A walk in the woods

Today I walk by myself.

The cold is glorious; the sun is bright. The woods beckon, and I am so happy to be on the trails for an hour of solitude that I want to shout and dance. The labyrinth is covered in a duvet of snow and I feel like a giant when I notice that the packed snow on the trail has lifted me up to the level of the aspen branches.

Cardinals whistle and chickadees swoop, sure signs of the new season ahead. The river has cracked open and sings a joyful song before it dives beneath the crusty ice. I run my hand over the rough bark of an elm, scrunch fragrant cedar between my fingers. Strange dogs stop to nuzzle me as red-cheeked owners nod or smile before they whistle their companions back to obedience.

The snow sparkles and dances, drifts down from tree branches in puffs and clouds that twirl lazily in the sunlight. My boots plunge steady and sure into ankle deep powder. I take the looping trail past the gnarled oak with the face of a praying mantis and head for the second bridge.

Just around the curve before the darkness of cedars swallows up the trail, I see a young couple. They have stopped to adjust their young son's scarf and hat. We exchange hellos and as I pass, I am hit by a wave of sadness. I meet the brown-haired mother's eyes for a moment and it's as though I've been pricked in the heart with something sharp and cold. I cover my surprise with a nod and keep walking.

I am not psychic; I'm not even all that intuitive. I don't know what has pierced my soul in that moment. Maybe nothing. Maybe imagination.

But maybe not.

As I pass out of earshot, I close my eyes for a second, mutter a quick prayer to the trees and the snow and the sun and the birds, asking for healing, for a lightening of the burden of hurt the family seems to carry like boulders on their backs. Because we all carry our own invisible stones of sadness; sometimes in our pockets where they weigh us down, or in our shoes where they punish us with each step, or inside our heads where they rattle around for only us to hear.

I think we can drop the stones one at a time on the paths we walk; I think the best way to relieve our burdens is get outside, and keep walking.

Random thoughts when I'm supposed to be paying attention in Yoga class

Gah, I'm late again! There's one spot left over there in the corner. (Unfurl my mat and sit down) Holy crap, where is that arctic breeze coming from? No wonder this spot is open. Brrrrr...

Overheard on the mats beside me:
Woman #1: Your uncle's insane.
Woman #2: Which one?

I love my teacher. Her movements are like water, her voice like warm honey. She radiates kindness with every word and look. Oh boy...I might have a girl crush.

Having to clench my cheeks to hold in pizza-related flatulence while doing Goddess pose is kinda ironic. This goddess really needs to let one fly.

This older woman next to me is so beautiful. She's lean and fit, and I like that she hasn't dyed her hair. The silver grey suits her.

Wow, that preggo woman can hold these damned poses longer than I can.

Yoga Instructor: "Are you experiencing the pose, or enduring it?"
Me: I don't think you want me to answer that.

This alternate nostril breathing exercise really doesn't work when you have allergies. Oh man, I just shot stuff out of my nose....did anyone see that?

Yay! My cousins are here!


I am beautiful and strong. I am beautiful and strong. I am - oooh, trembly legs! Trembly legs!!

Dancing warrior has got to be the coolest name for a pose ever.

There is something really intimate and powerful about 15 women facing each other in goddess pose. But now I want to stick my tongue out like Kali...

Thank God for Shavasana. AT LAST. Okay, stop thinking. Relax. Breathe. Geez, I wonder if D remembered that the kids are at his Mom's tonight? AHH! Stop thinking things! Shavasana, Shavasana. Ahhhhh. Yes. This is nice. (pause) Is that woman beside me snoring??? Seriously?? *sigh*

A November Rose

Last week, I was beaten down by a combination of illness (nasty gastrointestinal flu), kids' illnesses (same), holiday overload (a rainy, solo-parent Hallowe'en) and my own middle age (attempted to play hockey for the first time and ended up with a full-on migraine and two pulled neck muscles). Not a stellar seven days.

Consequently, I woke up yesterday feeling like I'd been run over by a truck. Mondays are daycare days, which means that after I help D load 'em up, I'm kid-free until 4:30. I try to save Mondays for householdy-type chores, so after going back to bed for twenty minutes with a heating pad on my neck, I ran some errands, went to the doctor and chiropractor, picked up groceries, ran a few loads of laundry. And then I was seized by a strong urge to get a coffee, go to the cottage and walk on the beach.

