|Looking out our back patio door to the laneway.|
I was just shoveling snow. But it was such a beautiful January day, as it can be here in Deep River. The air was cold and crisp and there was no wind to make me change my mind about staying outside. The snow was the kind that is mercifully light on my aging bones; there was little real effort involved in moving it around - even with 15 centimetres on the ground. I had gotten into a rhythm that was not too taxing and I was able to just go along with what I wanted to do – and then I was lost!
I had thoroughly fallen into what I was doing; I was able to watch my breath leave my body, feel the weight of the shovel and its easy load, then heft it over the bank in the most satisfying arc. It became magical, but not the kind of magic that makes you wonder how it’s done; it was the kind of magic that makes you thankful for being a part of that sense of wonder that is so delicious to behold. I could hear the pileated wood peckers calling back and forth down in the park – must have been time for lunch! I could see the steam rise from my hat when I took it off, I could hear the sound of my feet sinking beneath the surface of the snow; a subtle sound that only happens when the snow is what the Inuit call pukak, little crystals on the ground. I was standing in, lifting, and throwing little crystals!
I laughed out loud at the joy of it all. I quickly looked around to see if the neighbours had heard me – my sanity was safe. So, I gave thanks out loud for being reminded of just how wonderful it can be to be alive…