while taking water to the ponies

the february air bites at my cheeks
(but not as hard as usual)
dusk comes late today
the sky caught between sun and moon
all roses and violets to the west
and i, held unmoving
watch the bones of the trees darken
then turn black

Unimaginable beauty

The sun has come up over the horizon to illuminate a million fairy-sized stars placed in the forest's branches by the cold wand of winter.

Magic mornings

I've been walking up to the end of the driveway with Maddie every morning (at 7 a.m.!) since sometime in mid-September when I had to go out to the bunkie deck to retrieve my coffee mug (having left it there after a lovely Sunday morning coffee with Celeste!) and just kept going.  It is such a gift.  I have seen some amazing skies and watched the landscape slowly change from the deep greens of summertime to the golds, oranges, burgandies and flaming reds of autumn and finally fade to grey.  We have been incredibly lucky too -- I can't count the number of mornings I wake up to pouring rain only to have it stop before we have to head out into it.  Today was like that.  It stormed overnight and at one point I woke up to the loudest, hardest rain I've ever heard -- it's hard to miss the weather when you sleep surrounded by windows under a tin roof!  There is so much water on this land but it's meant to be here.  A heavy rain doesn't upset the balance because it has a place to go.  The creeks swell and rush but don't overflow.  The earth soaks it up like a moist sponge.

Morning gratitude

I think part of my resistance to blogging is that I feel like I have to explain myself ... so I couldn't just post something today because WTF where have I been and what have I been doing since August 3rd?!  and how could I just post some little missive about my morning walk when I haven't told any news about our arrival or what we've been up to the last couple months.  I remember reading a great quote once about perfection being the voice of the oppressor or something like that - that it will "keep you cramped and insane your whole life".  I totally agree and would add something about how you'll never do anything if you're waiting to do it perfectly (if only I could say it as eloquently but not saying it because of that would rather defeat the purpose wouldn't it?!).  And so, it is without further explanation or excuse, that I post my first entry from Eden:

This morning I stood with the sun at my back and the ponds stretched out before me.  The night had painted the fields white and laid misty blankets over the water.  The trees in their fall skirts were gathered around the western edge, all gold and rust in the day’s first light.  I watched a small brown bird pull the glossy white berries of the gray dogwood off their bright red stems.  I could see the juice squirt from its tiny beak and I began to cry.  Never have I been close enough to witness the detail of such an ordinary moment. 

Words truly are imperfect to express how overwhelmingly grateful I am to be here.

T minus ONE DAY

I've toyed with blogging in the past but it always felt a bit forced -- and who knows, this might too! -- so it never really stuck.  I also figured, who gives a shit?  Why would anyone want to read what basically amounts to what I'm thinking?  But as I embark on this dream-come-true, a few friends have suggested I blog about our adventures and so it seems I might finally have something to blog about.  Not just a day in the life of Tara (zzzzzzzz!) but a day in the life of 127 acres of woods and water and sky and garden.

Today I have to finish cramming the contents of my life so far -- the last 15 years in Guelph -- into boxes to be moved into the honkin' 26 ft Uhaul that will fill my driveway sometime in the next few hours.  Not exactly a great time to be sitting around composing a first blog entry! and then we'll be on the road and without internet for who knows how long ... but I wanted to start this here, in the familiar embrace of my beloved home at 94 York Road.  Saying good-bye to the garden; to the trees that I've watched grow - some from seed, some from wee things that were carried home in my arms; to the aged wood (I love my 130-year-old floors and doors and thick trim); to the out-dated kitchen that has gracefully resisted Ikea-ization and served my family so well - how many meals we have shared held in its warmth.  But say good-bye I must, though I imagine it will be through teary eyes that I take my last look.