The Rites of Spring

Every year, the snow piles up, the winds blow, and the spirit begins to feel squashed into a tight little space by the grey skies and the never-ending white of the snow. Then, it happens. The thermometer begins to flirt and tease us in jumps of its thin red line. Haltingly, the snows melt, freeze, melt, freeze. I dig out my rain boots and wear them when there is too much squelching clay. Daddy thinks of his garden, Momma thinks of her canning, and I think of my flowers.

As I walk down the dry road in my black and yellow rain boots, I can't help but laugh. What a sight I must make! Besides the irony of wearing rain boots when it's dry, I am also carrying an open umbrella. Looking around, I see that I am under a patch of bright blue sky and I can feel the intense heat of the sun. Feeling quite smart, I carry on and, before long, feel the pattering of raindrops as the sun goes behind one of many very large, very dark clouds. I am reminded alternately of Mary Poppins and Igor Stravinsky's The Rites of Spring.

The Rites of Spring... Yes, that is the perfect metaphor for how spring arrives in the north. It begins in bursts that lead to a psychological agony with all the stops and the starts pulled out. It rains, is snows, it pours, it shines, and, ultimately, the wet clay-mud sticks to everything it touches.

I look up. There is a flock of geese flying in V-formation. With a smile I watch the changing of the guard, well, of the lead goose. Their sorrowful and awkward calls fly before them from high above my mere form, which is only glorious in its insignificance. My days shall be filled with sound once more, for with the coming of spring comes the Canada goose. They will come and squabble for the best nesting sites; as I jog, I will probably have the occasional hilarious run-in with mating pairs and their young. But for now, it is still wintery and blustery; after all, it's only mid-April. In fact, it's supposed to snow.

Then, as though Winter were in a rush, the snow melts and the squishing ground underfoot begins to dry. As the clay becomes solid once more, I will find myself looking around at the bare brown world. With an air of expectation, the forest will seem to say, "I'm still sleeping, but--" In consternation, I will find myself wanting to know, "but, what?" Then the answer comes, a small surprise, and I will answer myself, "but -- not for long." For beneath me, far below the limbs and branches that I trail my fingers against as I walk, there it will be: green.

Even though I am enjoying the awkward youth of spring, I have to admit that I shall miss winter. There's something so delightful in the way winter freezes sound into little bites that, though mournful, are just enough to make me think, to wonder at the world and everything in it. On warm days, were it not for the snow, I would never be able to see the snow lice turn my white world into gun metal blue, nor would I ever see their little, black hopping bodies jumping in their little lousey way. The snow louse is almost invisible because of its extraordinarily small size. They are everywhere now, but that is because it is so warm, and the snow looks sooty to the untrained eye. While looking at the lice, I often find spiders that have blown off their perches in the trees lumbering by; or, if it is still quite cold by spider temperature, wiggling their legs in slow agony.

The first green of spring, really isn't green at all. I've tried to put it into words so many times, but the closest I have ever come to describing that first green is that it is more silver than green. The first seen, is never old enough yet to understand the bitter chlorophyll that shades all the forest in fertile green, is always of a pastel Easter green, a dye that is too dilute, and shrouded in winter's last reminder, enclosed in a faint frost of silver, the first tender living leaf will begin to unfold, to stretch upward to the deep blue of the May sky.

The wonder of life in the Boreal Forest. The rites of spring.

Love,

Jenny

Cabin Fever

The Price of Solitude

I truly love the soft serenity that the Boreal Forest offers any person who stops long enough to seek out the beauty of solitude; however, I would be lying if I didn't admit that solitude sometimes has a price. Perhaps you think I am referring to the lack of socializing. Well, that might be partially true. The real price is cabin fever.

While cabin fever is definitely a negative experience, I have always thought of a teddy bear fridge magnet Grandma would point to now and again that read, "Grin and bear it." That mantra of hers has stuck with me and it should come as no surprise that I have come to accept one of the most psychological circumstances of life on Rosehill as just a yearly phase we go through as a family.

You may be wondering why I've decided to talk about cabin fever. My reason is simple. It's reality. When I first began MUL, I decided to portray life as it is lived, not as I might wish it could be. If I didn't admit to getting cabin fever, I would be portraying reality as skewed, unrealistic, and might as well deem my family perfect in spite of our flaws. So it seems vital to discuss the cabin dweller's equivalent to the sailor's doldrums.

What is cabin fever?

