We packed the snow tighter. We rolled with a lighter touch. We rolled with a heavier hand. We rolled in deeper snow. Our starter snowball remained the size of a baseball.
They added a head.
We took to the side yard for fresh, unsullied snow.
Our ball grew to the size of a basketball. Perhaps we could push it back across the driveway before it got too heavy. Snowmen should be on the front lawn.
The snow had gradually been getting finer and the driveway was wet. As the basketball of snow was pushed across the long expanse of pavement, it diminished rapidly down to the size of a baseball again.
The neighbors snowman had a hat, and arms, a scarf and a face.
Not one to admit defeat, I rerolled a basketball sized base and added a baseball sized head. No middle, just a very small, very time consuming snowman.
"What do you think," I asked my grandson.
"Can I smash it Gramma?" he asked, his eyes sparkling. "Can I jump on it?"
"Sure, jump away,"
I noticed the next morning, that the warm wind and rain had slain the neighbors snow man. Or else he was suntanning, it was hard to tell from a distance.
My morning brain jolted awake.
Grandchildren. Quick. Snow. Play.
We bundled up and rushed out the door. Our watches must have been synchronized because as we pulled into their driveway, out of their house they tumbled, like miniature Michelin Tire Men, roly poly and ready to go.
We exhausted the possibilities of snowy fun and the mitten supply, and then headed back to Grandma and Papa's house. A virgin lawn lay before us there.
Neighbors were working on a snowman. The giant snowball base could hardly be pushed, and was pulling up snow right down to the grass as it rolled slowly forward. We were inspired.
We formed the starter snowball and pushed. The snow was so dry. We tried again. And again. Advice was called across the chasm between the front yards.
They completed their snowman base and added the middle ball.
We packed the snow tighter. We rolled with a lighter touch. We rolled with a heavier hand. We rolled in deeper snow. Our starter snowball remained the size of a baseball.
They added a head.
We took to the side yard for fresh, unsullied snow.
Our ball grew to the size of a basketball. Perhaps we could push it back across the driveway before it got too heavy. Snowmen should be on the front lawn.
The snow had gradually been getting finer and the driveway was wet. As the basketball of snow was pushed across the long expanse of pavement, it diminished rapidly down to the size of a baseball again.
The neighbors snowman had a hat, and arms, a scarf and a face.
Not one to admit defeat, I rerolled a basketball sized base and added a baseball sized head. No middle, just a very small, very time consuming snowman.
"What do you think," I asked my grandson.
"Can I smash it Gramma?" he asked, his eyes sparkling. "Can I jump on it?"
"Sure, jump away,"
I noticed the next morning, that the warm wind and rain had slain the neighbors snow man. Or else he was suntanning, it was hard to tell from a distance.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
past tense
"Poo, poo, poo," chanted my little granddaughter. The man at the table next to ours gave her a side long glance. Their eyes met, and she made her "surprised" face. "Poo, poo, poo," she sang out. Her big brother giggled. Six adults consulted amongst themselves. My daughter glancing about suddenly exclaimed, "Oh, she sees a little picture of Winnie the Pooh. She's saying Pooh, Pooh, Pooh." "Ohhhhh, ahhhhhh, well then," we all chorused. The English language is so ambivalent.
"What do you say for rice," my coworker from Vietnam asked. "When it cooks, do you say it blossoms?"
"We say blossom for flowers, because they open up. That's sort of what happens to rice. That would be poetry though. You're a poet." I crowed.
"I don't knit," I had confessed. "I hold the needles too tight. I have tension issues." Boy do I ever.
Several meanings for one word, and that ever changing. Cool.
"What do you say for rice," my coworker from Vietnam asked. "When it cooks, do you say it blossoms?"
"We say blossom for flowers, because they open up. That's sort of what happens to rice. That would be poetry though. You're a poet." I crowed.
"I don't knit," I had confessed. "I hold the needles too tight. I have tension issues." Boy do I ever.
Several meanings for one word, and that ever changing. Cool.
common crow
The gray winter skies are full of birds. They are silhouettes on power lines, and framed in the naked branches of Alder and Maple.
Yesterday morning as I toiled along Fraser Hwy. to work, the line of cars ahead slowed to a crawl. In the distance flashed the unmistakable lights of a police car, strobing blue and white.
As luck would have it, a cluster of crows were gathered right across the road from me, like street entertainers. Two crows bobbed forward, fanning their tails and cawing on the power lines above. They soon spread their wings and drifted to the ground to join the others. Elaborate bowing followed. One crow had a beak full of food and the others begged shamelessly. The begging and bowing clinched it. These crows were family.
There are certain rituals in crow family circles, and I suppose any family circle for that matter.
Sharing respect and food are as common as a crow.
Yesterday morning as I toiled along Fraser Hwy. to work, the line of cars ahead slowed to a crawl. In the distance flashed the unmistakable lights of a police car, strobing blue and white.
As luck would have it, a cluster of crows were gathered right across the road from me, like street entertainers. Two crows bobbed forward, fanning their tails and cawing on the power lines above. They soon spread their wings and drifted to the ground to join the others. Elaborate bowing followed. One crow had a beak full of food and the others begged shamelessly. The begging and bowing clinched it. These crows were family.
There are certain rituals in crow family circles, and I suppose any family circle for that matter.
Sharing respect and food are as common as a crow.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
the refuge of silence
I'm losing my voice, and it's just as well.
"Good grief, why am I whining like this? That's it, I've used up my quota of complaints for the week." I decared. "Is that all," my husband asked ruefully. "For the month then, Ok, Ok, for the rest of the year." I declared sweepingly. Now how many weeks are left til the New Year?
A cold had me by the throat, literally and my voice was the voice of a stranger. "It's a nice voice though," a coworker had kindly offered.
Silence is the universal refuge.... a balm to our every chagrin, ~Henry David Thoreau
"Good grief, why am I whining like this? That's it, I've used up my quota of complaints for the week." I decared. "Is that all," my husband asked ruefully. "For the month then, Ok, Ok, for the rest of the year." I declared sweepingly. Now how many weeks are left til the New Year?
A cold had me by the throat, literally and my voice was the voice of a stranger. "It's a nice voice though," a coworker had kindly offered.
Silence is the universal refuge.... a balm to our every chagrin, ~Henry David Thoreau
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