My Way of Living:
Rural

You know when you've not been yourself, and you start to feel a bit better? So you are inspired to go and do something, and it feels so good to do anything at all, that you kind of over do it?

Even when the little voice inside of your head says… "don't do that, you're going to be sorry." And even though you know for certain that the next day you are going to pay for it, but you just don't care?
Because the sun is shining, and there are honest to goodness green things coming up between the dead leaves.
And that feathered bulge on the branch might even be a Robin singing it's heart out.
You have to do something, and it's not gardening if you just wander around the yard is it?
So you go and do what you are not supposed to be doing.
Which is gardening.

But you lie to yourself, telling that inner voice,"I'm not raking, I'm just…planning."
Yes planning the garden.
That's what I am doing. Not planting. Nope, oh no not me…just moving this teeny tiny little plant a wee bit over. Because I'm planning.

The garden.
With that you squish the teeny tiny voice in your head like a bug. And you tell it," I'm not bending, not me." "I'm…well, I'm squatting." "It's squats…millions of people do those all the time." "Some of them actually like it, and now I know why." You tell the squeaky little voice in your head,"I kind of like exercise, everything is going to be fine."
And then you wake up the next morning.
You can't move. And everything hurts, things you didn't know could hurt, do.
Blame it on the squeaky little voice who should have known better, and the squats.
Because YOU, weren't gardening. I'm going to wait until next week to unpack those boxes at www.thelightlaughed.com I haven't moved over there just yet.
I still love being Jane@Muddy Boot Dreams, so for now I will be keeping my social media sites the way they are, and using the new name for the blog until things get organized.

Rustling birds disturbed by progress down the rural road fly by, flicking from branch to branch. Soon there will be nests, eggs and chicks. Life moving in circles.

My heart swells when I see the mountains bearing less snow, spring is arriving. Bleeding hearts, red stems shaded, cold, but determined to grow through the soil.

Pink blossoms give me a heart shaped thrill. Ferns unfurling, hairy, and brown, green hidden deep, soon to show. Hosta striped stems swirl from the ground, poking, pushing. Buds breaking, no spilled tears. Branches ripening, reviving.

Come spring! Come warm weather! Leave, snow covering the brooding mountains. Bring shine, and laughter to our world. Reach deep into my gardener's heart, and make it swell. PS: If spring has not reached your part of the world, I will send a wish that it will come soon.

I wrote and scheduled this post last week, and completely to my Gardener's embarrassment forgot that it was the first day of spring today. There's a pretty good reason why, and I will be sharing that along with a few other things on Monday's post, see you then.

Winter has returned to the dark hole it hibernates in to avoid the other seasons, the snow is nearly gone.

It feels as if it was never here. Invigorated by the warm breeze, we, and I use the term we loosely, had just finished raking the entire yard. And surveyed the cleaned up brown patches flecked with emerging green with a sense of accomplishment. One item ticked off of the spring cleanup list. A hour later the wind rose up in a fury.

Gust swayed the tall Fir trees, cracking branches with a terrible bangs, blowing dust, gusting from every direction. The tidy landscape changed to a full on scattering of enormously long branches impaling the soft ground as they fell from 40 feet up. Too dangerous to stay outside we retreated inside. And watched with dismay as all of our hard work was undone.
We were out there too soon, and have to cleanup once again. We could view it as a chore, something that had to be done, reversed in a matter of hours. But in that sweet moment we were living life, the warmth of sunshine on our pale seasonal skin, air fresh in our lungs as we called out to neighbors walking by. The breeze mingling in the strands of our hair, jackets thrown to the ground, green blades of grass revealed with each raking, that moment can't be taken away from us. Laura at Simple Serene Living wrote a encouraging post about bookmarking life, living the moment as it comes. It made my heart sing, and it was a good reminder, despite our best intentions, we sometimes rush through life, missing moments when they come by. Being outside in the spring sun, that was a"bookmarked" moment that made the work worth while, despite the outcome. Do you find yourself rushing, ticking off items on your to do list, or do you tend to live each moment as it comes? I think it's truly hard to keep living in the moment, but oh, when you do…it's sublime.

