Espresso, Puddles and Light

Temperatures were well below zero overnight, and the village was a noisy place. From my pillow, I could hear the north wind roistering across the roof shingles and through the eaves. It wailed down the chimney, rattled doors and windows, sang through the telephone wires, howled its pleasure in the fine performance it was putting on. In the garden, it whistled through the old board fence, and there was the susurrus of nearby evergreens swaying in unison and talking among themselves. No doubt about it, winter plans to hang about for some time to come.

On an arctic morning in late winter, one is grateful for small things. A square of blue sky can be seen seen through the window when the clouds roll back away for a while, and the deep snow in the garden sparkles wherever sunlight touches it. In the kitchen, there is the aroma of freshly ground coffee beans and toasting sourdough, the cheerful sputtering of the De'Longhi coffee machine in the corner, the warmth of the coffee mug cradled in my gnarly paws. Beau leans sleepily against me with his eyes closed, happy ears and a contented expression. 

Strange as it may seem, even the deep blue snow beyond the windows merits a little attention and gratitude, such graceful curls and waves and billows, so many shades from pastel to indigo, such eye grabbing sculptured shadows. Trudging through icy cold and snowy February, one drinks in colour wherever she finds it.

On our morning walk, Beau and I paused in a pool of sunlight to watch the sun nibble delicately at the edges of a frozen puddle. As cold as the morning was, a little melting was going on, and the evolving concavity was a work of art in progress. 

Bunch of Gladness

It is -22 Celsius here this morning including the wind chill, and a little blazing colour seems like a good way to start the day, along with a beaker of espresso and a good book, thermal underpinnings, woolly socks and my favorite shawl. Beau is not impressed and is snoring gently on the sofa with his blankie.

It will be much colder tonight, and a severe weather warning has been issued by Environment and Climate Change Canada. Another whopper of a storm will begin some time this evening and continue until early Monday with at least 16 inches of heavy snow, high winds (up to 48 mph.) and no visibility to speak of. Hydro has advised that there will be downed trees and power outages. Here we go again.

There is no point in starting to dig ourselves out again until the storm has passed, and our snow blowers and shovels are ready to go. We will all be outside together on Monday morning, enthusiastically flinging snow about and keeping a watchful eye on each other for signs of fatigue and physical distress.

This will be the second big "snowing and blowing" in four days. Where on earth are we going to put the white stuff this time? Snow banks here are already almost Himalayan in height, and throwing anything up on them is going to be a challenge.

Sequestered, Week 250 (CCL)

Across the Frozen Pond

Icy Morning, Rising Sun

On a cold morning a few days ago, we (Beau and I) admired the icicles dangling from the eaves of an old house near home. There was a raw north wind, and we thought it would bring this winter's handsome confections crashing down into the snowdrifts below in slivers and shards, a noisy and rather dramatic end to be sure.

Silly us, the wind will not be the architect of such creations, at least this time around. Temperatures in the village will rise today, and our icicles will dwindle and fade away, strange doings at a time when temperatures are usually well below zero, and ice stalactites often reach several feet in length.

Liking the way icicles catch the morning sun on our morning walks, we are feeling cheated. In a day or two (of course) temperatures will plummet, and the village will be a  sea of ice again. As above, so below. Here we go again, cleats on our boots. walking sticks with ice prongs, salt and sand and the whole shebang.

Wordless Wednesday - Cup of Morning

In Hampton Park

Morning in Bloom

Skies are leaden, and a fine murk wraps the village, rounding shapes and blurring the edges of houses, cars, trees and streets. This is one of those mornings when the village seems to be dancing (or skating) on the edge of the world and the weather and is not quite sure where it belongs. Late autumn, early winter? Where are we?

Adjectives like dark and sunless are evocative, but there are better words for such intervals: bosky, caliginous, cloudy, crepuscular, dark, dim, drab, dusky, gloomy, murky, nebulous, obfuscous, obscure, opaque, overcast, shadowy, somber, stygian, sunless, tenebrous, twilighted, umbral, vague, wintry.

