flowering magnolia at the University of Wisconsin Arboretum,Spring 2007
19.3.08
Ode to the First Day of Spring
We all travel the milky way together, trees and men ... trees are travellers, in the ordinary sense. They make journeys, not very extensive ones, it is true: but our own little comes and goes are only little more than tree-wavings - many of them not so much. - John Muir
flowering magnolia at the University of Wisconsin Arboretum,
Spring 2007
flowering magnolia at the University of Wisconsin Arboretum,Spring 2007
17.3.08
Yay, books!
A little package I've been waiting for arrived in the mail today: two beautiful childrens' books I recently splurged on. Although published, or photographed over 30 years ago, they've got this fresh, vibrant and almost timeless feel to them. Bruno Munari's One Potato Two Potato Three Potato Four is especially exciting because there seems to be a dearth of baby books with photos instead of drawings. And these are lush, beautifully composed black and white photographs to lose yourself in for hours. Alas, both are actual fiber pages and not gnaw-able boardbooks so I'll be spending some together time with Milo when we read these.
12.3.08
behaving like you're on sabbatical...
means that instead of just sitting at your desk and starting your workday, you drop the kiddo off at daycare and go skiing for a couple of hours. Just the two of you. Blowing off some steam. Putting all that snow to good use. Pretending you do this all the time.
The trails were all ours this morning. A lightly falling snow tickled our eyelashes as we alternately slipped and crashed through the snow, putting our backcountry skis to work. At the top of the mountain we stopped to admire the cityscape spread out below us. The skyline has slowly morphed over the decade since we last lived in this city. Subtle changes. The city's silhouette has grown thicker. As ours has, too, I guess. One of those fleeting flashes of how time is slipping by, then I shake it loose, like the dusting of snow on my hat, and crash on back down the trail, excited to be skiing again.
The trails were all ours this morning. A lightly falling snow tickled our eyelashes as we alternately slipped and crashed through the snow, putting our backcountry skis to work. At the top of the mountain we stopped to admire the cityscape spread out below us. The skyline has slowly morphed over the decade since we last lived in this city. Subtle changes. The city's silhouette has grown thicker. As ours has, too, I guess. One of those fleeting flashes of how time is slipping by, then I shake it loose, like the dusting of snow on my hat, and crash on back down the trail, excited to be skiing again.
9.3.08
5.3.08
snow and steel: a tale of winter magic
March had a tantrum today. Rain on sleet on snow, blown around with an angry bluster. Hard to keep one's chin up on these days. Summer seems like a distant, hazy dream and today's meteorological mayhem a cruel nightmare you can't awake from.
So I want to tell a story about a little bit of winter magic that we stumbled upon some weeks ago. I don't mean the rabbit-in-hat, pull-a-quarter-from-your ear kind of magic. But the kind of magic where, if you're able to suspend linear, rational thinking for a little bit, delightful things happen.
It was a mild Sunday afternoon, a little grey, but still snowy enough for a family outing to Mount Royal park. It was truly lovely, the park was filled with people enjoying a winter weekend - skating, sledding, walking. We hadn't been the most motivated gang that day so it was getting on in the afternoon by the time we even got outside. As we frolicked in the snow with Milo, he suddenly stopped and caught the eye of a lone gentleman walking the nearby path. He stared so intently the man literally stopped in his tracks and came toward us. My initial reaction was wary ~ this park is known for its strange characters, sometimes~ but his twinkly eyes and welcoming smile quashed my reservations. And he cooed over our child, which always wins me over. We talked briefly of the joys of children, of photography (we had our camera out) and, with a goodbye to Milo, he started to walk away. He hesitated for a moment, like he had something more he wanted to tell us, then shook his head and started walking again. He stopped again and asked which direction we were headed. We told him and he nodded. Silence. "Have you heard of the secret sculpture in the trees?" I suddenly felt like the air thicken around us and our voices quieted conspiratorially. Legend has it that Armand Vaillancourt, noted Quebec sculptor, had hidden a metal sculpture in the tree canopy of Mount Royal Park. Now this twinkly-eyed stranger, called to us by our one-year-old, was handing us a quest to go find it. He drew us a treasure map in the snow and we embarked on our epic search for the secret statue, hurrying to beat the fading light.