PS:
My move to Word Press, and a new URL, is on the back burner for the next little while. That's OK, because thanks to Brenda at Cosy Little House, I just figured out how to resize my images properly, so I will have some time to practice. Like the spring storm, life can have a way of throwing things at you. You have to be able to move with it, stay flexible, and move forward, so that's what I'm doing here. The new URL will go live, just not this week, or maybe not the next week either. I'll make sure to let you know what to expect when we are once again, closer to that date. For now I am encouraging you to live those fleeting moments, things change rapidly in life. More PS's: Have you checked out our The Over 40 Blogging World facebook group? If you are over 40, it's a wonderful place to hang out with fellow bloggers who are supportive, and passionate about blogging. And…one last thing. My World Wednesday isn't on for this week, look for my next post on Friday, see you then.

Spring seeks to fulfill it's potential.
As s now blowers hibernate, and neighbors appear.
Heavier, older, happier.

Trees stretch, bees swarm in harmonious black clouds, honeyed splendor in a wooden crate. Fields thaw, flood, fill.
Dust flies, buds swell. Ducks speckle the fields like crumbs of a cookie dashed to the floor.
Cat stricken with unknown fever, rolls, runs, jumps, and suns as birds watch from trees.

Window cracked.
Open
Sounds of nature's symphony crawl in through the screen as night comes on to fill it's shift.

Tiny frogs croak, calling to mountains that glow with the last light.
Geese, and ducks, honk, quack in formation, carried on the soft breeze.
Spring arrives softly.PS: Just in case you missed it, I'm moving from Blogger to Word Press at the end of this week. So Muddy Boot Dreams new home will be at www.thelightlaughed.com.
You can read about it here.
I really look forward to seeing you there, and hope that you will come along to see my new home.
Maybe I can get you to help unpack some boxes when you come to visit. And have you seen our new FaceBook group, The Over 40 Blogging World, that Laura from Simple and Serene Living, and I created? The response has been overwhelming wonderful. It's a great group of friendly bloggers getting together for support, and learning. Please check us out. Jen
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Cold ground, morning light.
Horses stamp their hooves. Breath shows, sun creeps through the trees. 5 below zero in my world.

Above the little town.
Sunshine glimmering through a mist of fog while it cuddles the mountains. Hail, sleet, snow waves farewell. Blow March winds, blow. 22 degrees warmer in a few days. White fields, geese flying in formation, honks calling from the sky.
Eagles gathering to feast. Busy highway, big trucks whirl, black wheels noisy.
Dark clouds drop hail, then snow, as it's whisked away with the wind.

Short ride to shed the cold, watch the temperature climb.
6 degrees of Celsius separation.
To the almost big city. Engine purrs as it crests the mountain ridge. Eyes flicker following familiar landscapes, barns, fields, trees, roads and ending in intersections. Almost there. A flurry of shielding our eyes against a bright sun, yellow light glimmering off of puddles on the melting lake. Streetlights, stop signs, winter temperatures warm. Short skirts, bare legs, peek out from under winter jackets. Foolish young things maneuver melting snow piles, gliding by as fast as their goose bumped legs will allow them. Winter layers shed like feathers flying everywhere. Dust flies, vehicles pass. Heart song, deep breath finally, leave the city behind.

Regret, or forget, there's always another trip.
Head towards home. Engine ticks, bags unpack, cat meows. Sunlight stretches golden fingers trying to sneak a store bought cookie off of the kitchen counter. Home again. Breathe deep.

P.S. Aren't you glad that you read all the way to the bottom of this post? Laura, from I'm So Vintage, and I have something that we are working on together, and we will fill you in on that in the near future. I think it's exciting! Be sure to drop by on Friday to find out what I have in store for this blog…hint, it's not just a move.

Doors open onto land transformed. Bird song echos through yards. Pitched off tree branches where sap runs bathed in light.

Quail scatter at the sight of.
Sun warmed black cat's fur. Following a meandering path through the garden. Gracefully stepping over brown striped feathers.

Green sprouts, white snow, brown grass. Sun pushes through faded summer blossoms, stained glass in muted tones.

