Thursday, December 21, 2017

Thursday, December 7, 2017

Early December

I walk the land every morning.
It's in my bones.
I rise early each day, well before sunrise.

This pattern too must be in my bones. A time of the ancestors when out of necessity, work had to be done first. Lanterns lit, water pumped, a fire started in a hearth, porridge bubbling in a cauldron or flour turned into loaves for the day's consumption.

My modern self throws on a housecoat and slips down the stairs in darkness, not wanting to face the glare of electric light. It's too harsh this early.
Entering the kitchen, I surrender and with a flick of a switch turn on the overhead pot lights. These new lights are on a dimmer, turned down to a softness -  just enough so I can see to start my coffee maker.
I pull a carton of milk out of the fridge (no milking of cows in this day and age) and splash a good amount into my cup.

Coffee in hand I step out onto my back deck. Yes, it's December here in Canada and cold, but that doesn't bother me. I'm warm from my cozy bed, warm in my plush housecoat, winter boots on my feet. Not long ago it was flip-flops. October this year was unseasonably warm and I was ecstatic to be able to slip into flip-flops and feel the strange contrast of autumn leaves crunching underfoot.

Deep breaths of fresh air - oh how I love to inhale the freshness of a new day.

This December morning Mother Moon lights up the entire back yard. She is beautiful as she shines out between the branches of Lady, a glorious beech tree standing tall and proud in the west side of my yard.

Trees are beautiful at this time of year - their bare branches reach up to the heavens, revealing that which is usually hidden by their greenery. Our trees are old in this part of the land; a forest once-upon-a-time, they remain rooted deep in the earth, watching us humans go about the business of our everyday lives.

I've lived in this home since 1996 when I moved in with my soon-to-be husband. As some of you know, I moved out for 3 years, now back again.
I look around my property and inhale the familiar, the homes and neighbours, an occasional light in the window of another early riser.

I'm not the same person as I was a few years back. Certainly not the star-struck in-love woman in my 40's back in 1996. Life changes us, as it's meant to.

My blog is still up, yet I leave it behind for long periods of time.  I miss it. I miss the energy, the good feelings blogging evokes when I visit your blogs. I miss peeking into gardens around the world, being invited to share in the lives of ordinary people. My blogging friends are generous "come sit a spell, pull up a chair and warm yourself by the fire, coffee's on, tea's hot and ready for you, I've just made a batch of gingerbread cookies!" All virtual of course, but the thoughts, the intentions give me a warm feeling, a feeling of connection no matter who or where in the world we all live.

I'm not the same person I was when I entered the world of blogging. Back then I was hurt and scared; husband was sick with an illness that would eventually take him. Blogging was a way to save my sanity, a way of reaching out to others who may be with me on this frightening journey.

It came as a surprise that people actually responded to my cries, my venting and grieving, I did not know what to expect. I drew strength and comfort from my fellow bloggers, their own struggles, their joys, and virtual hugs, their normal everyday activities.

I did not know what blogging was all about.
Was I good enough to actually post something?
Would anybody read my stories?

Along the way I met many, many kind and courageous people. People who blogged whether their writings were good or not. People whose pics were phenomenal, their writing superb, and I felt myself measuring up to those standards and coming up short.  Maybe I shouldn't post. I wasn't good enough. So many others were so much better.

And then it came to me one day that I was blogging for me. That I was making friends anyway, whether my posts were "publish-perfect" or just ordinary.  Blogging was about the normal ups and downs of everyday life.  The important part was reaching out and connecting.

Gazing into the face of Mother Moon, her benevolent glow warming my heart and cold hands, I feel a ripple of happiness, of contentment at this unexpected gift.

Wouldn't this make a nice pic? Framed by bare-naked tree branches if I stand right here. If I walk a little to the side, she's lost behind the tree trunk. Quickly I run back in the house, pop my cold coffee into the microwave and grab my phone.
Not a great pic but it works for today.

Pocketing my phone I step off the deck into the pre-dawn stillness. I drink in the quiet, the lull before the beginning of a brand-new day.
The anticipation.
I like to be up early enough to witness the soft glow in the Eastern sky as a new day is born.
It's like magic.

Night is fading. The clear strong light of Mother Moon shines on, even as she slips further towards the horizon. Stars as well are not giving up yet. They hold on to their brightness in a clear, cold sky.

With the passing of years, I've become stronger.  A little more confident in who I am. Blogging, I've learned, is an expression of who we are. Competition is not necessary, nor is it wanted (to me anyway). Some will like my blog and others won't.
As simple as that.