For years, he had walked the park, looking for the statue and had finally come upon it just this morning. I could sense that he was torn between sharing his incredible find and revealing a long-held secret. In fact, he wouldn't tell us where it was for a while, waiting to ensure, I imagine, that his secret fell on receptive ears. And this, you see, is where the magic comes in: Milo drew this man to us, as if he knew the man had a story to tell. And because of this brief, surreal conversation with a man we didn't know, we found ourselves veering off the path into the deep snow of the darkening forest, craning our necks twords the treetops. Milo cooed appreciatively from his sled, oblivious to the wet snowsuit and chilly toes. This was his doing, after all. Bare branches danced against the twilight sky, their silhouettes teasing our imagination. I was seeing sculptures everywhere.
Then I spotted it. Its angular limbs were well camouflaged but once spotted, you wonder how you could ever have missed it in the first place. It was a climber, high above our heads, captured in graceful ascent of a huge maple, his ice axe frozen in a wide arc above his head. I wonder where he was headed, what he was trying to see. I must have walked past this spot over a hundred times since I was a little girl and he was there the whole time, focused on his next move, stealthily making his way up the tree. I almost can't explain the delight this moment brought me. It was like a window into the soul of the city, a perfect melding of man and nature. And it spoke of how our human constructs and the natural world, are inseparable.
Oh, it spoke to me of a lot of things. But there was a louder voice, speaking of hunger, darkness, wet and cold. And so we crashed back out onto the path with the last bit of light and headed for home. Still wrapped in our magic winter quest.
So I want to tell a story about a little bit of winter magic that we stumbled upon some weeks ago. I don't mean the rabbit-in-hat, pull-a-quarter-from-your ear kind of magic. But the kind of magic where, if you're able to suspend linear, rational thinking for a little bit, delightful things happen.
It was a mild Sunday afternoon, a little grey, but still snowy enough for a family outing to Mount Royal park. It was truly lovely, the park was filled with people enjoying a winter weekend - skating, sledding, walking. We hadn't been the most motivated gang that day so it was getting on in the afternoon by the time we even got outside. As we frolicked in the snow with Milo, he suddenly stopped and caught the eye of a lone gentleman walking the nearby path. He stared so intently the man literally stopped in his tracks and came toward us. My initial reaction was wary ~ this park is known for its strange characters, sometimes~ but his twinkly eyes and welcoming smile quashed my reservations. And he cooed over our child, which always wins me over. We talked briefly of the joys of children, of photography (we had our camera out) and, with a goodbye to Milo, he started to walk away. He hesitated for a moment, like he had something more he wanted to tell us, then shook his head and started walking again. He stopped again and asked which direction we were headed. We told him and he nodded. Silence. "Have you heard of the secret sculpture in the trees?" I suddenly felt like the air thicken around us and our voices quieted conspiratorially. Legend has it that Armand Vaillancourt, noted Quebec sculptor, had hidden a metal sculpture in the tree canopy of Mount Royal Park. Now this twinkly-eyed stranger, called to us by our one-year-old, was handing us a quest to go find it. He drew us a treasure map in the snow and we embarked on our epic search for the secret statue, hurrying to beat the fading light.
For years, he had walked the park, looking for the statue and had finally come upon it just this morning. I could sense that he was torn between sharing his incredible find and revealing a long-held secret. In fact, he wouldn't tell us where it was for a while, waiting to ensure, I imagine, that his secret fell on receptive ears. And this, you see, is where the magic comes in: Milo drew this man to us, as if he knew the man had a story to tell. And because of this brief, surreal conversation with a man we didn't know, we found ourselves veering off the path into the deep snow of the darkening forest, craning our necks twords the treetops. Milo cooed appreciatively from his sled, oblivious to the wet snowsuit and chilly toes. This was his doing, after all. Bare branches danced against the twilight sky, their silhouettes teasing our imagination. I was seeing sculptures everywhere.
Then I spotted it. Its angular limbs were well camouflaged but once spotted, you wonder how you could ever have missed it in the first place. It was a climber, high above our heads, captured in graceful ascent of a huge maple, his ice axe frozen in a wide arc above his head. I wonder where he was headed, what he was trying to see. I must have walked past this spot over a hundred times since I was a little girl and he was there the whole time, focused on his next move, stealthily making his way up the tree. I almost can't explain the delight this moment brought me. It was like a window into the soul of the city, a perfect melding of man and nature. And it spoke of how our human constructs and the natural world, are inseparable.