Blue jays squawk, scatter compost clippings. While denim colored feathers fly. Cedar Waxwings trill in tree tops, replacing Eagles. If the cock Pheasant crows. And the Magpie builds it's nest with twigs. Do we dare to question? Can spring be far behind? When the bird that is black sings? Did you enjoy this: you might want to read this post also.

February sun gently caresses the back of my legs. But it's warmth isn't enough to help my frozen hands hold the hot pink pruners. I end up dropping them into the middle of the thorniest part of the raspberry thicket.

Prickles grab at my jacket, refusing to let go, and there is a disconcerting ripping noise as I try to bend. Score one for the red berries, another jacket down.
Suckers try their best to poke through the heavy layers of vinyl dipped gloves I'm wearing in protection against the canes, but the point goes to me.
Over our heads, past the dark feathery tips of the fir trees, ravens soar in soft circles. Wide spread black wings attempt to catch the clouds drifting by. The sky a blue so deep it should be summer, but the icy snow patches convince me it's Winter still.

The dark birds chuckle follows the keening of the Eagles, taunting, calling, chasing them across the endless skies. The Eagles more determined to gain a meal then territory, perch in the Firs outside our house, waiting to make a dinner of the covey of quail when they drop by the feeder.
"Hold the post up straight" he pleads, bracing being both my job, and the temperature despite this sun streamed day.
In my over zealous attempt to straighten it before it goes over to far, I've sent it careening over the other direction, and it knocks the yellow metal level he is using deep into the bushes.
One more victory for the thorns.

Frozen ground, and snowy patches no match for the annoyance of gazing out all winter at crooked bird houses perched on a poles. It's been on our to do list to straighten them when spring comes.
Frost heaves skewed the poles, the weight of snow dampened the enthusiasm of the raspberries canes, but it's time to prune before the buds swell.
It's almost too late, bare grass, naked in it's"spring is coming" delight swelters in the sun, and freezes under a foot of hard snow in the shade.
I stomp my chilled feet in time to the melodic trilling of the Cedar Waxwings beautifully chiming in the trees across the street. There is a sudden stop to their beautiful music, but it's not my fault. Eagles appear in the sky, white heads shedding sunlight as they glide overhead. Sudden, is the sound of silence.

Soft cooing of Quail breaks out from the bushes over the fence, our supervisors have shown up. The sun lowering in the sky means time for them to advance upon the feeder in squirming droves. One brave bird perching on the fence as a lookout.
We gather up the prickly branches, carefully tossing them into the compost, but they refuse to let go, stubbornly reaching and grasping in desperation to avoid their doom. It's cold even in the sunlight now, February will fight for Winter. But March will bring on spring.

Cold hands, warm heart. Rush last steps to home. Winter chill settles on skin.

Rough branched pussy willows, blossoms so soft. Gathered from the ditch…precious winter gift. I'm the first. This time. Oh dear… Birds of a feather flutter startled. Once again, the look… Mental note, make noise first. Breath exhale, deep, winter yoga, no rush. Relax. Steel key rasps, knob squeaks. Door glides, bringing. Fresh air clinging, as it rides to warmth.

Sun glows through windows once again. Missed, beloved, stay longer, come more often. Bring meringues if you would, please. Snow cover, winter rolls over again in it's bed. Toes cold, tongue tasting. Lips sweet. Mocha, how I love thee…

Let me count the ways. Deep, dark chocolate secrets wafting from a cup. Coffee rich, vibrant, depths inside, withholding tales. Birds gathered, seed flying, big trees hiding. Cat watching, tail twitching, inside's the place to be. Mocha overtaking fresh air, hands heavy with cup. Creamy, dreamy, scented love of sugar.

Sun lowering, mountains glowering. Fog returns from it's shopping trip. Cloaked Eagles cluck in annoyance. Perched like Christmas tree toppers up high. Day, giving back to dark soon. Pink meringue, gooey treasure, crispy crunch. Cat batting at sprinkles on floor. Caffeine rush, sugar high.

Virtuous reward for cold walk. Winter waves from the fields… Pink meringue disappears, bits and pieces, sun behind a cloud. Coffee drunk to the dregs. Meringue a memory. Cat hungry, birds fed. Sun down, fog in. My world, Wednesday… He of the fur, and I of the coffee, sit and dream of dinner.

