The Carolinian Trail

Monday, December 16, 2002

Frost pattern I'm brooding about my relatives. It's crazy: on the tail of a happy weekend I awoke suddenly and early this morning feeling tearful and depressed.

Fresh snow fell in the night. At 5:30 a.m. a plough screeched past my window, blue lights flashing on my bedroom walls. The city workers start early, and they seem to begrudge my sleep.

But sleep has been needful in more ways than one: not only rest for the body, but a time of labour for my subconscious, churning unresolved matters of the soul. Like the men driving their ploughs, electrical impulses have worked around the streets of my mind all night, cleaning familiar pathways and making them safe for me to navigate. But what a load of snow needs to be cleared away! And what do I do with it now?

I'm coming to new conclusions about how I should behave around my family. This is always a difficult process, changing behaviours that are rooted deep in infancy, patterns we've followed since before our earliest memories. It's hard to let go of what's safe and familiar. Old ideas cling like scabs. That's why turbulent emotions well up easily this morning, while I tear at the wounds.

Now the sun is rising, low and pale, glittering in frost on the window, a drowsy reminder of the strong sun that rises in summer months. It's not enough for most living things. Plants go to sleep, chipmunks hibernate, and warblers fly to a more hospitable climate. There's little productivity. Every animal that stays awake must survive on food held, one way or another, in storage.

Winter withers the fronds of my soul. I feel dry and desiccated, recoiling from the wind, with nothing new to offer.

But the root still lives. Underground, maples are rich with the sweetest food, ready to rise with sap for full life, hope and promise. Then the twigs will weep with joy, shedding their bounty as the sun returns.

I grew last summer, too, and I'll grow again. Knowing this, I'm strong with delight, returning to the peaceful place at my desk, golden in the December sun, where I sit and write. This is a rugged, important time, turning over what I've learned, keeping the main streets clear, forging new trails. I keep my eyes on the frost light, silver treasures shimmering and hinting at what's to come.

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