summertime

It's summertime. When it isn't raining, the sun is hot. Alberta is such a funny place -- we live always between two extremes. Those long winters where the cold settles right down into your bones and doesn't leave for months, and these short, blazing summers where the sun seems almost never to set.

Lately it's been muggy. Threatening to thunderstorm. Warnings of tornados break into our radio broadcasts and we find ourselves sitting on the floor in the basement laundry room, our dog, whining, on a leash. The rain will pour down for an hour and then the sun comes out and all that water comes out of the fields in a mist, all at once. Steam curls off our tin roof.

I would spend more time outside if it weren't for the mosquitos. They're everywhere, in clouds, and they're insatiable.

Lately I've been working on a project for work that enables me to spend time during the day photographing our horses. I have loved how each of their personalities becomes so evident on film. The silly ones are silly, the grouchy ones grouchy. The ones who know how pretty they are stand tall, ears pricked forward, eyes bright on some imaginary point beyond the lens. How do they know how to do that?

Tomorrow night I'm going on a trip with my friends (we do it every year). I'm only about a quarter of the way packed; the rest of my clothes are currently drying on the rack in the laundry room. Part of me feels guilty for taking time off work. But the rest of me is thinking about laughing in the car and wandering through wilderness and drinking wine outside. And wondering what wildlife I'll see.

When I get back, true summer will begin. I might not come up for air until September.

be here now

Are there other people in the world who are being as stifled by nostalgia as I am?

I'm sitting in my office at a place I've always loved to work at. I have a nice life. I can ride horses whenever I feel like it, I'm surrounded by nature all the time. My husband is easily the best man I know. We are comfortable. The times here are not hard, even though some days feel impossibly long.

But just now I heard a song that wrenched me back three years, to sitting at my desk in the little Garneau house. An open window, cool air, rain drops on the roof. The street was so green, everything was fresh. I'd be walking to work with a lime green umbrella later that day. I'd be staying out until the sun rose with new best friends.

This memory, rather than just being a sweet little glimpse into a very different kind of life I used to live, seems to have closed around my heart like a tight fist. It seems rather than reliving happy memories, I immediately think, "I never go back."

And that thought makes me feel immeasurably sad. It's homesickness, really. Homesick for another time.

I'm never present enough to just enjoy this time.

How can I be here now?

thirty minutes or more

Because I've committed to this challenge, I've been spending a minimum of thirty minutes in nature every day. So far, it's been easy. The weather has finally turned, and it feels like winter might not come back for a while. So I've been spending afternoons wandering around in the not-yet-budded aspen forest, sometimes on horseback, sometimes on foot, once at the reins of a team driving horses. Every day the grass in the field gets a bit greener. I can't wait until there are leaves on the trees. I've had enough starkness for a long while, I think. Those sharp contrasts of wintertime have ceased to inspire me. The ice has come off the lake, at least. And I thought I saw some tiny new buds on the mayday tree at my parents'.

It is a wonderful gift, being out in the world.

workdays in a new season

For two days, the sun has shone brightly, and warmly, and I have felt restless and trapped behind my desk. Yesterday, I rode a horse and called it work. I'm struggling with having the self-control not to do the same today.

This afternoon, my sister and I took some photos of donations I've received for our silent auction. She climbed a mountain of snow while wearing a donated backpack, rode a bicycle around the office and dismantled a tool kit. I can feel new crowsfeet forming from this concentrated half hour of laughter.

I wish all my days could be like this.

of snowfall and sunshine

Maybe now it's happening. Spring.

It had a few false starts this year. It got my hopes up, and then brought more snow. The shelf of ice that has been creeping over the edge of our roof was growing more terrifying by the day, but yesterday Eric knocked it all down once and for all. Some patches of the road that runs from one end of the ranch to the other are actually clear of snow. Eric and I marvelled in the fact that for the first time in months, there was gravel under our feet.

Springtime brings another set of horse chores. The horses are all shedding their winter coats like crazy. I watch them scratching their bodies on the fence. Our mare seems to be in heat and repeatedly escapes her pen in search of love. Unfortunately the only stud on the property is her own foal from last year. He is under careful lock and key, so there won't be any funny business, but until her heat cycle is over, she has to be kept in a stall in the barn. Which means the stall needs to be mucked out, her water needs to be constantly changed as she loves to fill it with hay, and she needs to be hand-walked so she doesn't go insane. Tomorrow, I'll be catching all 29 of our horses and bringing them in to have the farrier trim their hooves. I'll be giving them dewormer and maybe even their vaccinations, if I have enough time. I'll be brushing them to help them lose their itchy winter coats and sending them back to their pens, ready for the upcoming season of trail rides and summer camps. I don't really have time for any of this, as I actually have three other jobs.

On Friday, my sister and our friend came out, and we rode our usual trail ride loop twice. Sebastian was headstrong and excitable. My sister rode a new horse we just bought last week. He is tall and golden and beautiful, and was just the best gem a horse could be on our ride. When the other two horses were snorting anxiously and trotting sideways at the possibility of a moose in the trees, he remained steadfast and calm, walking out like nothing was wrong. I'm so happy to have him here.

We hosted a big Easter dinner for our family. I made an enormous bone-in ham with farmers' market perogies, pickled beets and fresh buns. My sister brought a salad and Eric's mom brought a sweet and spicy bean dish. There was much wine and beer involved. I love to have them here. Their willingness to visit us out in the country means more to me than they probably know. Without the possibility of visitors, there is a little layer of loneliness over everything out here.

Two weeks ago, Eric and I stood outside our back door in silence, listening to the sound snowflakes make when they hit the ground. Have you ever heard it? Every bird and wild animal had burrowed away for the night. There were no cars or trains or any other vehicle within earshot. There was no wind, no leaves rustling. Just the snow falling onto the ground and our breaths held in our chests to hear the noise it made when it met the earth.

I just need more good days. I need the sunshine to stretch onwards for a few more weeks. I need new grass to begin growing, new buds on the trees. More hopeful days like the ones this weekend, when the sun felt warm on my face and the snow began to recede. And then all will be well.

colourless

Everything today is white or grey. There is frost on everything: every branch and needle in the forest, every eyelash on every horse. It kaleidoscopes into patterns on my truck's windshield and builds up around the fencing wire. In the early morning a fog unravels over the field. It is a blank, white space.

I feel colourless.

Winter goes on forever in the country.

under sea and snow

It's the middle of February. I don't like this month very much. It's when winter starts to really bear down on top of me. And I am desperate to see some green leaves. At work, I daydream of lying in a grassy field. I miss tee-shirts and not having to wear long underwear. I want to sit on my front porch with a coffee and read a book for a while.

Last night was another technology-free night for Eric and I. We do it once a week. It does a person good to unplug for a while. I gave him a haircut for the first time, with mediocre results. We had a picnic of bread, cheese, sausage and olives. We drank a bottle of wine and played Trivial Pursuit. Then we went to bed and I read aloud to him Rachel Carson's essay, "Undersea" from the book of her posthumously discovered writings, Lost Woods. It was too beautiful not to read out loud. 

I've felt lately like making things. Considering art. Remembering sewing. The afghan I started in the fall and never returned to. Building things with wood. Scavenging things to be repurposed, renewed. Eric says there's solid oak from an old church pew lying in a pile of scrap wood in the shop. We've been talking about buying canvasses and paint. He and I could do so many things.

I guess I could start by taking in the Christmas lights in from the porch.