It was as if Winter had woken up, and rolled over in it's bed. Neatly folding back the white quilted blanket it uses, and exposing parts of Spring underneath all of that snow.

Allowing the day lilies a small toe hold in the garden. Hesitant green sprouts appearing in the frozen earth. Snow recedes at a pace that should exhaust it, showing the brown hairy stems of rigid ferns hidden since November. Fuzzy, muted tones of the moss that stretch toward the rare light, mingle with dead, and decayed foliage. Fog settles on the still white fields, competing with the o verflowing ditches, murky with a combination of ice, mud and hope. Today overflowing puddles where there was a thick white covering before. Birds swoop from tree to tree, calling, sounding like a herald of the next season.

A preview, a promise, loosening the tight grip on the edge of the white blanket of snow that smothers the fields. Melting piles, washing down roof tops, dripping off of the branches. Spring seeps into minds, conversations…jackets undone in the sun. Tightened when frost coats the needles of the fir trees in the early morning, chill, damp, and dark. By the afternoon, the fog goes behind the mountains, up the valley, to those who live in ice for longer. Returning with the echoing blasts of the late train that night. A cycle of winter to spring and back again, a disagreement of which season is to take over, and for how long and when.

Can you find the magpie?
We are merely the viewers of this game between the seasons…not players, nor willing audience. Until Spring steps up for it's turn, and then we applaud, cheer, and stamp our feet in approval, and hope for a winner. If you enjoyed this post you might want to read this one.

So here I am, thinking I'm ready to write my post. It's a day of beauty out there, and the feelings that it brings to earth are pretty amazing. There's a promise in the warm air…that says we might be in for a early spring. I'm not sure if I believe it will happen or not.

That's a post for another day, it's written in my mind, I even have the photos organized. I can't wait to share them with you, [that's what is known as a blogging tease] but I'm saving them for a gloomier day. A colder day, so I can recall the feelings this amazing sunny day is inspiring, and feel good while I write it. See, double the fun. It's not that I am not flexible about what, and when I write, I certainly cover a lot of subjects. It's just that when you have such a beautiful day, you learn to hang onto it as tight as you can, it's hoarding at it's best. Our winter is long here. The shout outs to spring from other bloggers used to bother me, make my fingers itch to get into the soil, not gaze out onto winter cloaks that show no shape. But like everything I've made my peace with it, it's gorgeous here, and when the sun comes out…stunning. It's truly a remarkable day out, and I want to take the time to savour it, make it last. We can share it in a few days, and I will appreciate it even more then. It's earmarked for the middle of the week. Instead I'm trying to find words that are a good fit for the photos that I thought I was using in my middle of the week post, but am now switching out. Life's like that.

The sun is calling my feet to wander, the camera is recharged. The ideas I was so certain I was going to share today are hiding under the blanket with the cat. And he doesn't like to be woken up any earlier then usual. We have this wonderful sun, shining on the white snow…melting the rooftops, dripping, it's above seasonal today. It would be a shame to waste it, wouldn't it? I'll see you in the middle of the week.

Winter lies too long in country towns; hangs on until it is stale and shabby, old and sullen. Willa Cather As I was going through some old images from last year, I noticed this series of shots. Taken in March, that was one of the harshest springs we had encountered for many a decade. I have faith that this one coming will be a little less harsh for us. But just thinking that makes me realize that maybe it’s my last easy spring. In Armstrong the springs are short, cold, snowy, and then the next day it’s summer. At least this is what my sister tells me. I am choosing not to believe her. This spring will be bittersweet for us.

We want to move to that country town, where winter will lay long, getting old and sullen, it’s been our dream for such a long time. It’s hard to realize as we look out into the garden now and see snowdrops, that where we want to live will have snow for a long time still. As a gardener I long for those extended seasons, and here I am giving it up. Makes you wonder doesn’t it? But finally being near my family will be worth it.

