The morning poke

This morning, after shuffling Jade down the lane and onto the bus for the first time in three weeks, I did something sneaky. Once Dylan was absorbed in his BBC kids' show, I tiptoed outside and sat on the back stoop with a hot cup of coffee, flavoured with the last of the eggnog. The air smelled fresh and melty, instead of frigid and manure-y like it did last night. Breathing it in gave me more satisfaction than even that first sip of coffee. I watched a cloud of finches burst into the air and settle with a chorus of chirrups in the naked branches of our red maple. An irate blue jay soon scattered them, but they whooshed their way onto the black walnut tree instead in a cheerful, fluttering rush. I could hear a distant snow plow scraping its way along our road, but other than that and the chatter of finches, there was delicious stillness. Then faintly, I could hear a voice through the open kitchen window hollering the one word with the power to shatter any zen moment: "MUUUUUUUUMMMMMMMMYYYYYYYY!?"

It was five minutes of solitude at the most, in weather that's finally warm enough to pause in without six layers of protective clothing, but it was all I needed to give me the poke in the brain I've been waiting for: it's time to write again.

We've been housebound since Sunday, thanks to the "arctic vortex" that descended on most of our area over the past week, bringing nose-hair-freezing, bone-cracking temperatures and wind that slices through you like a samurai sword. You know it's bloody cold when a winter lovin' gal like me starts to shiver in her snow pants. And before the deep freeze, we had my sister and nephew's arrival from Australia to celebrate, the my other sister's arrival from balmy Bali, then a wave of sickness at Someday which postponed Christmas to Boxing Day. Throw in a few Lowry Christmas celebrations, travelling to and from my Dad's cabin, New Year's, one sister's departure and enough laundry to choke an industrial washing machine, and life was full to the brim of…well, life.

Not that I'm complaining, or making excuses. I just decided that it was time for a sabbatical from writing. After all the edits and drafts and proofreads and reorgs of my book, I'd had enough. When I played Candy Crush or pretended to be a kitty for sale for my daughter's enjoyment or sat on the couch and read a pile of books under D's disapproving eye, I was conscious of my blog and my notebook and my new purple pen staring at me balefully. "Yeah, you can wait," I told them, and refused to feel any guilt whatsoever. Instead of writing, I cooked soups and stews and baked biscotti and smartie cookies. The kids and I decorated the house to within an inch of its life. I hung out with my sisters and nephew, hurt my knee tobogganing, played "Coffee Monster" and tractors and Sneaky Snacky Squirrel with the kids, re-read three of my favourite Game of Thrones volumes and uploaded a squillion photos onto Facebook. I didn't read any blogs, I didn't write any blogs, and I didn't care. The nice thing about being a writer (to me, anyway) is that even when you're not physically putting stuff down on paper, you can write stories in your head until finally there's no room left and they have to burst out onto the page.

This morning's five minutes of gorgeous, snowy peace reminded me that it's probably time to end the sabbatical and get back on the ol' writing horse again. I'm ready now. I've had a good rest, a very full winter of joys and irritations and the ideas are starting to leak out of my ears. Hopefully you're all still interested in hanging out with me at the Someday Diaries again.

Who taught the trees to sing like the ocean?

Yeah, I wrote a really cheesy poem back in my poetry-writing days with a similar title. But it came back to me today on my noon-time walk with Nekes. I struggle with my vow to try and embrace the fact that I now live in the windiest part of Ontario, and weeks like this one - gusts up to 75km/h! - test me to my wind-hating limits. You'd think the 42 windmills dotting the countryside would have given me a hint about what to expect. (I never said I was the sharpest knife in the drawer...)

In Waterloo, distant highway 86 traffic was the white noise of my life, always in the background but never intrusive. If I really faked myself out, I could pretend it was the sound of waves - who knew that traffic and happy, calm waves would sound so darned similar?

I'm learning how different country background noise is from city noise. I know that seems like an obvious point, but what I mean is that it's probably about the same amount in decibels, but the quality of the sound up here is so different. The only thing I really miss from the city is the train; growing up in New Hamburg I could hear the distant whistle as it floated in my bedroom window, living in Waterloo it rattled my windowpanes and vibrated the floor under my toes. Here, I have wind to do all that.

There's been a roar in the air for the past three days: wind grappling with the trees in the grove and wrestling with the waves on the lake. It's constant. Unnerving at times. Like it's trying to get in, pick me up and hurl me off into space. On Monday night, the dull growl outside the bedroom window escalated into a sudden, angry ROAR. I lept out of bed and fled to the living room couch where D was coming down from his weekly hockey game high. He had paused in mid-spoonful of rice pudding and his eyes were as wide as my own.

Him: "Did you hear that?"
Me, cowering in the crook of his arm. "YES!"

Later we heard about the tornado warnings. In January! Good Lord.