What is cabin fever? I'm sure we all have our own definitions, but I would describe it as a crazed irritation that ignites at the slightest provocation. Raw nerves and frustrated tension tightened until that they are primed to snap. You become annoyed at the slightest hint of sound from one of your family members and reclusive to the point that you are as wary as a wild animal. (Odd as it is, I admit to hiding in the bush at times when I see a car coming.)

Now, none of these feelings are anyone's fault. In the spring and summer you can get outside, get your dose of vitamin D, and greatly reduce the effects of cabin fever.

In the winter, cabin fever builds up silently, the sky clouds over, you get far less sunshine, and most of your time is spent cooped up like a chicken that spent her summer running around the farmyard.

Yes. It's hard to adjust.

Coping

Since cabin fever is an annual problem, I have had time to devise ways of coping with an otherwise impossible feeling issue.

1. Get outside anyway. I'm not saying I don't fight the idea sometimes, it can be very hard to force myself to get outside, but I do know that one long walk a day does wonders for my mood. The temperature is irrelevant, as I layer up and go anyway.

2. Find ways to get through really cloudy weeks. Personally, I find citrus, juice, a calming tea with honey, or a steaming mug of hot chocolate can help get my senses going. I keep a candle lit and find the flickering flame soothing when the levels of light are low.

3. Lose yourself in an engaging book.

4. Lose yourself in your imagination.

5. Knit. It sounds weird, but the repetition helps me organize my thoughts (I imagine crochet works just as well). Besides, wearing out your irritations from cabin fever by doing this kind of activity results in great projects that also make great gifts.

6. Write. Maybe it's just because I like writing that I find this option effective. However, keeping a journal of your thoughts, dreams, and contemplations does seem to make the days go by faster.

7. Watch a movie with your family. When I'm really struggling with cabin fever, I choose war or action. Recently, I found Band of Brothers particularly effective as there are also a few comedic moments.

8. Any other hobby that you find soothing. I do find that engaging my creative side over my more analytic side is better where cabin fever is concerned.

9. Write letters (yes, I mean snail-mail style) to those you love. For example, I write family, honorary family, and friends just because I can, and hope to make them smile as they sift the bills from the flyers.

10. Try something new. Expand your reading list from your standard fare -- I once did Larry McMurtry's Lonesome Dove books, several of Terry Pratchett's Discworld Series, and all the Jules Verne books I could find in a six month time period -- pick up a new hobby or ask family members to teach you more about one of their hobbies (you may be surprised at what they know).

11. Bake bread the pioneer way, using no bread makers or mixers. Kneading is a great way for getting rid of your wintertime frustrations and the smell of the bread will help perk you up too! I love this one!

12. Above all, start your day off as positively as possible. It can be hard, of course, but if you train your mind, it gets much easier.

13. Avoid eating out of boredom. I did this one winter an can testify that it left me more miserable than when I started.

14. Get in touch with your spiritual side. Momma strongly recommends prayer.

15. Music. Whether it's listening to the radio, CDs, MP3s, or making music of your own, it helps.

16. Take time to laugh at yourself. If you're too far gone, try finding a comedy station on the radio because that helps too.

17. Do something random for others. On the back of every personal envelope I send, you will find, "Practice random acts of kindness and senseless acts of beauty." I think it sums it up.

Along with techniques of your own, I hope you are able to get through cabin fever, as you experience it, until you can get outside in the spring. Though cabin fever isn't fun, at least it can be made bearable. Knowing and accepting it as part of my life has made all the difference because now I can focus on all the things that really matter.

When you think about it, cabin fever amounts to the kind of diversity that, if overcome, makes for times to remember in years to come.

Life couldn't be better.

Love,
Jenny

P.S. If any of you who read this post have gone through cabin fever, or something like it, I would love to hear your ideas and stories of how you get through the winter doldrums. ~MUL

On Wolves

Dear Readers, my apologies for getting so far behind and being so inconsistent. The inspirations that so often are available when I go to write left me for far too long. The good news is, I have one non-fiction book idea, a fractured fairy tale that I would love to have illustrated one day, a screenplay idea for a feature film, and an idea for a speculative fiction trilogy. All that came flying into my head within a week, so I think it is safe to say that my bad case of writer's block is over. Thank you for your patience ~ Jenny.

It's 8:03AM. The indoor-outdoor thermometer is displaying -33(C) in large, black numbers. After yesterday's grey skies filled with fluffy snowflakes, the morning sky looks clear. But, there have certainly been times when the grey cloud covering was so uniform that it only appeared clear. When the sun finally rises out of the early gloaming then, and only then, will I truly know what the day shall bring. As I watch the sky grow pale with light, I find myself thinking over my favorite sound to hear on a clear day. Part of it has to do with the radio newscast that just crackled through the speakers, but most of it has to do with some of my favorite memories despite that it is a rather contentious issue within our northern municipalities and counties.

