Spring

My favourite things about spring have always been the new growth -- obviously -- and the smells of rain and mud.  But in the last few years my appreciation has become more generally sensory:  the many bird chirps and calls, the texture of new leaves, the smell of the soil and the cedar mulch, the feel of the breeze on your skin, the neat contrast between warm sun and still-cool breeze.  So rich, so full of life and promise.

March

I think part of the beauty of March is its way of giving hope to people. For Canadians living where we do, we should know better: winter is not over, people, not according to the calendar and not according to Mother Nature; we always get some kind of nasty storm in March; it remains cold enough for a heavy coat for simply weeks yet. And yet, inevitably, when March begins out come the comments about spring being just around the corner and so on and so on. We are ever willing to flaunt reality and history in the name of hope. And hope is always a beautiful thing, even when misguided.

This year we've been treated to an unprecedented amount of sunshine, too, and so I echo the rest: bring it on!

Wonder

We have been either enjoying or suffering through (depending on your point of view) a snowstorm for the last day or so. February is preparing to leave us, winter has but three weeks left...and suddenly realized it forgot to give us snow. So it's making up for it, to the absolute delight of many of us and the chagrin of others. (Does it mean you're officially old when you hate snow?? Sorry, Jerome...)

My favourite kind of snow is exactly what we've been getting: wet and sticky. I do wish I knew even a few of all the Inuit names for different kinds of snow. The winter artist delicately traced every deciduous branch on every single tree in white, then decided to make it bolder and so thickened the lines. The result was a wonderland that only invites cliches, so I won't bother. Overnight, I see, the artist decided it was too much like a Christmas card, shook everything off the branches and, as I write, is trying again. How splendid to be able to play with the whole world as your canvas. And how wonder-full the result.

The power of scent

How amazing, that a scent can bring back memories so powerful and visceral!

I went somewhere tonight and entered a small nook in order to deposit my coat and purse -- and suddenly I was a small child in church. Someone else who also left their coat wears a perfume which the olfactory part of my brain immediately told me I had smelled before, from some lady who went to our church when I was a child. I felt like I'd been blasted into another zone! I was immediately transported back to the lovely wood of my childhood church.

I wonder who it was, and what the perfume was. If I'd known whose coat it was emanating the scent, I'd have asked her, but I didn't. A time travel miracle courtesy of my brain. Wow.

The Olympics

Okay, call me a wimp, a pushover, a sucker, whatever you like.... But I love to see so many people from different countries getting together with a common goal, cheered on not only by their own compatriots but also by those with an appreciation of their skill and ability. I love to see the country flags raised, hear the national anthem of the winner, hear the cheers of the crowd as their countrymen go by. The sports themselves? aaanh... don't really care. But I do appreciate what can all represent.

Maybe idealist is actually the best word..

Heart-rending

There was recently a terrible ski tragedy that claimed the lives of two men well-liked in our town, a 46 year old pilot highly involved in minor hockey and a popular 17 year old still in high school. The town was rocked and shock was universal. The family of the older man has attended my church for as long as I can remember; our kids are in Sunday school together and so on. I knew the Sunday service immediately following their deaths would be somber.

But I didn't expect to be moved to tears by silence. For occupying every single seat in the front row were the members of a couple of the families who were closest to the suffering family. They were not reading, singing, speaking or doing anything else in the service; but every single one of them was there in mute testimony of their shared grief with their friends. It was one of the most moving things I have seen in a long time.

Gold-tipped tree

The sky was marine blue and grey, heavy with precipitation, outside my window. It was getting ready to make us hunker inside and wish for better days. Then, to the east, I saw some breaks letting streaks of sun through. As it was morning, the sun was coming at an angle and as I watched, it hit a deciduous tree behind our neighbour's house. The tree lit up gold, accented by the heavy grey-blue behind it: it was as if it had been struck by something magic. A breathtaking moment.