exactly four weeks

It's February. My favorite month. Always has been. That's a wee bit funny, because my favorite season is fall, but that is what it is. That's me. So many wonderful things packed into such a short month! Actually, I think the fact that it's short is part of the appeal for me. Of course, the month starts with my birthday, and sometimes ends with an extra day (a bonus!), so the in between should be super, right? When I was a kid, we always had a week off in February -- time for me to enjoy all the books I'd gotten for Christmas and my birthday, or to go sledding in the 'forest' next door, or simply wander in the snow making trails when I'd gotten a little older and felt the need.

My dad died in February, and his funeral was on Valentine's Day, so for a time I thought that February would never be the same. At some point, I realized I still liked February, despite that pain and sorrow that still hits me (often when I least expect it) not only this month, but throughout the year. I kept it to myself. Who would understand? Who would believe me? What would happen if I shared? I realize now that if I share, I will be true to myself -- thereby honoring Dad.

So there you have it -- I love February!

Dad's birthday was in February, too, and a lot of really neat people I've met have birthdays that begin with 2. A couple of my very best friends (who also happen to be related to me) were married in February. Our first baby was due in February. There's Candlemas Day, and the Feast of St. Blaise. And there is snow while the days get progressively longer. That's what hit me this morning: the sunlight lasts noticeably longer in February. And that's when I realized I could share.

I love February. I love that Dad's birthday was in February, and that this year it's Ash Wednesday. I love that I can see the sunlight on the snow in the evening. I love that it's been snowing! I love that usually by the last day of February our forsythia bush is covered in buds, and occasionally the first crocus pops up unexpectedly. I love that February is short and sweet, and that the dates are exactly the same as March, except in Leap Year. I love that when I think about February, I remember the good stuff more than the bad, and that I know before long we will be complaining about something other than cold. The end of the school year suddenly seems possible, close, and the prospect of lazy summer evenings on the porch or by the fire is close to real.

I love this sweet little month. Even when it hurts.

up, up and away

Twenty-three years ago today, at sunrise, we stood on a bluff outside of Bethel, Maine, watching a black balloon wobble as it ascended, disappointment in the air. The wobble meant that there would be no hot air balloon launch that cold Saturday morning: the air was not still enough. It was the day before the beginning of the annual (at the time) balloon festival, and our first visit to the mountains of Maine. Tired (we had driven through a sleet and ice storm 5 hours the night before) and a little crestfallen, we climbed back in the truck, and headed back to the Sunday River Resort. The plan had been to fly, then ski, so we simply reversed the day.

Over the next 4 hours or so, we tried every trail and lift we could, taking in the breathtaking views, shushing down the well-groomed trails. From time to time we raced each other. On the long, wide, easy trail, we talked as we skied side by side, marvelling at the quiet the blanket of fresh snow provided. In talking to another skier--one who clearly had more experience than we did--we found out that the slopes were lightly attended that day, because the powdery new snow was too "Rocky Mountain" for the regulars, who preferred the icier, faster snow that usually fell in these east coast mountains. Truthfully, we were grateful for the relative solitude: this trip was my birthday gift from Guy and a friend of ours--the balloon pilot. He was hoping we would help him at Festivals, and said we should know what a flight feels like first.

Little did I know, everyone had ulterior motives on this trip....

Mid-afternoon found us getting changed and slurping down some soup before loading back up for another attempt at lift-off. The best times for launch are sunrise and sunset, when the air is most still. Sometime I will post about the trip we took that afternoon (it was literally the adventure of a lifetime, not what we expected, nor anything less than movie material!) above the beautiful Bethel area. This post, however, is about the highlight. In the sky above a snowy mountain, with no sound but the occasional whoosh of a burner, the man I have loved through thick and thin, who has grown to be as much a part of my heart as I am myself, produced a heart-shaped diamond ring from nowhere and asked me to be his wife. To this day, I do not know whether I spoke my assent. I was so filled with surprise, wonder and happiness that I only remember feeling even lighter than the lighter-than-air-filled silk that was carrying our wicker basket floor as part of the clouds. I was a bird, a butterfly, an angel on gossamer wings. I know I hugged him, and our pilot (who knew all along), and that I marvelled at how my ungloved hands were not even cold as I admired the most beautiful piece of jewelry I've ever owned glittering on my finger like the snow below us.