♥ ~ ♥

It’s early in the morning, the light is a claustrophobic layer of darkness, the early promise of spring has been broken.
Groaning I feel like covering up my head and continuing on with hibernation, which is what the rest of the world is doing right now.
Winter has decided to give us a memory to take with us well into summer, and it’s approaching the bitter cold temperatures of a normal winter for this climate.
He waves goodbye to me crouching like a zombie at the computer, “I’m getting the paper” he says. But not before he flings open all the drapes on the lower floor exposing us like frantic goldfish in a round bowl with no where to hide. Light spills onto the lawn, the frozen tundra a landscape of grey mounds, and misshapen branches.
I mutter under my breath, as the cold seemingly permeates every corner, the furnace furiously trying to keep up with the sudden change to chill. “Keep them closed until the light changes.” “Nonsense” he declares “it’s daylight in the swamp.” We have this discussion too many mornings, me insisting that they stay closed until we can at least make out objects in the yard, him declaring it daylight… in the swamp, his favourite good morning wake up call.

He manoeuvres the life saving oil filled heater from beside my legs where it is barely giving off heat, to a spot nearer the cat, who is crouched sulkily on the rug besides my chair. It’s survival of the warmest here, and the fur coated, spoiled wake up call is demanding all available heat sources. It’s a fight I lose every morning, but I am resigned to the cold now, and soon it will be spring, I think to myself.
Keys jingling, summer light jacket undone, he fails to see the shivers that rack my body. My feet frozen to the floor I can only nod, it’s dark, it’s early, and it’s cold. He seems to not notice any of that.
“Shouldn’t you be putting a winter jacket on to go trek up the frozen north and get the newspaper?” I ask him only half jokingly, this despite what the temperatures are… and this week they are the coldest of the winter. It’s fine he reassures me… he doesn’t feel the cold. “Sweetie, put another layer on, and some gloves,” I implore him… most people wear winter jackets, “why don’t you try yours on, it’s cold out there.”

Sitting here barely moving, the darkness pressing against the windows like a peeping Tom, snow a stiff horse blanket outside, thick ice in streaks on the streets, I just can’t see not feeling the cold. I day dream of white beaches, and warm surf… not chilled limbs, and white landscapes.
“You're not blogging about this are you?” he asks, I merely smile sagely, paybacks, and all that… take my heater away, what more do I need to say.

A while later the door opens, and a gust of cold artic air permeates the house, “daylight,” he exclaims, “here feel” he laughs as he extends a frozen finger my way. Giggling, I duck out of the way. The cat purrs happily in his domed insulated house the best and warmest spot in the place, the oil filled heater situated right in front of him. His duty is done for a few blissful hours, he’s woken us up, the can openers are moving around, he can now go back to sleep.
My feet have no feeling, there is a wicked draft around my legs, the light creeping through the slats in the window blinds barely illuminates the movement of the birds searching for breakfast.
This time it’s truly daylight in the swamp.

My world on a Wednesday a gathering of scattered fragments, and moments bundled together into a small fraction of the day when life doesn't intrude. It's the microwaves turn to hum. Keeping time. With the drips from the roof. Handle spinning around like a carousal, the frothy milk threatens to bubble over the glass container. Homemade yogurt for breakfast tomorrow.

Hot pan, butter scented sizzle crowds the kitchen. Cat pushes past my leg, hinting, hopeful, long ago fed, big eyed stare, he wins. And accepts his treat with a smirk of feline triumph. Declines a cuddle, heads for the heat. Fickle creature. The sound of the Eagle's keening comes through the open door. Kitty plays the role of indoor cat for now, fly by dinners should be feathered, not fur. Through every window a scene of Winter's latest gift of snow lays. Like a discarded white jacket, one size too small. Bulging out over the landscape where it is torn. Leaving us longing for a fresh coat to cover up the disarray. January is a messy month. Camera clicks. I love that sound. It makes my heart sing. Dishes clink, light shines, fades, moves throughout the rooms. Candy hearts scattered on a painted board tempt. Tea brewed, poured, photographed, and drank in antique cups.

Days stretch, drips fall, light lengthens. For now it's enough to wait for the light. Dash outside to catch the sun. Walk the country roads, and catch my breath as the sun sinks far away. Coating the f olds of the mountains and their fog shrouded valleys in a shimmering light. A stunning patchwork quilt that tucks them in for the night.

