the cassandra pages

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?

Clouds

transparent watercolor in sketchbook; stormy sky just before sunset

I've never lived up in the sky before, but it feels like I do now. We have windows on two sides of our new apartment, facing north and west, and they look out on the nearly-flat northern part of the city and its suburbs, the airport to the west, and the foothills of the Laurentians in the far distance. That's the horizontal picture. But vertically, more than half of what we see outside our windows is sky.

2B pencil

One of the best features of living in a northern temperate zone (in my opinion!) is that the weather changes all the time. I've always lived in the northeast, so I thought I was used to the pattern, not only of the seasons, but the day-to-day weather, what the clouds mean, how the air feels, the visual and tactile sense of whether it's going to get colder or warmer, drier or more humid, whether precipitation is coming or not. But I realize I had no idea of just how much change there was in the sky, the clouds, the sunrises and sunsets, and the rapidity of change during a few minutes, let alone a whole day. It's completely fascinating.

 

medium-point fountain pen

fine-point fountain pen; fleeting early morning clouds

So I've been drawing the clouds, or starting to. I'm finding that they present particular challenges if one is trying to capture the essence of a certain sky, partly because of the constant movement and morphing of their shape and form, and partly because it's not easy to draw something that is white, on white paper: unless you indicate the sky itself in some way, all you can do is draw the sunlit edges of the clouds, the shadow sides, and their basic forms, and suggest their movement through the type of strokes you use.

HB and 2H pencil

Suggesting a summer sky isn't difficult, but studying and drawing a particular cloud or cloud formation -- getting at its identity and essence -- seems to be quite a bit more challenging. All cumulus clouds are not alike! An early-morning mackerel sky, or an ethereal formation of mare's tails, give way in minutes to other forms. Likewise, painting a sky in oil or pastel or acrylic is much easier than drawing: like a photograph, you're freezing it in time, maybe even with photos for reference, and you've got the whole range of colors at your disposal.

white charcoal pencil on toned paper

Watercolor also represents a distinct challenge. Doing a realistic painting is more similar to what I just described about painting in other media, but doing a fast sketch is really tricky, and I feel like I'm just beginning to get my feet wet. These are all early experiments from my sketchbook, between July 3 and July 29, 2022.

transparent watercolor

My final comment on this post, after a month of observation, is that we can actually see how the weather is becoming much more extreme and violent. It's been really windy, not just up high, but on the ground as well, and the pace of mostly west-to-east movement of the clouds is fast. Ominous, huge, dark grey clouds appear, usually in the west, with storms developing rapidly, and we can see them in the distance; sheets of rain falling on distant parts of the city or landscape. When thunderstorms are actually upon us, the rain lashes the windows with real force. Last Saturday there was a classic anvil cloud in the northwest that was truly apocalyptic in appearance; I'd never seen a cloud like that. That evening a home in that area was hit by lightening -- the neighbors saw an actual fireball fall from the sky and hit the roof. Another afternoon, I watched a dark funnel starting to form below a large thunderhead in the far distance and called my husband to come and look; as we watched over maybe ten minutes, it was slowly absorbed back up into the cloud, and never stretched down to the land - but it was the first time I'd ever seen that, too. Tornadoes are not a usual occurrence in Quebec, in spite of the flatness of the St. Lawrence valley, but a tornado did touch down that same evening about a hundred kilometers northwest of Montreal. 

Drawing and painting the beauty of skyscapes is one thing, but I didn't expect to have a ringside seat for extreme weather. We are not suffering from the same heat levels as Europe or India or the American southwest, but our weather is definitely changing. How can anyone deny the absolute necessity of action?

transparent watercolor with touches of gouache for the city lights