With no light to speak of, this is not a morning for wandering about with camera and peripherals, so far anyway. When Beau and I went out a few minutes ago, an icy wind teased the backs of our necks, and the matter of a longer morning walk was put aside for now. My furry son trotted back into the bedroom and curled up in my warm spot. A single eye peered mournfully at me from behind the patchwork when I entered the room to console him with a tummy rub.

What to do? Upright, but not quite awake, I pull a canister of Chinese flower tea out of the pantry and brew up a pot. As the dried blooms take in liquid and open out, the kitchen is filled with perfume, and home is summery all over again.

Vessel, beaker and contents are almost too arty to drink, and I take image after image, posing them on the kitchen counter, on the old oak table in the dining room, on a wooden platter, a bamboo mat, a brightly coloured napkin. The teapot and cup pose cheerfully, sending up little clouds of fragrant steam and giving breathy sighs now and then. Small wonders amuse small minds on a grey morning in November.

There is a stack of art books to prowl through, and there is a little Mozart on the CD player (Die Zauberflöte). There is a folio of lovely creamy paper and a box of art pens in splendid Mediterranean shades to play with. For dinner this evening, there will be something fragrant and spicy that sings and dances on the tongue. There is room at the table for everyone, and there are enough mugs and cups to go around, mismatched of course. On days like this, one does whatever she can do to light things up. The more kindred spirits around her hearth and table, the better.

Fence and Morning Light

Foggy Morning By the Fence

Morning Offering

Sequestered, Week 215 (CCXV)

Wordless Wednesday - The Color of Morning

Sequestered, Week 210 (CCX)

Alight From Within

The world is pearly grey, and there is rain in the forecast, but rumors of snowfall rather than rainfall persist. We watch skies, listen to local news broadcasts and monitor online networks for updates on the weather fronts heading our way from places further west and north. Rain would be a blessing, but it was rather a dry winter, so precipitation of any kind would be a fine thing, and that includes snow.

In the kitchen, coffee is in progress and the fragrance of freshly ground espresso beans tickles my freckled nose.  The sound of Mozart's opera The Magic Flute fills the air, and as I lurch about and froth milk for the morning cuppa, I find myself thinking of bird catchers, enchanted flutes, silver bells, and the Queen of the Night.

Mozart's opera is grand stuff, but something more is needed this morning, something that invokes springtime and summons sunlight into this (so far) dreary day. A pot of tulips in red and creamy yellow is the perfect response to such weather. Alight from within, the velvety blooms are jeweled lanterns in the window, and they glow.

Sequestered, week 206 (CCVI)

Puddles and Windy Doings

Temperatures were well below zero overnight. As I looked through the bedroom window from my pillow in the wee hours, I could see the old trees in the back yard yard blowing about, hear the north wind dancing across the roof and through the eaves.

Ancient Greeks called the north wind Boreas, and to the Inuit of the Yu'pik tribe, the spirit is Negafook, or more poetically, "the spirit who likes cold and stormy weather." Whatever one calls him, the old guy was in ebullient mode last night and rampaging through the sleeping garden with gusto. The weather vane on my neighbor's roof groaned. The wooden fence along the perimeter creaked, and there was the constant snap, crackle, pop of frozen twigs being liberated from their moorings, the susurrus of nearby evergreens swaying in unison and talking among themselves. No doubt about it, winter plans to hang around for some time to come.

On an icy morning in late February, one is grateful for small things, the aroma of freshly ground coffee beans, the sputtering of the Di'Longhi espresso machine in a corner of the kitchen, the square of blue sky seen through a window, the warmth of a coffee mug cradled in one’s gnarly paws as she looks out across the garden.

Strange as it may seem, even the deep blue snow beyond the windows merits a little gratitude, such graceful curls and waves and billows, so many shades from pastel to indigo, such eye grabbing sculptured shadows.

It is too cold to walk Beau for any distance today, but while we were out a while ago, we paused in a brief splotch of sunlight to watch the sun nibble delicately at the edges of a frozen puddle. As cold as the morning was, there was a little melting going on, and the evolving pool was a work of art in progress.

Sequestered, Week 200 (CC)

The Way We Were

Sequestered, Week 198 (CXCVIII)