riotthill

You’ve asked me many times if the wolves are singing. Tonight yes, they sing loudly; clearly, distinctly their voices carry above the frog racket from the marsh across the road. They celebrate life, announce it to each other, share it with all who will listen. Their voices make me happy because I love their presence, and because they make me think of you.

But I don’t dream of them. Nor do I dream of you. Instead I dream of red rooms, in particular, a giant room large enough, tall enough to hold my house. It’s crowded, but I don’t hear its heat or taste its sweat. I see only across the tops of people’s heads to a wall and ceiling far away, trying to calculate its dimensions.

You see, this room is a deep rich red, even within its shadows. It insists. It tells me it is part of my grandfather’s cottage, a fact impossible to question within a dream.

In a real world it would make no sense. Just as in a real world, the wolves howl, but the stories they tell are impossible to follow — they are secret wolf tales, you see.

Do wolves dream of red rooms? Not likely, for they would have to cross a divide of species, of worlds, of knowing to enter the red room of my dreams.

Oh, but if they did, you and I would know the secrets of their stories, their legends and myths. We could whisper them to each other, send our conversations out above the crowd of heads to echo amongst the walls of our red room.

Cross posted at Red Room

February 15, 2010

Paul

On February 9th, 2010, my dear younger brother Paul died.  He was fighting prostate cancer, but we all thought he had a good chance to defeat it.  However painful it is now, I would not trade one second of our time together, or the wealth of memories shared with my younger brother.  Here is what I wrote…
Dear Paul,
Not a day goes by that you are not in my heart and in my thoughts.  But since last Tuesday, those thoughts and love have taken a different turn just as you have stepped off the path we shared together to follow a new journey.  I miss you.

At a time like this, my mind is full of memories:  sweet chicklets so fat in our mouths we couldn’t close them; a fishing expedition for a red satin bathing suit; wobbling out to the back yard ice rink (you were a terrible skater, but your heart was in it); birthdays and Christmas and endless summer holidays.  Do you remember the Beatles?  And dances in Camlachie?  How rich my life has been to share those memories and days with you.

There were long telephone conversations, teasing and debates ranging from current events to what’s for dinner.  There were weddings, children and grandchildren born, picnics, holidays, and shared losses as we said goodbye to those we had loved together.  All the events, from ordinary to special, that give life it’s precious meaning.

There are those who would say that a life has meaning only if one has made a fortune, or invented some revolutionary technology, created great art, or devoted one’s life to charitable works.  But no, that is not right.  Each life, yours, has so much meaning.

Your wit, sometimes as sharp as a butcher’s blade, other times as subtle as an August afternoon breeze, challenging me, making me laugh or cry.  Your fingers flying over the frets and strings, your passion for music infectious.  You made that guitar sing, and I was there to enjoy it.  Poetry, songs and words that still echo in my heart.  You could have been a rock star, but you chose instead to share your gifts with those you loved best.  What an honour.  Your compassion, your kindness and care for all those in your circle of family and friends, even when you were so sick yourself.  This is what gives life, your life, so much meaning and depth, and joy.

Paul playing the guitar

The world is an emptier place without you.  I miss you.  Your loving sister, Wendy.

Christmas card perfect

We watched with amusement as our southern east coast neighbours struggled with a huge snowstorm this past weekend. We were of course, quite smug about the whole event, since we had just endured a whopping 121 centimetres (4 feet) of fluffy snow, which broke all local records for a single storm. As you can see, from the picture at right, my hubby made a valiant attempt to clear the snow. It was overwhelming, as you can imagine.

Our car in Snow

Our neighbour about a kilometer down the road arrived with his front end loader and worked on the whole driveway a day later, for which we are very grateful, since it is very likely we would still be shoveling a week later without his help. Now that we’re cleared… gorgeous scenery, sparkling snow and intensely blue skies to frame our yard, our road and our region.

Bright Snow, Blue Sky

There is something wondrous in experiencing a snowstorm, a blizzard by environmental standards, standing at the windows watching the ground whiten with heaps of snow, burying all the drabness of a cold wet November, gifting us with a bright new world. Wherever the birds have gone during such terrible weather, they return to our feeder, hungry, but as cheerful as always, chittering and chirping to let us know how pleased they are with themselves. Our cats pause at the door, wondering where their familiar landmarks have gone. We struggle with heavy boots and coats, remembering long-ago days when we tobaggoned, made snow angels and hurled snowballs at each other. Today we sit by the fire, enjoying its warmth as we watch the results of the snowfall all over the east coast just in time for the holiday season.

Read about another snow fall experience here… How My Neighbor Saved America

Happy Season to All!