Fields white with snow, shiver against the dark silhouettes as the light drops. Stoic and bare, the trees stand guard feet frozen into the soil, tips golden with delight from the long limbs of the sun. My heart sings Feet crunch the gravel. Headed for home.

Contains: 100% Canadian content. All images and text original to Jane Vandervoort

I've got a confession to make. A big one. January, you're bringing me down.

I'd say lets call it quits, kaput, finis, I'm out of here.
But to where?
And what's the point. You would still be here when I get back, if I left.
Remember when I was quoting my neighbor's wonderfully optimistic version of winter.
Well…and here he always pauses,"you've got November, that's almost done, and then you have December, which is Christmas, and then you have only January to get through, because by February you are looking forward to spring…so that's winter."
My neighbor is a retired farmer, and he's lived here forever, so he does know what he is talking about…
When I wrote that post, I really truly believed him. And I think that he believed it too.
But for some reason I think this year is throwing us for a loop.
You know those mornings when you wake up, stumble out of bed, and open the curtains to let the light in?
In some far recess of your mind you realize it's cold in the room, and not that bright outside, but you just ignore that.
Until, you realize that it's not summer.
And there is a couple of feet of snow outside still. Maybe it's slightly less now, with the warming up a bit, but still, it's a lot of snow.
If you have ever seen a pile of snow in a parking lot slowly melting away in April…you will realize that it's not going anywhere fast.
And that when it finally does go, it will go at it's own pace.
And that might not be fast enough for me, or my neighbor.

My gardens are buried, all that hard work of digging, spreading, building, raking, and planting is for naught…there are nothing but billowing mounds of snow left.
I'm a gardener, through and through, in my heart, and in my head. And now…I've got snow gardens.
January, all your fault.
Your fault.
And your friend February, isn't any better…I think that the two of you are in cahoots.
Certainly!
So January Joy…I'm having a hard time finding you, and I know that I was all happy, and confident that I could make it through the entire month just happily sipping hot chocolate, and clicking away at snowballs…but I was wrong.
In fact there are days when I am thinking what was I talking about? January is a bitter, annoyed, mean kind of month.
And if I have to take one more photos of a snow bank…well I, I… I will throw my camera into it! Of course I wouldn't do that… I had to dig deep for a while, look inside, figure out a strategy to make this work. A way of getting through it… Winter isn't a sprint, it's a marathon.

How do you get through it? I'm shooting vignettes, playing with my collection of pretties. Old tarnished silver spoons, antique glass, books, postcards, birds nests. Anything that inspires and nurtures my creativity. I'm playing on Instagram, the community, and quality of images there is awesome and inspiring. January I will not let you get me down. Life is too short, I'm eating the only for company cookies! And I am taking photos, even if you give me dark days. What are your tricks for getting through these dark and dank months.do you go outside, do you shelter inside? Redecorate, redo, plan your garden, delve into those colorful gardening catalogues, lose yourself in a good book? Watch a movie? Oh popcorn…hot buttered, caramel popcorn…yes my mind wanders, sorry about that. Must have been the hot chocolate, and the only for company cookies. January Joy you are mine!
Contains: 100% Canadian content. Original images by Jane Vandervoort

The first snowfalls in the land of the big skies are magical.
Cloaking the world around us with softness, wiping clean the memories of last winter.
Winter welcomed with open arms.
The anticipation of Christmas, the joy of the season, it’s enough to keep us warm.
We pause to take a breath and be fully immersed in the novelty of snow fluff.

The soft glow of the sun as it tries to climb out of the clouds infuses every inch of the outdoors with pearly tones.
Come outside, it’s not as unforgiving as it looks, it lies to us, and we believe it. Anything to see beyond the four walls of stifling indoors.
Fingers numb, toes cold, skin bracing, nose prickling, it’s well worth the effort to bend limbs stuffed with multiple layers into jacket sleeves in order to capture this frosty glow.
We are pioneers, we are strong, we lie to ourselves, look at us dashing through the snow, camera in hand, how brave. Look no mittens.
It’s a winter wonderland, fence posts laden with snow like candy canes, and sugar plums to our eyes. See that tree, the bare branches piled high with white, the road even looks like sugar dust. Click, and hold the camera to our warm bodies as it’s battery dies down… just one more shot, pleeeease.

