I often find myself making disparaging comments about the internet and online social networking, while lauding the value of face-to-face interaction. On the other hand, I recognize the importance of virtual communities, especially because it’s not always easy to find other like-minded people nearby. This post then, is written with the latter sentiment in mind…
If you are searching the web looking for connection,wondering if anyone else understands your situation, you may be in luck. Especially if your situation is best described with words like minus, wind chill, and knee-deep. Know this: you are not alone. Despite thousands of blogs sporting pictures of tulips, tee-shirts, and seed beds, not everyone on the continent has made it to spring. Just scroll through the proof and be comforted:
I once read that spring has inspired more poor writing and sentimental drivel than any other subject. I have a hunch that whoever agrees with this idea lives a lot farther south than we do. With a fresh dump of snow last week, and nighttime temperatures of -20c, it’s difficult to resist sentimentality just thinking about seasonal change. The other day we saw a puddle in a parking lot; one of my daughters tugged on my arm and said, “Look, Mom! Running water!” as if liquid H2O is the stuff dreams are made of.
Have a great week, whether you will be wearing sandals or skis!
In snowy solidarity,
PS. Perhaps these pictures are the tiniest bit deceiving. Today, for example, I actually felt the sun warming my skin. Then tonight, Stan and I just had this conversation–another hint of spring:
Stan: “You know what the great thing about snow sculptures is?”
Me: No, what?
Stan: “They melt. You don’t have to live with it all, year after year. Imagine collecting huge wooden chain saw art?”
I am trying to imagine cramming a homemade, 8-foot-tall wooden chicken into our already over-stuffed garage. Indeed, there certainly is a place for ephemeral art, especially at our place.
PPS. Continuing with the theme of snow, have you read The Snow Child, set in Alaska, by Eowyn Ivey? Stan read the first part to me on a road trip while I was driving, and it nearly suffocated both of us… but then it all changed for me. I knew I liked the story when the hardy, homesteader neighbour lady was introduced with blood-spattered clothes, after recently slaughtering a turkey. Today, nearly a month after reading it, I found myself thinking about the feral child, living off the land, wild herbs, and what it means to be, or not be, a mother, for at least 3 kilometers of my cross country ski! Thank you, Shalain, for recommending it, and Eowyn, for creating it!