It's now the time of year where the cold is carried inside, lingering on your skin for a while before the indoor heat and blood flow catches up. Though I have skipped from summer to winter on the blog, fall did not go unnoticed. Rather, it was gloried in - this fall was stunning. The bright yellow trees, the few scattered summer days through September when jean short were dug out form the bottom of pile to make an unexpected encore performance.
The fall brought a new job, new pace. A shuffling. Even welcome changes brings adjustment, and I continue to settle into it. This time of year always contains a little wonder. The snow is still beautiful, captivating as it floats down. Christmas is just out of reach, a promise around the corner of December. Though treasure may be a little strong - I deeply appreciate this turning. Fall to winter - all white, soft and cozy. I do not long for spring or warmer temperatures - instead, I gratefully curl up with blankets, books and a steaming cup of something.
After a summer of criss crossing the West, on our last cross (coming home), I am thinking one thing. It is crazy what you can see from your car window. While Canadians tend to be known for their self-deprecation, there is nothing to deprecate about our land. It is breathtaking, unbelievably beautiful...gloriously rugged. At the moment, we are passing through the mountains and I am pondering how strangely attainable they seem. Despite the reality, the danger, I can't help picturing myself on their rocky ridges, my small form silhouetted against the sky.
We stayed in a campground while wine touring in the Okanagan and it was filled with families. It recalled my younger days of camping, whether within our borders or up and down the coast in California and Oregon. Childhood really is a magical time. Though I don't think that magic disappears as we grow older, it certainly changes. We change too, more things crowd our minds, we forget to see the magic and beauty found in the everyday. Now, I am more likely to find the magic in the quiet, in the endless vistas, in rare moments of peace and stillness. With children, it is different. It is found in their quick and wild play.
I see a flash of blond hair and brown skin through the lush green bushes. Sharp shoulder blades running out to peek around a concrete corner before darting around it. It is found in their easy loud, laughter. And yes, it is found in their quiet too. The little boy with the huge eyes who is still crouched in the bushes, playing his part in the story in his head. Are they just bushes or are they a pirate cave? Only he knows.
The remaining trees stand sentinel over cut blocks. The hard wood is left standing as the soft woods are cut, piled and then carried away on log truck after log truck. The birch and poplar remain, watching the rest go. Eventually, they'll watch new ones grow and get planted by grubby little creatures with shovels and bags.
The dragon flies are here, a welcome addition to the air. I don't know how big the mouths of dragon flies are, but I picture them flying through the air, mouths wide, scooping in mosquitoes and no see'ems, crunching them down when full, before opening wide again and continuing with their constant feeding. Whether this is an accurate vision, I'm not sure. Do dragonflies have teeth?