Before continuing, perhaps I should explain why a clear day is so different from any other day. Where I live, you can hear for miles through the trees when the temperature is cold and the sky is clear. Many is the time when I have been on Rosehill and gone completely still because I heard the crunching of snow. Though it sounds as though a vehicle is driving up, the reality is that I am hearing the crunch of wind hardened snow squeaking and crunching under tires miles away (especially if the wind is just right). While the crystal clear sound quality may not seem like much, it seems magical if it falls at the very time of year the wolves come through.

About a month ago, we were privileged enough to listen to a wolf pack's chorus on one of these exceptionally clear nights, the kind of night when you could tap a bell and hear it resonate for hours, and hear the rising symphony of their voices harmonize while one wolf accentuated the rhythmic energy with a howl that reminded me of a cross between scat and jazz. So eerie. So chilling. So thrilling. Daddy decided to see if they had made a kill and, sure enough, he found what was left of their moose while the ravens cawed at him from overhead.

For me, this is one of the most stunning and magical sounds the wild has to offer.

Sadly, not everyone agrees.

Snapping out of my reverie of memory, I am reminded of the radio newscast. In one year, there have been over 700 bounties paid out for each wolf killed in those counties and municipalities that offer wolf bounties in Alberta. In my own county, the bounty is around 200 dollars (if I remember correctly). While I understand why farmers and ranchers find wolves a source of annoyance, after all, nobody wants to have perfectly good calves killed by wild animals when they could sell that same calf once it comes of age and turn a profit. I get it. It's bad business. On the other hand, my own perspective is the same as my hunting perspective. To kill a wolf that is harming livestock, as it harms the livestock, is one thing. To set a bounty on an entire population is another. I have no qualms with people hunting, but I believe in hunting to eat and hunting in moderation. It seems to me that a bounty on wolves will only cause an imbalance in the natural equilibrium, the carrying capacity of animals that are hunted by the wolf, and eventually lead to sickness and other issues within other populations.

As a testimony to the power of a bounty, let me explain it like this. Since we moved to Rosehill, we have listened to wolves nearly every year. It has only been in the years the bounty was officially issued that we heard no wolves and saw little to no sign that they were even in our area. Two summers ago, the coyote moved in. As you may know, this is a sign that the wolf population is not at it's usual strength.

The power of the bounty is just this: the clear air that filled with the resonating sounds of a wolf hunt were the first I have heard in several years.

And those years were just a little too empty for my liking.

I hope to see the bounties stopped, so I may continue to count on hearing the wolves sing.

Love,
Jenny

You Know You're Isolated When...

Over the course of the year, I have found myself laughing at life and the circumstances that make it so bloody funny. As some of you know, our family leads a quiet and unassuming existence down the back roads of the Peace Country. While nothing that has happened has been earth shattering or cataclysmic in the slightest way, it has made me wonder how often people get lost in translation. (Rosehill doesn't seem that isolated.) What follows is a list of things that have happened to me over time and make me wonder just how isolated we really are.

1. You know you're isolated when the hunters that are staying with your ultra-friendly neighbors see you on the road you share with the rest of the world while taking a break from your daily jog and go, "Who are you?"

2. You know you're isolated when you find yourself talking to the local wildlife as though they were people and actually answer yourself. (Yes, Castaway totally had it right.)

3. You know you're isolated when you learn weeks later that the road grader operator quit.

4. You know you're isolated when the directions to get to your home are too complex for Google Earth and requires a freestyle hand drawn map on a sheet of 8.5x11 printer paper if anyone is going to understand you.

5. You know you're isolated when people say many years after the fact, "Oh, you're the people that bought [insert some name you've never heard of] place? Good to meet you."

6. You know you're isolated when the County has to have a bus turnaround made at the base of your driveway because even a mini-bus can't get up to your house.

7. You know you're isolated when you find yourself calling the County to ask them if they stock beaver ponds with fish because the water, which is on both sides of the road, is maybe a foot below road level.

8. You know you're isolated when the Canadian census worker comes up and looks utterly as bewildered as you are when you open the door, and you find yourself in a Mexican standoff with a stranger. He's thinking, someone lives here? You're thinking, I swear someone just knocked on the door...

