Year of the Typewriter

It took sun, wind, rain and 10 days for the snow to melt. I say melt, but walking, I still found pockets. That's what this week is all about...pockets of winter and not much else. The tread that was that fresh crunch of snow, went through the sliding slush, to become now cold cedar-stained mud. 

My carpets look like crud.

God I've had it.

I saw the first snowdrops on February 5th of this year.


This week I saw them under snow.


10 cm deep


A walk is noisy now. Crunching.


I couldn’t help heading back up towards the Chanterelle Forest today. The court-ordered halt to the logging there has now expired and the road was again blocked with Active Logging underway.



January seems to have super sized gravity.

My eyes even are pulled down.

There are still things to see looking at the ground.

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The wood is so dark these mornings that looking down the path feels like peering through chicken broth.

But then, not often, not forecasted, not predictable…

There is that odd orange orb...

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I went today to the Chanterelle Forest. For Coasters, it is just a short drive up Field Road from Straight Coffee...

Winter Solstice, the darkest day…


I thought last week was cold. This week goes white.

White like the paper. Big and blank.

Snow catches in all the rainforest green.

And things begin to freeze. Whereas the rain was an inconvenience with the typewriter, now the cold sets in. I put on more layers. I write in shorter bursts and walk to keep warm. Even my sailing socks, with a layer of reflective blanket sewn in cannot keep the cold out. Agnes complains and drills holes in the paper in one spot, refusing to advance. I know how she feels. Every thought is encased in ice and must be cracked loose and named with a fumbling cold brain.