Once we landed and got back to civilization, I found out that nearly everyone we had met that day already knew Guy's plans. In fact, the next morning, when we went back to ski for a few hours, we were met in the Lodge by the Activities Director with a post-proposal proposition. She offered to foot the bill for our entire wedding, if we would get married the following weekend as part of the closing of the Festival. She had visions of our ceremony in the sky over the slopes, culminating in fireworks after our landing.

As tempting an offer it was, neither of us could bear the possibility of our families being unable to attend on such short notice. As Guy tried to explain, as tactfully as he could, I kept trying to imagine how on earth a bride could gracefully (or in any way attractively!) enter and exit a gondola in a wedding dress. Though disappointed, she completely understood, but didn't offer the invitation for the following year's festival--we might have taken her up on it, if she had!

I still gaze at that sparkling diamond, amazed that it was chosen especially for me. Although I'm sure others have them, I've never seen another heart-shaped engagement ring, and that has me admiring and appreciating it all the more. This stone has saved me on more than one occasion, and has brought a smile to not only my lips, but my own heart, many, many times. Like a crystal ball, the future and the past are found within, it's facets reflecting emotion, memories, hopes and dreams, along with the beauty that surrounded us--and surrounds us still--on that special, miraculous day.

Truly a blessing of the heart.

little words

I had plans for this evening. I was going to paint my fingernails and then write while they dried. Then I was going to consider dusting this room, or one of the other ones that so desperately needs it (depending on your point of view. Isn't dust an art medium?). Those were my plans for my Monday, made on Sunday night, as I fell asleep, snuggled between my husband and a dog-furnace.

Plans change, though, and oftentimes, we have little to do with the outcome. School was closed, both the school our kids go to, and the school where swim practice takes place. That meant another evening all together--which has been wonderful all weekend, but really puts a damper on my writing time! With practice cancelled, it was decided that the Y was the next best choice. The menfolk packed up their swimming gear, and I packed my sneakers, and off we went. I ran, they swam, my nails are still naked....

But I feel great! Tomorrow, I will likely be a bit sore, as I haven't run quite that far, or with as much intensity, in quite a while. True, running alone felt odd--I haven't been out without dogs and my man in who knows how long!--but then again, running inside, over a climate controlled gym felt odd, too, so what the heck. I got sweaty, isn't that what matters? Oh! And I liked it (again) which makes me shake my head every time. Me, sweaty and happy. Who'd'a thunk it? Certainly not anyone who knew me 20 or 30 years ago! Yes, I got sweaty dancing, but that was different. (How? I'm really supposed to be able to answer that? Did you read the part that it was 20 or 30 years ago? There was an awful lot I didn't know 30 years ago. Hell, there's an awful lot I don't know now!)

Squeezing in words while I stink feels a little like cheating, but the keyboard was calling me; the screen sad in its darkness. These are not the words I intended to put down today. Those will wait until tomorrow, I think: they are about my experience this week with our retreat; or what I mean by 'mindwebs'. Maybe even about the discussion we had after Saturday's sermon, and the quote I liked so much: "No one lays down their life for a known lie."* There's even a chance that I'll paint my fingernails, write, then paint my toes and write some more! There's a lot in there, and I want to share it all!

In the meantime, there's a certain someone I have a standing date with each evening right around this time.


*Deacon Hall worded it slightly differently on paper, but I'm certain that this is what I heard. The meaning, I believe, is the same. And it resonated with me quite a bit.

a tad sad

"Do you suffer from SAD?"

The question was asked by my oldest son after I told him that I had some Saturday chores to do, but wanted to get them all done before dark on a cold January weekend. An almost tongue in cheek question, but a subject he said had been discussed to some extent in one of his classes. As a matter of fact, a dear, dear friend of mine (who I have never seen nearly often enough!!) and I had talked quite a bit about SAD and its effects last winter. She is quite prone to it, and we often weighed the relative benefits of food, exercise, lights and the like in relieving the associated withering of the soul in winter--or at least what sometimes felt like that!

I told him, though, that I have come to believe that I suffer more from TAD--temperature affective disorder. [Not a real thing, as far as I know!] Although I bemoan the Darktime, I actually, in many ways, have always relished the introspection it promotes: time to curl up on the couch with a quilt and a good book, or learn and work on a new craft, bake to heat up the kitchen. What I really don't enjoy is the still constant pull of life on my Darktime. If I could just "hibernate," ball up and forget the outside world except for the occasional darktime walk to look at stars or Christmas lights, winter would still be my favorite season, as it had once been.

