Snow Glow

It snowed today. And not just a little, but a lot. Not a lot a lot. But enough a lot. Enough that the ground was covered and the neighbours were complaining.

It’s funny - snow. It divides people into the I LOVE IT and I HATE IT camps.

I love it. We love it, Yves and I. 

I have friends who have asked me, on several occasions, what the secret to a happy relationship is (because Yves and I have been together for 15 years and we’ve been, and continue to be, really freaking happy) and I never have a solid answer to give them. But I think my answer should be, “The secret is to find someone who feels about winter the way you feel about winter. If you hate it, find a hater. If you love it, you neeeeeed a fellow lover.”

I’m serious. 

Imagine getting all giddy for the first snowfall of the year, only to have your partner poopoo on your frosty parade? Imagine yelling, “CHRISTMAS MUSIC! LET’S PLAY ALL THE CHRISTMAS MUSIC!’” and having your partner Spotify something else instead. Imagine bringing your toddler to the window and pointing out the snowflakes and explaining how winter is the most magical time of the year only to have your partner roll his eyes and clear his throat before humming “Hot Fun In the Summertime” in the background.

IMAGINE. It wouldn’t work. 

Thankfully, Yves and I are both equally crazy for winter. We’re crazy for the outside stuff - we love to ski and snowshoe and skate and snowboard (Yves) and shovel (Yves) and make snow angels in strangers’ yards (me). And we’re crazy for the inside stuff - blankets and music and movies and books and mulled wine and dark beer and hot chocolate and cinnamon-everything and candles. Lots of candles. It’s all so good.

Today, we ventured out, the three of us, to buy more Christmas lights for our house. (No, we haven’t decorated yet, but will be doing so on Saturday, December 3rd. Yes, it’s marked in my calendar.) 

While we were at the store, Yves found a kids’ hockey set - two small hockey sticks, a net, and a ball - for a really reasonable price. So he bought it. And then we came home and he moved things around our tiny backyard and created a little hockey rink (minus the ice) for F to play on this winter.  It was such a special moment for me. For us. For this little winter-loving, hockey-loving family of ours. 

(I wish I could say it was a Big Moment for F too. But he spent most of this time wanting me to take his mittens off, then wanting me to put his mittens back on, then wanting me to take his mittens off, then wanting me to put his mittens back on. Then, he chased the dog with the hockey stick, sans mittens.)

Winter. The days are short but the moments are rich. And warm. And there is more rest. More cuddles. More tea. More slow. And every time it snows, it’s like the slate has been wiped clean and the world sparkles again. 

I think I love that most of all.

The Good Fire

Photo: Pinterest

The fire swells. Its initial spark, fuelled by dry bark and a strong gust of wind, becomes a flash, a flame, an inferno. It paints the world yellow and makes my baby boy’s big blue eyes grow even bigger.

It moves, tripping and twirling, seizing the breeze. It shape-shifts into memories, pirouettes into possibilities. I will take your most secret dream and set it alight, it says. 

It sings, whistling and crackling and hissing and hush. Its song is far removed from the racket of the city. There is no traffic here - no honking cars or screeching brakes, no streetcar bells or wailing sirens. Instead, there is deep silence interspersed with crooning crickets, lapping waves, and the sizzling orange light.

We are people connected by this growing, moving, singing fire. It has been burning, summer after summer, for a thousand years. The houses have changed and the scenery too. Parents have aged and children have grown. But around these flames, it's always home.

We sit in a circle of no beginning nor end, sharing stories and laughter and remember whens. We look up at the moon, admire the stars, and feel the knots in our muscles unravel.

We haven’t seen each other in months and our phone conversations have been brief.  We are busy, all of us. Busy with work, school, life.

Busy forgetting the simplicity of things. Like the joy that comes from waking up at 5am to the call of the loon on the lake. 

This fire brings us back. Back to the easy, uncomplicated way of life. Back to early morning swims and afternoon bike rides down long and winding roads. Back to afternoon naps under storytelling clouds. Back to roasting marshmallows for dessert and enjoying the sticky sweet mess of it all.   

It brings us back to the love that warms our insides and our outsides and lifts us up and out of the darkness we sometimes stumble into. The love that threads our individual stories into a tattered but spectacular rag quilt called "family." 

Every summer, the fire burns, the crickets croon, the shooting stars rouse our wildest wishes, and our hearts are set ablaze.