9. You know you're isolated when you're out jogging and you jump into the bush to watch that strange car come over the hill only to discover that it's your mom. In the family car.

10. You know you're isolated when your neighbor's tell you that to communicate with them you should set up a community-wide smoke signal language.

11. You know you're isolated when your neighbors spread the word that, "If you know Jenny's going to be home alone -- announce yourself!" (True story.)

And my personal favorite that just happened in the last few months:

12. You know you're isolated when the County workers who are putting up the country address signs for each residence (think garish blue sign with numbers on it for the ambulance at the base of your drive) either forget you exist or can't figure out if that rope gate, that blocks the Twilight Zone road that apparently leads nowhere, which reads: NO HUNTING. PRIVATE. has a home somewhere...up there... To be direct, they completely lose you.

Well, maybe I'm more isolated than it seems.

Love,
Jenny
MUL

To Use a Shovel

For the most part, Rosehill is an amazing place to live. As I slipped into my brown cowboy boots and grabbed a pair of thick work gloves, I was beginning to wonder if Rosehill was as full of vitality and life as I had once thought. Grabbing the shovel that stands taller than I am, I walked down the sawdust path that leads to the outhouse, walked around the lilac bushes and picked out a spot directly in front of the one from a week ago.

As I jumped on the shovel to get maximum leverage and bite through the semi-frozen dirt, my mind wandered over the week our family had just spent in southern Alberta. The packed, dry clay began to yield and I stopped for a breather. Watching the last of the leaves rustling dryly on the trees, I couldn't help but think of the devastation wreaked on my hometown. After driving around looking at watermarked houses, the haunting emptiness of my favorite coffee houses and walks, it seemed like all the destruction was so -- senseless. As I finished the hole, I went back to the doghouse for Minnie. My heart broke. One of our largest kittens was curled up on top of the body I had set out to bury before the emotions kicked in. Pulling them both out, I listened to the heartfelt cries of the living kitten whose eyes reflected a sadness I've not seen in the eyes of a cat for a long time.

I knew exactly how he felt.

One week ago, prior to our trip to the High River area, Momma handed me Death. His putrid screams rent the air as I cupped an emaciated kitten in my trembling hands. With one wise look at me, I whisked him into the cabin (under which he had been hiding, without the energy to move) and we set about caring for him. Three days passed, three days of timed feedings that dwindled from little to nothing, three days of grabbing Frankie (my cat) and trying to get her to nurse him, three days of buttoning him up inside my shirt where he could sleep while I worked "hands free" so to speak, three days of shaky hope.

Death is simply part of the equation, another factor to the formula, and I've always understood it as a fact of life. In watching a creature forfeit life because I failed to observe the warning signs, I couldn't help but wonder if euthanasia wouldn't have been better for the kitten that I'll always know as Death. His family had given up on him, which was clear, but he seemed to want to be among his own. It was late Sunday night that I brought him back inside, half frozen, and I noticed the gulping breaths. As Daddy and I dug a hole beside my dog Billie's grave, I realized how attached we all were to the dying kitten Frankie and Liza wouldn't even acknowledge now.

Though we were to get up at 3AM, I didn't sleep. Around midnight I heard eight cries, eight strokes of a clock far older than any we've created. Silence. Peace.

As Momma and I kicked the dirt over Minnie, and I scraped the pebbly clay into the hole, I couldn't help thinking about how death was so different for the two siblings that had died exactly one week apart; nor, in fact, could I stop thinking about how differently I reacted to the two deaths and how the slow limping of my hometown trying to recover from disaster juxtaposed so perfectly against the deaths of Death and Minnie.

As I leaned the shovel back in its place inside the woodshed, I felt the bitter taste death of one so young always leaves in me, but, all the same, I was thankful to have escaped the human caricature of civilization for home and My Uncivilized Life.

Love,
Jenny

Summer of the Bear

Before I really begin, let me apologize for my unrelenting absence from MUL. Between exams, organizing the new school year, finding myself rained in, and feeling generally unimaginative...well, you get the picture. While each of those clauses sound like excuses they have enabled me to take the break I've been needing from the writing that I found myself forced to do without much reason to find enjoyment in what I was doing. Perhaps now I will have the inspiration and focus to concentrate on MUL ~ Jenny

A Lesson From the Bees

Our family grows an amazing garden, of which about half is my flowers that keep inching their way every year across the spacious lot. When I go through the gate and walk down the well tended rows, I find myself walking through a moving hum of bees and hornets and wasps. Despite the fact each of those species would sting or bite me if I frightened them, in all our years on Rosehill, I can count, on one hand, the number of times they have attacked me even when I am cutting flowers for arrangements or just running my hands over the hedge-like tops as I walk along. 