Beach walks are not your typical November activity. It was a shivery day, still and somber-skied. We had our first taste of snow last week, and it won't be long before the sand freezes and the lake begins to turn sluggish with chunks of slushy ice. Even now the beach is a rugged, forlorn place. The cottages are all boarded up, snow fences - those spiky, unwelcoming-looking things - have been erected and there's not a soul to be seen. It was a weird place for me to end up, when I could have been slumped in front of the fireplace with an Advil and my heating pad.

But as soon as I trudged down the slope from the cottage to the shore, I knew why I had come. Because Rose was there, and she took my hand and led me off down the beach to pick stones and watch birds.

I've spoken of this phenomenon before, and I don't know if it's real, or just grief mixed with wistfulness after the hangover of a bad week. Honestly, I don't care. I felt my daughter there with me, and who am I to question the validity of a feeling?

Sometimes when I feel her presence, she has tousled brown curls, the same as her father's. Other times, she has perfect blonde hair that looks like silk...nothing like Jade and Dylan's wild, honey-coloured mops that defy brushing and seem to grow an inch a week. But in my mind's eye, Rose shares their flash-quick smiles, and that brand of energy that makes them skip and jump instead of walk.

We never talk, Rose and me; I'm just content to know she is beside me, and imagine the feel of her fingers clinging to mine. A few times, I swore I could feel the weight of her arm in the crook of my elbow, as though she'd become a teenager in the course of three steps. She is good company.

I stooped and picked up the stones that caught my eye, watched a loon dive and resurface, took great gulps of chilly November air, and basked in the presence of my daughter. I thanked God for life, for family, for writing, for birth and death. For once in my chaotic life, I was thankful for just that moment.

I know it's probably weird to write about this here, instead of keeping it safe in my heart. I just...wanted to. Rose has her place in this foolish little diary of mine, along with all my other snippets of daily life, of sickness and health, of milestones reached and howls of laughter, of costumes and candy and rainy nights and fevers. She is with me every day, even when I don't remember she's there. And so she belongs on these pages, with the rest of my life's story.

Guilty Pleasures

1) Sometimes I spend the whole morning wearing nothing but one of D's shirts and some socks. Why? Because I can. (I love working from home!)

2) Once every couple of weeks, I take myself out for lunch. I'll either gorge on the Chinese buffet at New Seasons, or indulge in goat cheese & black bean quesadillas at Watercress Cafe. Then I drive home, stuffed and happy. My afternoon productivity is all the better for it.

3) Quite often when I cook supper, I throw on my favourite Bollywood CD and wind around the kitchen. (Admittedly, this is getting harder to do the bigger my belly gets...)

4) There is nothing more satisfying than taking a good hot shower in the middle of the day. On my break, of course.

5) I've given up buying no-name ice cream. It's either Haagen-Daaz, or it ain't in my freezer.

6) I'm a rabid X-Files fan. Yes, I know David Duchovny is now a balding sex addict. And yes - I know the last two seasons were bad enough to make even the most loyal fans want to poke their own eyes out. Don't even get me started on the latest movie. Call me uncool, passe, even a bit nerdy. I don't care. That's why I just finished reading the Season 6 episode guide from cover to cover. I cannot wait till my friends are finished with their DVD collection - seasons 4-8.

7) Sometimes I'll eat lunch at my desk, then use my allotted 1/2 hour to have a powernap. My heavens, it feels gooooood.

8) When I'm on a conference call, I sit in the beanbag D bought me a few years ago for Christmas. It feels so naughty to be chin-deep in softness when I know other people are stuck in an uncomfortable conference room.

9) Every year, without fail, I re-read every single one of the books in my extensive L.M. Montgomery collection. I find them comforting.

10) When I'm not Bollywooding, I listen to Ryan Seacrest's top 40 countdown while making supper. It kills brain cells, but I find it strangely addictive. There's only so much CBC downer show content I can take.

Now, I've gotta know: what are YOUR guilty pleasures?