January 24.

Driving through a blizzard in the dark, snow flakes are hurled at the car. In the headlights it looks like I'm being showered with diamonds.

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Writing Our Way Home

January 23.

Soft white crystals fill the air around me. Fluffy white stuff cover branches. Swish, swish from cars driving by. 

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Writing Our Way Home

January 22.

In my mindfulness and yoga class I learn what it is like to be fully present and aware of myself. After class I try to practice what I have learned.

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Writing Our Way Home

January 21.

Patterns in frosty snow on a frozen lake,
 playful traces of ice skaters who were here earlier.

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Writing Our Way Home

January 20.

Dare I take the leap?

I did, and what are you looking at?

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Writing Our Way Home

January 19.

Moonlight on the bedroom wall, reflected by a mirror. A grandchild sleeping sweetly.

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Writing Our Way Home

January 18.

In crispy, refreshing -12C/10.4F I stand under the star studded velvety blue-black sky, and catch a shooting star in the corner of my eye. 

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Writing Our Way Home

January 17.

Ice over a rock by the shore cracks as the tide goes out, and forms a natural sculpture that catches the last rays of the setting sun.

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Writing Our Way Home

January 16.

Walking in nature on a frosty day
is a true practice of mindfulness.

Today, even the stones were cold.

Ice crystals were growing everywhere.

Patterns appear.

 Things stand out that are not usually so noticeable.

Day stars on the ground. 

Reeds trapped i ice.

And eyes appeared to be following me.

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Writing Our Way Home

January 15.

Submerged in citrusy fragrant hot water, surrounded by incense and candles, a book, and morning coffee on the side, I transition from night to day in a very comfortable manner.

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Writing Our Way Home

Our drunken minds

Our drunken minds bend to a breaking point 

where neither poetry nor virtue can diminish our 

wish to ditch heavy burdens at the palace steps

so we can enter our rooms lightly. 

* * * * *

I have no idea where this came from, it just - came. 

No deep psychology here :-) 

* * * * *

Wordle 91

The words to play with were:

burden  bends  drunk  poetry  virtue  palace

ditch  diminishing  wish  breaks  room  steps

The Sunday Whirl

January 14.

Last night, just as I was about to turn in, I went outside to have another look for the Aurora Borealis (Northern Lights). And there they were, my first sighting this season. Even though it was midnight, I could not resist, so I put my thermal suit on, and for 30 minutes I was given the privilege to stand under the huge black star studded dome and watch this nature's wonder at play.

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Writing Our Way Home

January 13.

Curled up together in a cocoon of warmth, soft bed linens rest lightly on our skin, while the world outside continues to cover itself in ice crystals. We make the most of these two nights we are given.

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My beloved went back to his convalescence program tonight for another two weeks after a weekend leave. He is a leukemia survivor after having received a stem cell transplant with stem cells donated by his sister in Aug. 2010. After a round of infections last year, he's weak, but is now receiving help to train himself back to a normal life.

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Writing Our Way Home

January 12.

This morning the world came to my door dressed in a white coat strewn with glittering diamonds, and invited me and my camera to come out and play.

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Writing Our Way Home

January 11.

Silently, slowly, carefully I walk down the hill to the graveyard. Ice crystals on frozen ground crunch beneath my boots, cold air bites at exposed skin. 

The first time I walked here was last summer. It was green, and warm, and I walked behind my son's coffin.

I light a candle and place it on his grave. As darkness falls, it shines brightly. 

Today is six months to the day since the last time I saw my 29 year old son in this life.

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"How life plays tricks on us" 

- the blogpost I wrote about my son's death.

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Writing Our Way Home

January 10.

A drop of water,
born yesterday,
froze last night.
Got caught by the sun today,
started melting
and almost got away,
but froze in action.
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Writing Our Way Home