Oh, it spoke to me of a lot of things. But there was a louder voice, speaking of hunger, darkness, wet and cold. And so we crashed back out onto the path with the last bit of light and headed for home. Still wrapped in our magic winter quest.
24.2.08
Uncle!
OK, OK, February. You win. You officially kicked our ass this month. My little frugality campaign was no match for the gale force of your ill intent. I surrender.
Now maybe we can pick up whatever remains of us emotionally and physically after the travels, and the funerals and the viruses and hospitals and just quietly limp away to wait for March to come roaring in.
The Buy (almost) Nothing campaign came to a crashing halt the day we bought last-minute tickets to Wisconsin. We went home to bid goodbye to a good friend who lost her battle with breast cancer. We spent a week back home just taking solace in the good community there, reminding ourselves of everything waiting for us when we get back this summer. Sharing some good time with good friends.
Sharing other things, too. Like, oh I don't know, secrets, wine, tenacious viruses. As if flipping us a callous middle finger, February sent me back to Montreal with a feverish baby who proceeded to basically lie on the floor and whimper for an entire week. Not that I really noticed, I was too busy lying in bed whimpering. Jake was trying to keep it all together and my extended family acted as backup reinforcements and general harpies. They made soup and said things like "oh, that doesn't sound good" and bugged us to go "do something" for the kid. Like get antibiotics. You know, so we can treat that virus.
Sigh. So I daresay we might be coming out the other end of this onslaught now. It was brilliant and sunny today and I took a walk with Milo in the backpack in the forest and it felt so rejuvenating. My lungs threw the windows open and shook out their stagnant bed linens. We had a family nap in a sunny corner of the living room afterwards which was beautiful beyond words. And this little bean joined our planet last week, and that made me really happy. I've been excited to meet him for some time.
7.2.08
Day 7, B(a) NM - Oops.
Today put the (a) in B(a)NM. And I was doing so well. Until I slipped. I realized I had so few clothes for Milo in the next size and so I just took a quick look - just a little peek - at Ebay, just to satisfy my curiosity. Well, I gave curiosity an inch and it took a foot. Two auctions, twenty minutes left, the whole ugly scene was over faster than a thursday night sitcom. I feel so dirty, I think I'll go have a cookie (yes, homemade)...
5.2.08
Day 5, B(a)NM
The weekend was a good one, we rekindled some old friendships and Milo even got to see papou and yiayia sing in their choir. Another beautiful walk on Mont-Royal reminded me that I'm not crazy for thinking that some of the most fulfilling things to do are absolutely free. Speaking of spending, the New York Times posted an interesting article today about how Americans are actually starting to cut spending. Even the rich ones. And that has financial analysts clucking like hysterical chickens. Makes this little no-spending project feel relevant...
*****
It's been quiet around here he last couple of days as we try to absorb the fact that we will not see our friend Cindy again. It's just too big, like the milky way galaxy. I can't get my head around it. We are headed back to Madison for the weekend to be there, to laugh, cry and send her on her journey with a great big wave of love from her friends and family.
*****
It's been quiet around here he last couple of days as we try to absorb the fact that we will not see our friend Cindy again. It's just too big, like the milky way galaxy. I can't get my head around it. We are headed back to Madison for the weekend to be there, to laugh, cry and send her on her journey with a great big wave of love from her friends and family.
4.2.08
Goodbye, friend.
Let children walk with natureLet them see the beautiful blendings
and communities of death and life
their joyous inseparable unity,
as taught in woods and meadows,
plains and mountains,
and streams of our blessed star,
and they will learn that death is stingless indeed
and as beautiful as life. - John Muir
3.2.08
Day 2, B(a)NM
If the snow and ice keep coming, I'm never going to want to leave this house the entire month of February and our challenge will be a cinch. Today, I started my second baby hat knitting project with some delicious baby alpaca wool I scored at this gorgeous wool store. Totally forgot how to cast on so I cast about online and found this useful video that shows you how! Thank you internet (smooch!).
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