A Beautiful Summer

A few weeks ago, a dear friend of mine asked me to keep him posted on how my summer goes. I told him that, in short, it glows. After that conversation, I began to think of just why this summer seems so perfect. You see, I expected it to be one of the worst in recent history because I intentionally took a very difficult semester in order to justify the slack fall line-up I have on board for travel reasons.

Why does this summer glow?

1) The world is a beautiful place.

2) I know I love others and that I am loved in return.

3) The creatures that surround me are made more brilliant by their simple needs and complex designs.

4) The forest acts more alive than I remember from past summers.

5) There is an abundance of sunshine to soak up and a blue, blue sky to wade through each and every day.

6) There are more songbirds this year and, for that very reason, more songs in my heart.

7) The breezes are gentle caresses that shield me from the bugs that bite and drive me crazy.

8) The berries glisten with raw seduction in both shade and sunlight; giant gems waiting to be picked.

9) The rocks sparkle more and make me wonder at the vastness of our world.

10) I feel myself glowing in the awakening that has followed a long sleep filled with beautiful dreams.

It took me quite awhile to come up with the above ten points, but I know my list really has no end. Each day, I continue to add new thoughts and beautiful observations that show me just how magnificent is the forest in which I live, how all of life itself is glorious. In my beautiful summer I want only to lean back, observe, and enjoy each and every moment with the peace that by my waking thoughts revives my soul.

In this moment, may each of you know that you are loved. I hope your summers glow.

Love,

Jenny

A Typical Day

I realize I haven't added to my blog of late and, for it, I apologize. The truth is, I have been contemplating a blog suggestion from an old family friend.

What is a typical day like in my life?

Good question.

The only answer that felt right is that there is no such thing as a typical day. But, that doesn't really answer the question, now does it?

7:00am - My parents have been up for an hour or more, and one of them shouts up to where I am curled up in my snug little world wishing I could ignore the sounds of their alarm clock voices. Daddy goes for a walk

7:30am - I switch to autopilot, and slip on clothing that reflects a mad scientist's ideas of good taste and ask someone to please put up the ladder. Daddy usually has my coffee poured and waiting amidst the continental mess I call a desk. When I sit down, it's a gross understatement to say I'm awake. Rather, I'm lost in my mind and trying to capture that beautiful dream I had to leave behind in my bed. I listen to my parents talk and maybe throw a random thought out there, but for the most part I'm a coffee drinking veggie.

8:00am - Still a vegetable for whom the world doesn't really exist.

8:30am - I start to contribute to the family by joining the philosophical, political, or sociological debate going on around me.

9:00am - I'm finally to the point that I can function, and I usually make more coffee. By now I'm thinking about school. My thoughts usually go something like:
          1. Spanish. Need to work on Lección whateveritis. Oh, and the next assignment.
          2. Faust. Hmm... I should probably sit down and figure out what I want to write my research paper on.
          3. Creative Non-fiction. Editing, again? Oh, well, I guess those cute little punctuations can be fun.
During this process, I'm usually toasting two slices of homemade bread, toasting them on Momma's cast iron skillet, and reminiscing with Momma.

9:30am to 11:00am - I study and Momma gets exasperated with me because all I want to do is talk. That's studying for you.

11:15am - I go plaster myself to the flatbed and soak up some sun in a pair of Daisy Duke lookalikes and work on my tan.

11:30am - Lunch break.

Noon - Back to work after I eat, usually bread again, and maybe have a short talk with Daddy who comes in to get out of the sun for a break. Throughout the morning, Momma usually reads or works with Daddy (depending on what he's doing that day).

12:00 to 2:00pm - Another tanning session where I hum old rock tunes, day dream, and think of those I care for most.

2:30pm to 4:00pm - Back to the books.

4:30pm or 5:00pm - I organize my studies for the next day. Really, there actually is an organizing thought behind The Monstrosity. Then, I take off for a 3 mile walk down to Homestead Road.

6:00pm - I'm back, buggy, and getting ready for dinner.

6:30pm - Dinner and a movie on my laptop.

9:00pm - Bedtime.

That is as typical an agenda as I can form. We take one day a week and go to High Level or, maybe, Peace River if we need major items. On those days, I swim laps at noon to 1pm and then go to the library to get online for research purposes and talk to my friends. There is nothing else typical about my life other than eating, sleeping, and breathing.

Love,
Jenny

Spring Revelations

What I write for MUL is sometimes the runoff work I do when developing an essay for a class. To survive this semester, my work often contains 3 parts whimsy and 10 parts coffee...

Every spring, the forest inhales and holds it breath. The air is laden with expectations of new life, a ballooned world rich with foreboding and tension. During this time, the world is brown with speckles of new green. The aspens are heavy with blossoms that resemble tentacled pussy willows waving in a whiff of breeze. In less than a week, the blooms begin to shrivel up into little brown strings that look more dead than alive.

Though I adore winter, this may be my favorite part of spring. I begin to notice grasses, golden all winter, flushed with green blush. The ducks, robins, and the small birds that look suspiciously like whippoorwills fill the air with sound. Frogs in chorus croak and rasp. They remind me of cicadas and crickets from Missouri’s sultry summer nights.

One unexpected morning, I look out the window by my bed and see the tree by the woodpile. What large leaf buds! How could I have missed the trees budding out? A closer look reveals that the trees are all budding and close to leafing out in the denouement of spring. I notice that the wild cherry trees have thin leaflets poking out from fragile stems, the rose bushes push forth their wispy leaves from between their thorns, and the lilac cuttings from our last home are lowering their green spears and will soon unfurl into soft shapes. If I blink, I know I’ll miss that exhale when the whole world grows up for another season of life and virility.

My transplanted wild violets are in bloom and, every day, I check the clumps of twin flower, my personal favorite, that grow on the northwest sides of random trees. The first mature green leaves in spring, I wait for their pixie-sized stems to form, for their duel-branched flowers to curve toward the many-layered mulch of dead aspen leaves, and for their miniature translucent pinks and white bells to flash up from the forest floor. The child in me wonders what it would be like to be smaller than an inch, wandering free through woodland halls of blooming twin flowers, unseen by the mountainous giants that thunder by my little trickling streams and deep mossy bowers.

When I imagine such an enchanting microcosm, I have a habit of craning my neck back and looking straight up through the overarching branches at the bright blue sky. The microcosm I live in is far vaster than any I might ever imagine. Besides, who says that the trees that curve about me couldn’t become giant flowers one day? It’s true, I openly refuse to grow up. Maturity is great, but to lose my imagination would make life dry, common, and dull. Who in their right mind wants to live that way? The world is so fascinating that I could never permit such a bland outlook on that which is an ever-changing myriad of kaleidoscope details. Could you?

Love,

Jenny

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