It was on one of these walks, there were more insects than usual boiling up, I felt my hands buoyed along across the flower tops only to realize that I was completely calm. Knowing for years that a bee stings only when provoked, I contemplated if I hadn't been applying that same principle to larger animals like, say, bears. Experience has since taught me that a bear is no different from a bee. This summer, I have found myself tested in many ways as I found myself surrounded by an unusual number of bears who would have done me great harm had I made a mis-calculation regarding their cubs.

Why I Love the Bear

When I see a bear, a secret thrill runs through me. Though not fear, I've long understood the power of being calm, I would say that every pore fills with respect the moment a bear becomes part of my atmosphere. While my family has many amusing bear stories, and while we know just how dangerous a bear can be, we have long been watching the bears that live in our area. For that reason, there is no doubt that as my blog progresses you shall hear of my three bachelors: Brutus, Boris, and Chip. 

To me, the bear seems to be that lasting emblem of the wild that surrounds and keeps me from becoming puffed up with human ingenuity. The last regal, muscular force that people seem to spend a lifetime fearing (which isn't entirely irrational) and minimal time admiring, and I get to live in the very same woods and experience their beauty every year. Could anything be better? I rather doubt it.

Touched by Bears

"To a Black Bear"

It was a boring day
you wanted some fun

so chased the boss's wife

into her log kitchen

clawed some paint off the door

to hear her howl

Petulant

you wandered about our yard

hidden in willows

I baited the culvert trap

with rotten sardines

you feigned indifference

I had plans for you

A change of scene,

new country

without women to entertain

Sulking

you sniffed around

a squirrel's cache

I went to my trailer

to get some old wieners

With the same idea

unmindful of each other

we arrived, me at my front door

you ambling in the open rear

into my bedroom

We met in the kitchen

"Woof" you said

startled while trying the fridge

I forget what I said

Your black fur made quite a contrast

against that white porcelain

Being both timid

we turned simultaneously

and attempted to exit

in embarrassed haste

The shiny linoleum

froze the action

I slipped and fell,

your claws lost traction

I made it at length

You shouldered through back there

wiped out two metal doors

with a fine backhand

carried them off

like streamers of tinfoil

Forgive me

in consternation,

I spoke rashly, obscene

loaded the shotgun

Boring days will never come again

to this sleepy warden station

Sid Marty

from Going For Coffee

While I cannot claim to have ever met a black bear at the fridge, I love referring back to Sid Marty's poetry and prose. It's like sitting out on a porch swing with a mug of coffee and an old friend. I have had my own "shotgun moment," and found myself at odds with resident bears many times. However, I learned a valuable lesson this summer.

It had been almost a year since I had been home to Rosehill. We had been living on a Hutterite colony (that's another story) where my parents worked as educators for ten months. While the experience was a valuable one, my senses weren't as sharp as they should have been for we had been away when the bears came out in the spring.

It had been a beautiful day and I was feeling free from the burden of exam anxiety when I chose to go for a walk down the road. As the weariness fell away, I found myself beginning to jog down the start of the drive, which makes an abrupt right turn before the stream of gravel flows downhill and joins with the County road system. Leaping around the corner with a laugh, I broke out singing the first lines of a 70s rock anthem and did a little dance (I can be such a girl, sometimes). A rushing, crashing sound came from the right. My head snapped up. There was a tell-tale path of still rustling bushes that I began watching earnestly. 

Standing there, I watched as a very young, beautiful cub climbed up a small tree just barely big enough to hold him up. Three things happened simultaneously: 1) a second cub went up another small tree2) the girly side kicked in as I felt like an overgrown softie thinking, "Awe, look how cuddly.."3) the other side of me, the common sense side, hit the alarm button as I began to talk to the cubs, and cocked the gun I carry in the woods as a noise maker, "Where's your mom? Where's your mom, where's your mom? mom-mom-mom-mom--"

It was the closest to a panic I had ever come when surprised by a bear. A ripple under the twin cubs' trees showed black through the foliage and I saw one of the largest sows I've ever seen place a paw high on a tree and pull herself up so she could see me over the foliage before coming toward me. As I backed up to my corner, wishing for once the wind was not in my favor, I had every intention of running as soon as I was out of her sight. 