The warning signs of frostbite, numbness in the button pushing bare finger ignored as worth the cost of agonizing tingles to come later. We are tasked with capturing brown branches sprinkled with white garland, a dusting so light it blows away with our breath.
Click as the birds soar above our heads, everything looks magical in this light. We are in danger of shattering with the cold, clouding over brings a chill unwelcome, but we must capture the light… and then it’s gone.
Hidden behind a cloud, it cries tears of snow as it goes.

Warm memories of heated rooms, and purring cats draw us home.
Sleigh bells ring, are you listening…

It’s Christmas time, and everyone is making wreaths, decorating for the season. So I thought I would share a little “DIY wreath making — farm style.”
Take one rung of barbed wire, nestle over a fence post, and voila… your new farm style country Christmas wreath.
Add a quick dusting of snow, or a touch of ice, and you have the perfect decor item for your outdoor display. Actually I have been longing to shoot these rings of wire every time I pass by them. It seems I never have my camera when I needed it. So this time I made sure to include this fence post in my roaming around yesterday. Head on down to your local farm supply store for supplies.
We are venturing out on another home search today, keep your fingers crossed. I know it’s out there, we just have to find it.

Early, on a dark winter morning, freezing feet shuffling in front of the open door of the fridge, blankly staring into the bright shining depths, I came to a realization.
One: it was dark outside, and cold. Especially with the fridge door open.

Winter was encroaching, or here, shiver.
And the white snow gleaming outside under the yellowed cast of lights from our kitchen windows only served to make it feel even colder inside.
Two: I had absolutely no idea what to make for dinner.
And the most important.
We were out of homemade strawberry jam.
Gone, kaput, spoon rattling in a empty jar, totally out of jam.
And it’s only December.
Except.
For the glistening jar of dark purple colored summer gem, that has sat half full, or half empty depending upon your perspective.
Mocking us.
Disrespected, ignored, in the fridge since it was opened a little while ago by a well meaning family member, who shall remain unnamed, but blamed?
Neglected, this particular homemade jam is the wall flower of summer.

The remaining 5 jars crammed into the corner of the freezer, wrapped in multiple layers of plastic bags to hide it’s disapproving stares.
Ignored, lonely, sad, and forlorn.
Not for this jam the glorious taste testing dip of a spoon each time the metal lid is pried off of the glass mason jar.
Nor would the heady fragrance of a strawberry summer waft into the kitchen as it is smeared onto toast, spread over pancakes, and spooned over the mornings bounty of homemade yogurt.
We take jam seriously around here, when your Sister has a Strawberry farm, you pretty much have it made in the jam department.
But this… this jam was the black sheep of summer.
The honeyed tryst of too many berries, too tired of a jam maker, the love child of August, and September, was shunned by all of us.
Unloved.
And it showed.
Was that mold growing at the top of the jar, glittering lights shining from the fridge through the indented glass jar showed a smear of whitish mould. I silently cheered, and then felt really bad that I was conjuring up a reason to rid ourselves of the accusing jar of jam that no one liked.
The one that despite all encouragement, bribery, begging, no one would eat, sitting unwanted on the gleaming glass shelf of the fridge. I gave myself a scolding for looking for a reason to remove that unrelenting dark purple glass stare. Despite the fact that it pushed it’s self to the front each time the light was shut off, and the door closed.
It’s not like it came from a bad family, or had a unbalanced upbringing… it’s just that the mix of blueberries, cherries, and rhubarb was as my husband put it.
It`s fine it`s just not your Mom’s strawberry jam.

