a winter's night

Winter is cold and dark. Out here in the country, on cold, dark nights, I feel very far away from everything. Like a pioneer who has only her family and her horse the home she tries to make comfortable to survive.

I am beginning, now, to feel the effects of isolation that living in the country bring. Even when people visit -- my sister and our old friend came for coffee just yesterday afternoon. Once they're gone I feel impossibly far again. When I am hungry, there is nothing to do but make do with whatever scraps of food I can find. I am used to living in the centre of everything. If I ever was hungry or lonely, I could go anywhere to find company and good food. Now it's just the two of us (and the dog) making ramshackle dinners out of strange leftovers and putting on snowpants as a part of every day's outfit.

It's true: I wear snowpants every day. I just can't stand the stinging feeling of the cold through my jeans every morning, afternoon and evening while I go to feed the horses. Meanwhile my relatively short-coated dog ploughs headfirst through snowbanks with unbridled glee. My horse has icicles on his eyelashes. I am sure he remembers a time when he was brought into a warm barn to thaw out, be brushed, ridden in a warm arena, fed, dried and brushed again before being tucked into warm winter blankets and returned to his pen. Now he has only his shaggy winter coat to protect him. There is no warm place for him to go, here.

I wonder how I'll feel in the spring. When my wonderful world of aspen forests and wide fields opens up again to greenness and warmth. Will I feel differently?

Christmas gifts

There is a lot to do before Christmas.

Besides re-vamping my horse feed program and attempting for the first time to wean a foal from his mother's milk (is my life weird?), I am once again caught up in the insanity of making all of my Christmas gifts. This will be the third year.

This year, though, I've been away for much of the two months leading up to Christmas, so I've scaled back. If I didn't, I would go insane from the stress of frantically learning to be a better sewer, baker, candlestick-maker (literally). This year I've made sure to include at least one item that I hand-made, but have allowed myself to purchase meaningful objects to fill in the gaps.

Lately I've been missing the city. Probably for its convenience when running so many Christmas-related errands. But I also think about my neighbourhood, the familiar shops and restaurants. My friend's pub. Our group of friends. Drinking coffee in good coffeeshops, walking the dog to the store to pick up a few things. Our small house and its innate coziness.

But this morning as I walked from breakfast with my coworkers back to my house to get in my truck, the sun was lighting the treetops with the most beautiful golden, silver-edged light. The frost on the branches glowed and the stark outline of the forest softened into light. The moment was a gift.

I must learn to be content where I am. To stop constantly mining the past for better times. During the time that we lived in that little house, I thought constantly of the time before that. I miss the feeling of being swept up in the right now, a feeling I've only had three times in my life. Each of those times was when I was fully engrossed in a new community, when I was making new friends I knew would be part of my life for a long time, when I was growing and felt loved and felt important. I miss all of those times equally. And that's just the problem: what about this time?

I've been given a wonderful gift out here in the country. I will endeavour not to waste it.

winter weekend's eve

This morning brought a bright white fog. This winter is so tone-on-tone. White on white on white on grey. The inside of my farm truck frosts up. The farm dog's black fur was edged with white frost this morning when he joined me for our morning ritual of moving the horses out of the pens where they spend all night staying warm by eating hay.

It is cold out, but not too cold. Not impossible.

There are so many chores to do. Hay bales to be thrown down out of the loft into the back of my truck and distributed. An oat bin whose lid has blown off and has filled with snow. Beet pulp and molasses and new halters to be unloaded from the back of my car.

Today I received three wonderful pieces of mail. The first was a Christmas card and letter from dear friends who live in a house nestled into a hillside in southern Alberta. They are going about their daily life on their farm: caring for horses, collecting eggs from the coop. And then an envelope of two letters from a friend and past roommate who lives downtown. Her life is so different from theirs, but the common thread seems to be: we are all just trying to get our work done and be happy. And we've all got varying levels of success. But I worry about her, sometimes. The third envelope held gifts that same friend made me this spring. A small, handmade notebook and a handmade card that doubles as a coaster (I hadn't thought to use it as one, but she wrote, ps: you can also use this card as a coaster for your beer). I am so lucky to have such a friend. Her gentle skill with paper and fabric is such a gift.

Now I wonder what I will send to her. What handmade treasures I can find in my home out here in the wilderness to bring countryside to her downtown apartment.

Also, there's this: tonight my sisters and mom are coming to sleep over at my house. They are romanticized by my country dwelling. I am so happy to have them here. Their willingness to come assuages my fear that no one will ever visit me out here, that I will feel lonely and isolated, and so removed from the life I created in my busy city community.

I hold in my heart the kind of excitement kids feel on Christmas Eve. It's good to feel this way.