Talking to her, I found myself thinking that the Rainbow School's bear program they put kids through when I went there was a valuable program, how important it was to squash any sound of fear from my voice, how dangerous sows with cubs could be, how glad I was I hadn't been between her and her cubs, how relieved I was that she didn't pursue me any further after I got back to my corner and booked it to the cabin, how thankful I was that she didn't charge but meandered toward me instead, how glad I was to have dusted the rust off my bear training and that I still had my wits about me.

That was supposed to be the end of the story, but it's not.

Women and Common Sense

I said that wasn't the end of the story and I truly meant it. After telling my parents that we had a resident sow with twins who was practically on our doorstep, Daddy insisted on going to see for himself. In fact, he was going to walk with me thinking two people would be better than one. Sounds good so far, right? 

Wrong.

We reached the area that I had encountered her at and discovered that she was down, with the cubs up a couple of sturdy thirty foot trees, in the bowl shaped declivity that dents slowly downward to the left. She had had the advantage of being on higher ground than me the first time, this time it was she who was disadvantaged. 

Daddy asked me for the gun I was still carrying and I gave it to him a midst my urging pleas that we go back to the cabin. Now.

I shrieked.

My father the crack-shot had forgotten to warn me that he was going to shoot and I was totally oblivious to the fact he might shoot. (I'm just glad he's an excellent shot, for I would hate to ever see a stray bullet hit what it wasn't meant for originally.) Well, I saw her under the trees and, frankly, I felt bad for her. Not liking that I couldn't get behind him, not liking that he was trying to scare a bear off that I was pretty sure would move on of her own volition after I got so close to her cubs, not liking the booming sound, and knowing that supper was pretty well ready, my temper got the better of me and I prodded him all the way home with things like, "What's the matter with you -- that poor -- defenseless -- bear. All she wants to do is protect her cubs and you come along with a gun and try to scare her off. Did you really think she would move? No? Surprise, surprise!" 

We had arrived on the walk outside the cabin. I reached for the door and asked him one last question, "If I had kids and thought my kids were being threatened by some guy do you think, even for a second, that I would ever back down?" 

"No."

"That's right, I wouldn't. She's a Momma and if I were a Momma I'd be the same way -- it's just a matter of common sense."

I whipped the door open, looked at Momma with a puzzled look on my face as my anger left me, and said, "Men."

She nodded sagely after hearing everything that she had missed out on and said, "Men."

Conclusion

Since that day, my family has seen 9 cubs, 3 sows, and my 3 bachelors. While Brutus, Boris, and Chip offer more comic relief than not, I'm glad to have had my run in with the sow. If nothing else, she honed my senses to their previously sharp state and prepared me for the frequent run-ins I have had since that day. Though I know my bears will frequently feature in MUL, I have no clue as to when I will speak of them again. I realize I have provided no advice for handling bears in the wild. The truth is, it's mostly just a matter of common sense.

Love,

Jenny

P.S. If any game wardens and/or fish and wildlife officers read this blog, thank you for the educational programs you provide at schools. I know now just how valuable those programs really are.

Morning Contemplations

To see a word in a grain of sand

And a heaven in a wild flower,

Hold infinity in the palm of your hand

And eternity in an hour. 

 ~William Blake, Auguries of Innocence

August 5th, 2013

As I walked outside at 8:15 this morning a magical sight made me smile in the cool morning air. Looking down the hill toward our garden, I saw the area was enveloped in a silvery haze.

I quickly went inside for my camera before the sun burst forth and the haze dissipated, lifted the liquid veil from my enchanted eyes.

As I snapped pictures rather quickly, for my battery was quickly dying, I felt grateful for the opportunity to begin my day in so lovely a way and grateful for the tranquil peace I felt upon sniffing the air which held no trace of wood smoke -- thankfully -- for we (northern Albertans) have had too many summers of forest fires in recent years.

My battery died, I lowered my camera, and stood with Liza (our cat) and watched the morning mists vanish as the sun rose and burned it off.

Though it was a small wonder, I discovered long ago that the best moments seem to be caused by the "little things in life," and, it is the little things that leave the greatest impression on my memory, enhancing my ability to appreciate living in the moment.

Looking at Liza and my blue pajamas, I felt the warmth of the golden light that enveloped us in the still, calm morning and thought, "What could be better than this?"

Well, I have exams to study for so I best get going.

The above is from my Writer's Journal and I don't believe more words from me are necessary. The pictures say it all.

Though I do have exams right now, I hope to be done in time for the next blog post. For, in my free time, I have been compiling bear stories.

Love,

Jenny