Instead, I have to get groceries, pick up and drop off for practices, rehearsals, matches, meets and games, attend volunteer meetings, and whatever else shows up on my calendar. Don't get me wrong; these are all things I normally enjoy (yes, even grocery shopping), but in the winter, they pose much more of a burden for me. For a long time, it was easiest to understand that this was due to the lack of light in the evenings, but, at that moment that he asked the question, I realized it's not just light. [The seed for this whole musing was planted on the first Sunday of Advent, with a homily about bringing light, and the Advent wreath, and the winter solstice. Quite a beautiful set of thoughts and explanations.....]

What gets me is the cold. The drafts in our old, old house. The tips of my toes being icy from the moment the sun sets until sometime in the night, in my sleep. The chill on my elbows as I type, no matter how many layers I wear, or where I situate myself in the house. I told my son that day that every winter, about this time, I start to think about moving to a nice, tight, draftless condo nearby, where we wouldn't have to worry about the yard or the outside maintenance any longer; but, more specifically, I would be warm in the winter. At least that's what I try to tell myself, until the thought of even considering packing and moving starts to get me depressed and overwhelmed!

Then I kind of laughed to myself, remembering a statement made at our family reunion when it was held in Arizona (a place I loved, and would, possibly, someday, be thrilled to live!): "It's a dry heat: like an oven!" You see, I don't think the cold I feel is entirely related to the draftiness or the outside temperature. I think, bottom line, the cold is related to the dark. It's a big, wide spiral, and as long as I can share my quilt--and my icicle toes--with someone I love, keep a sense of humor, and seek the joy on the edges of the longer and longer days with my family and friends, I'll be fine in the long run.

In the meantime, I think it's time for some baking.

looking back

Cold days. Long nights.

Darktime.

I don't remember it ever bothering me as much as it has the past two winters. Probably prior to that, I was better able to cocoon myself into ignoring the darkness--working, baking, reading, dancing--but now I have more running around I need to do. That's why I see the darkness so much. I used to see it as an old friend; one I could visit with as I enjoyed a mug of cocoa or a glass of wine while curled up on the couch under one of Grammy's afghans when I was living at home, or one of my quilts when we bought our own home. Watching TV, reading a book, snuggling with the kids, it was all so much easier to do during the darktime.

The boys are grown now. Not completely grown; after all, they are all still in school and living here and all that, but they are grown enough to not want to snuggle and cuddle anymore, although I do still read to Drew and Joseph when we can carve out the time. They are old enough to make more choices about what we see on TV, and when the majority rules me out, I find myself reading in my bed, all alone, which only adds to the effect darktime has.

I can't tell if the change happened suddenly, or over time; whether it was related to an event, or not. I do know that Dad's death in the winter made that winter harder, and that very well may have been the beginning, but I can't say that it was the turning point. The winter that Guy coached at a pool further away from home was also tough--he was gone more, it was a miserable winter, and I was truly lonely. Again, a possible contributing factor, but not the "one thing" that changed winter for me. There's also my theory that working outside at the pool for two summers has reset my personal rhythms (I'd never really been what one would call "outdoorsy" and the first summer was a real shock to my system!) making the darktime all the darker. This theory of mine has started to feed a sub-theory that we humans are fueled to a certain extent by solar energy--but that's another topic for another time.

What I do know is that I am really having a hard time. As I look out the window in front of me, I can still see a lightness to the sky at 4:57pm, but it's hard to be thankful for it some days. Perhaps if it were not so cold and dreary, the dark would be more bearable. The best thing about recognizing this pain (and it is painful--my heart aches at times) is that I can try things to make it manageable. I've thought often about what has carried me through before, and as a result, I've turned back to baking and cooking, using more intricate and challenging recipes; recipes that will, essentially, take longer to prepare. Focusing on what is right in front of me takes my eyes off the dark sky. I do feel better.

This winter has been a bit milder. Still cold, but no snow, really. Guy and I have been able to run outside more than last winter, and I think that may help a bit, although getting back at 5:40am, getting ready for work, and leaving around 6:40 when it's still dark may rewind some of the benefit. Whether it's the cold or the darktime feelings, running in the winter seems to be harder, and I struggle with distances that in the summer were easier.

At any rate, the days are getting longer, little by little. And I've also been talking more about how hard this has been, which has led me to the realization, or confirmation, that I am not alone at all. I no longer feel as though I am 'confiding;' rather, I am sharing, and of all things, I think this helps the most. The darktime had always been my thinking time, my alone time, my introspection/retrospection time. Somewhere in there a little pain got mixed in, and it needs to be expunged.

I'm working on it.