22 01 2011

I love January.

No, really. I do. Apart from the fact that this year is the first year that I have truly loved and embraced winter, mostly because I’m skiing so much now, I have always had a fondness for January.

My firstborn came into my life in January, missing being born on his Dad’s birthday by one day, so the sweet celebration of love is a wonderful thing.

But I think what I love the most about this month is the promise of spring that it brings. After all, it’s the new year, the days are getting longer, and even though we are buried deep in snow and shades of gray, blanketed with low moody clouds that rob us of sunlight, spring feels just that much closer to us. As this month wanes, February teases us with its shortness, dangling March in front of us like a carrot in front of a mule. I feel like I can keep slogging through the muck and slush, because warmth is coming back to us. I always think of those sleepy bulbs that will begin their slow awakening in just a few short weeks.

We will awake one morning to hear chickadees calling, and the slow steady drip of melting ice. One afternoon, that sun will shine from a higher cast in the sky and our windows will be flung wide open, coveting that air that rushes in. That sweet breeze, although tinged with cold, will carry that undefinable and familiar scent of springtime.

Smiles will sprout on every face. Patches of brown grass will appear, begging to be raked. Soil will emerge from the receding tired snow, and tiny green tulip noses will cautiously emerge from the dirt, assessing if they should rise up in their bold and hardy way, or wait for a few more days. Mini rivulets of melting snow find their way down the hill, carving out teeny canyons in the hardened snowbanks. Rain starts to fall more than snow, and puddles beg for feet clad in rubber boots. Bikes are dusted off prematurely, and ridden with glee; that crunchy sound  of gravel under the tires brings my own youth back to me.

Setbacks in weather can be disheartening. A March snowstorm can seem so rude. As fast as they hit us, they disappear, leaving behind grumpy moods and the obligation to shovel that driveway just one more time. We reel for days from that promise of spring being ripped away from us.

But that day still comes to us, that first day of full-on spring, of warm sun and blue sky. Noses tingle from too much sun after working in the yard all afternoon. Long hair holds the scent of woodsmoke and fresh air. Coffee or tea is poured at the end of the day, mugs gripped in cold hands, and we inhale the contentment of Spring into our very souls.

It always returns to us. We only need to wait.

I know you’re there….

9 01 2011

I see you. Or rather, I can sense you there. Lurking just around the corner. Waiting to embrace me in your arms, whether I want it or not. Waiting to lead me down an unknown path, to a new chapter of my own destiny.

I can’t stop you, and nor do I want to. I’m not afraid of you. I’ve been waiting for you; I have conceded to allow you to come into my life with no fight. In fact, I will welcome you, and brave the world with you. It’s not surrender, nor am I relinquishing my will against you. You are an unstoppable force, and I now know I need to submit my will against your imminent arrival.

I’ll re-write what you mean to me. I will redefine my own characterization of what you are. I will be proud of you and love you. I will honour you and all that you represent. And I will also kick your ass.

Do  you hear me, Forty? Yeah, I’m talking to YOU. 40. The big Four-Oh. Over the hill. Lordy Lordy….

My last ten weeks of my thirties are stretched before me, much like that last bit of a race. I am almost anxious to get there, to get it over with, to reap the rewards of reaching a milestone. But I linger and dally, wanting to savour the last taste of being 30-something.

I am kind of excited to get there. To celebrate the privilege of living for forty years on this glorious planet. To hope that I get AT LEAST another forty, if not more to live to my fullest, healthiest, most exuberant self. And to prove to the world that 40 doesn’t mean OLD. It doesn’t mean that weird, cloudy and undefined existence somewhere between youth and middle age. To prove, mostly to myself, that becoming someone in their 40’s means wisdom, sexiness, mindfulness and authentic living. No more foolhardy rashness of youth. No more silliness of self-hate and disrespect of my own body.

Getting older is useless to complain about. Yes, being bittersweet about the loss of plump smooth cheeks, taut skin and high proud breasts is normal. I too, mourn the loss of elasticity. But I cannot and I will not be mired down in any self-pity.

There is so much to look forward to.

Most of all, one hell of a party!

(Very sweet) Shiz my kids say….

8 01 2011

The other night, as I was saying good night to Nick, he started to stare at me in an intense kind of way…

Immediately, I assumed he was gearing up for an epic insult about my wrinkles or my breath…. (Hey, he’s almost twelve…. I think that it’s a law that I’m insulted at least once a day…), or maybe just an ear-shattering belch as his own loving way to say sweet dreams…

But instead, he said “Mom, those white flecks in the blue part of your eyes look just like snowflakes!” and then he gave me a kiss good night.

That sure put a smile on my face and warmed my heart.