Her jam is a heady mix of ambrosia.
Hot summer days, perfectly ripened Okanagan strawberries gently picked by hand, in the early morning heat, sugar, and love.
Opening a jar of her freezer jam is like no other memory of summer.
Despite the repeated batches she makes, whipping up berries, and sterilizing every jar she can find, there is never enough to last through the winter.
Unless we were to eat the “I’m too tired after making Peach jam, apricot jam, salted brown sugar peach jam, and cherry jam to do anything with these blueberries, and rhubarb kind of jam” that I had thrown together at the end of the summer.
So the love child of summer languishes in the fridge, growing new types of bacteria, ignored, unloved, unspooned, and regretted.
While the strawberries of summer giggle in our warm memories.
But Christmas is coming, and there are many unsuspecting friends who might just love to receive a jar of dark purple summer. I have a freezer full of them.
No regifting allowed.

The last blog post was written at the kitchen table, late at night. This one is written in the early morning light of a quiet house, with the sun rising over the mountains. It is reflecting a particular peace, that’s the only way I can explain it. I wish I could share the view with you, and I will. It’s just that for the last few hectic days, I have been relying on my camera phone. And that’s in the bedroom, where my husband is sleeping.
Trying to keep a restless cat quiet in the early mornings isn’t easy, he loves to jump down onto the hardwood floors like a lead balloon. Thunk, bang, meow. It’s four am and he’s up, only problem is no one else is. We plan on keeping him in the bedroom with us at night until he is acclimatized The house is much larger then the little condo we shared with him, and he can be found meowing away on another floor. It takes a little while, and he is doing fine.
Boo feels best when everyone is up, and in the kitchen. He reminds me of a sheep dog, herding his sheep, and that would be us. Until each of us is up, he is restless, and demanding. Hard to ignore. '
So for now, with the cat quietly exploring the living room, I sit, watching the brightening light, through the dark trees, with misty clouds intertwined among them like a garland of fluff. There are mountains in the distance, and a particular peace in my heart.
The house is stirring… it’s morning in my new life.

E ver been to a place, and it feels familiar, as if you belong like it’s home. That’s what the Okanagan feels like to us. And each time we left at the end of our vacation, I honestly felt my heart break. It was like leaving home… I cried every time I left. Don’t tell my sister.
When we still lived down on the coast, [which is just a day ago, as I write this], it felt like home, but more so when I was near the water. The Okanagan called to us, not just because family lives there. The climate is completely different, trust me. It’s arid, and hot in the summer, cold and dry in the winter. There is no similarity to the wet, rainy weather that I grew up in. The plants are different, and there is no lush undergrowth. But this land of snow, and far reaching skies has grabbed our very hearts and held on. And now we are here. The trip through the mountains can be fraught with winter snow storms that close the Coquahalla Hi way for days… we had dry and bare pavement all the way.
Our November weather on the coast is never dry this time of year. It was a beautiful sunny, crisp day in White Rock when they loaded the truck. Yesterday as they unloaded almost everything we own in the storage locker, although it was cold, it was sunny. Blessed, that’s what we are. And we are thankful for this wonderful opportunity that has been given to us.
Today, the excitement lay far out in the fields of asparagus at my Sister’s farm. A cow, wandering loose, was ploughing it’s own path through the stubble. Something not seen to often in White Rock, if ever. It’s a new world. It’s as if it’s all fall ing into place, and it feels like a home coming of sorts…

My heart is just not in it lately…
You know the feeling.
Why, how, what?
Usually it’s the photos that motivate me.
The light, the sun.
On a sunny day, I am superwoman.
With a camera.
Nothing can stop me.
And even after a snowfall, I am enthusiastic.
Heartfelt blogging is easy then.
Just write what you feel.
Look out the window, grab the camera, shoot like it’s your job.
And in some ways it is.
And then, you know the feeling, there are too many things needing your attention, the fresh greens are piled on the porch, the snow is dripping steadily off of the roof onto the back of your neck, the plants left behind in the pots are soggy, and no longer crisply frozen. It’s not like they are beckoning me to go out and create.
So I put it off, for another “maybe it will be nicer tomorrow” kind of day. And it wasn’t, and it might not be for awhile.
In blog land, news of bloggers taking the month off, giving themselves a break.it’s so tempting.
Maybe a easier schedule, one dictated by the heart, not the calendar. Curl up like the cat, and just surf Pinterest.
I’m wavering…
I bet you are too.
We will see.
Enjoy your Sunday.