Friday Ramble - Winter Mornings Are Made of This

I lurch awake before sunrise and make coffee, then lean against the counter and wait for the day to begin. As always, there is the ardent hope that there will be sunlight, that the sun's rays will reach the kitchen window, passing between the slats of the wooden fence on the east side of the garden in their journey. Sometimes there is sunlight on these winter mornings, but much of the time, there is not.

A few weeks ago, I purchased a decent pair of sun specs for myself as a birthday gift, so given the puckish (and often downright contrary) attitude of the weather deities about such doings, we may not see sunlight here until April. I inhale a lovely mug of caffeinated black stuff, bundle up in every warm garment I own and lurch outside to move snow from thresholds, verandas and walkways. With a little luck, the north wind will not turn up and put everything back where it was when I started.

In a week or so, our days will begin to stretch out languorously, but it will be a month or two before real change can be seen and felt in the sun's trajectory through old wooden fences, icy window panes and snow crowned shrubbery. The light is oro pallido this morning, pale buttery gold with a hint of mother-of-pearl.

Some mornings, skies are breathtaking at dawn, their deep blue shading gloriously to pink and gold and purple near the horizon, but the weather is wickedly cold for the most part. Thermometer readings of -30 degrees (Celsius) are not unusual around here in December. Whatever the thermometer says, there is a fine elusive old truth resting out there in the interstices between earth and sky at dawn, in the dance of light and shadow in the snowbound landscape.

On woodland rambles, I trace sharp lines of shadow in the white stuff with my eyes, measure the changes in their inclination from day to day. Warmer, brighter times are already on their way, but we have a very long way to go before they get here, and sometimes spring seems years away rather than months. Until it gets here, I have resolved to look for dancing motes of light in the world around me every time I go out. Occasionally, I may even find a few within myself.

As we potter along, we (Beau and I) try to remember that deep within their dreaming roots, the trees in our beloved woodland cradle the light.