Squalls

Squall line on autoroute 15, south of Montreal, Quebec.

Thursday, December 1: We had to cross the border into the U.S. this morning to do some errands. It was dry, windy, and quite cold when we left the city around 9:30 am, but no frazzle ice was yet to be seen on the St. Lawrence River. The sky looked like snow, though, and sure enough, as we got out into the flat countryside south of the city, we could see a definite squall line -- blue skies to the right, and a line of leaden snow-filled clouds to the left. Soon we were driving through pelting, blowing snow that was sometimes lighter than air and drifting fast across the already-white fields, and sometimes beating a staccato of tiny icy pellets against the windshield, which cautioned us to drive very carefully, because that kind of ice can act like ball bearings under the wheels. And then, suddenly, just before the border crossing at Champlain...nothing at all. Tan, bare fields with green hay still coming up in places; nonchalant geese pecking in dry cornfields, and no snow to be seen. 

Two hours later, on the way back, the day had turned to beautiful blue skies, and the roads were bare. Those of us who live in the north are quite familiar with this phenomenon of squalls: short-lived, intense bursts of rain or snow, often accompanied by gusting winds, that can feel like a blizzard when you're in the middle of them, but which -- unlike blizzards -- pass quickly, often bringing high-pressure and blue skies in their wake.

It made me think about how life has felt lately: unpredictable and buffeted. But then again, all the disturbances in my life have been mere squalls compared to the relentless and devastating storms of war, starvation, oppression, homelessness and displacement, illness, loss, and death that millions of people face. And yet -- no matter what, some of these remarkable people manage to adjust their attitude and still find joy in their daily existence. I try, but I still have much to learn.

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Angel-wing begonia with wooden angel. Fountain pen drawing in sketchbook, 6" x 9".

Friday: Late fall in the north: this is the stripped, dry, testing time at the end of the year. Short days, distant pale sun, bare trees, and an increasingly penetrating cold. Ironically, when there's more snow covering the ground, it often seems warmer, and easier to be outside: during these current weeks, though, the landscape feels like a bed without a blanket. We are all driven more and more into the interiors of our homes, and of ourselves. 

I swam, early this morning. Sleepy and not in the best of moods when I pushed myself into the elevator, into the locker room, on with the suit and cap and goggles and into the water, the rhythm quickly took over and after five laps I was already feeling better; after twenty-five I felt renewed, at home in my body in spite of its creaky and achy parts, ready to face the day.  A couple of afternoons ago, I rode down and walked back up the many flights of stairs to my apartment -- this is something I should, and could, do regularly. And while swimming does stretch and use most muscle groups, some yoga focused on balance and strength would be good this winter too.

For someone who tends to be pretty consumed with thoughts and words, I know that I can't live entirely in my head, or let myself become distracted and immobile for hours on end. I need to use my body to make music, make art, knit and sew, chop and cook, move from place to place. It helps to feel my lungs breathing and my heart pumping blood. I think that one of the problems of living in harsh winter climates, especially as we get older, is the feeling of enclosure and constriction which can lead to a lack of embodiment. I can't ski anymore, we no longer shovel snow, and I have to be careful not to have a bad fall on the ice; this is just being prudent. But being outside in winter has always been invigorating for me, and a joy, so I have crampons for my boots, and a ski pole for when the weather is really dicey, and we make a point of getting out. It requires effort and discipline to build movement into my schedule, but I know it's not optional. How do you deal with this, you who live in a place with definite seasons? And how is your mood these days?

Comments

[MMettler]

Having dependent livestock is a good motivator. We board two horses just up the road, but it’s not “full board” so stall cleaning and turn-out is a twice daily chore. Cycling may continue through the winter, as it has in the past. It will be my fifth year riding a “fat” bike on the trails, my third year with studded tires added. That said, I’ve picked up a few canvas boards and begun to paint a bit - facing the fact that I can’t take the cold like I used to.

[Duchesse]

A woman once advised, "The secret to surviving winter here is to get on top of it"- literally. Like you, I no longer ski or skate, but walk daily, through neighbourhoods at dawn (Icebug brand boots lend security when on icy streets, IMO better than crampons that have to be taken on and off.) I notice that many persons here have a certain good will in winter, and I'm lifted by them. I also like the folding in, the snug woollens, hot chocolate, little kids skating in the park across the street, and days when snow sparkles on the mountain. It's March, when the thaw reveals nothing but brown, grey and litter that's hardest for me to head into.

[Sharyn Ekbergh]

We just sold a problematic house in another state that was being supported by the old folks so that is a huge relief. And both cats were ill and are much better now. My 17.5 year old kitty girl had somehow gotten a major infection and we feel blessed to have a fantastic vet with a lab just down the road who diagnosed and treated her right away. I couldn't face sitting in the vet's treatment room waiting for the bad news so himself had to do it. He leaned out the door and gave me the ok sign.
Her brother has hyperthyroidism but he is better and on his weight gain plan. He was down to 8.5 pounds and is back up close to 10 now. But he was a hefty chunker before. Since kitty girl is my constant companion I could not face losing her. And she is here as I write.
It's pouring rain here now. I can still ski and himself has bad knees but he will ski, on the flats or in the woods.
Daily housework, cook for everyone, make up the daily pill box for the parents, cat care, oversee the airbnb, tai chi, read. We're going to make a peaceful Christmas for the old folks, some new lights, a tree, presents. I love getting past the 21st of December and looking forward to April frog sing.

[Beth]

Mike, good to hear from you! And of course the horses do get you out frequently -- not much choice about that. I'm impressed you're riding a fat bike on trails, it must be fun. There are quite a few cyclists here who keep going all winter, with varying kinds of equipment. I pack the bike in as soon as the roads get icy. But I'm super happy to hear you're painting again, and hope you'll show some of the results.

Duchesse, yes, that's the key, though of course it changes as we get older. Last winter we went out to parks in the countryside quite often, as well as the larger parks and wildlife reserves in and near Montreal, and it really made a difference in our mental health. Like you, I'm more likely to get depressed in late winter/early spring when it feels interminable, and ugly!

Sharyn, I hear you about aging cats and am sorry yours have been sick. It's such a worry. So glad you have a good vet. We've just switched because of our move, and I hope for the best, because Manon (14 or 15 now) has been off her food, off and on. She's much better now. Wishing you the best as you get through to the 21st -- same feeling here, I want to see the sun start to move in the other direction!

[Roderick Robinson]

"after twenty-five (lengths) I felt renewed" I know the feeling. Twice a week I used to swim ninety-eight lengths of a 16 m pool at a health club. That's a mile - give or take - and lasted 55 minutes. The perfect exercise for a decaying octogenarian. But not just any old stroke, proper crawl, for which it was essential I learned the correct breathing: head immersed most of the time (thus goggles are essential), quick two-second flip of the head to take in air, exhalation into the water. It took ages to learn this but, once learned, I never swam any other stroke. Crawl is easily the most efficient way of doing longish distances in this intriguing medium.

But alas, direction can be difficult to maintain if there are no tiled lines on the pool bottom. And although I started as early in the morning as possible the pool tended to fill up with other swimmers. Bumping into others - especially if they happen to be women - is justifiably frowned upon. I'd be still doing lengths now, three years short of ninety, but the apprehensions re. bumping, got the better of me. And I am not as fit as I was. These days I chat to medicoes, dozens and dozens over the last eighteen months, as I mentioned. A new meritocracy but I'm fairly sure the sympathy is genuine. Recently, in casual conversation, I let loose the adjective "subclavian" and took some pleasure in that.