Incredibly, the snow is gone and in my garden hyacinths and hellebores are up. A trick? It feels like mid-April, sun beaming through panes flecked with winter's grunge. Whassup with this? Winter's hibernation--its ideal, idyllic snow-white blank-canvas effect, the best time of all for writing in Canada--barely a blip or a glimmer this year. Blizzard fantasies, hours inside stories: the standing stillness of a story moving from opaque to transparent.
Not a complaint, hardly a lament. But a marvel--even if the rest of March snows its head off. The hard-crusted base in the backyard non-existent, only moss yelling for grass to get with the program.
May our writing be a raucous onslaught of crocuses.
- A writer, mother, teacher, friend, I love books, blizzards and beaches, music from Hildegard von Bingen to the Beatles to Bonnie Raitt to The Brood; I love medieval churches, red wine, creme caramel, and roasted beets, and walking the woods and coastlines of home.