Working today from home, I was blessed to be spared braving the winter storm we are having here in Montreal. Although I would normally take public transit, I knew the walk on slippery and some slushy paths would not have been pleasant.
By the end of the day, I could see the rising temperatures had turned the snow to ice. What beautiful images I saw as I admired the bare-branches-no-more, and tiny icicles hanging on like tear drops. I felt elation and a sudden gust of childlike wonder. For long moments, I could feel my grief dissipate, replaced by mild sparks of enchantment.
The only death I truly accepted and understood the infinite journey was my grandfather’s death. Although I was only six, I was blessed to be in a family that was open about life and death; my grandmother being a midwife, talked often of the births she assisted and it did not take away my youth as so many of my Anglo-Saxon raised peers felt…French Canadians kept many European mores I think. And so I remember going to hospital to await the news the doctors would pronounce of the impending fate of my GrandPapa. We often sat by his bedside holding his hand daily for a year, as I lived with my grandparents that year. My sister and I saw the priest perform his last rites, Extreme Unction and his last smile at me surrounded by his children the day he passed.
So for me, finite meant my favourite person had an expiry date to his suffering; he would be in a place where there is no pain, where he could run freely …and yes, I believed this and to some extent still do.
At my age, I have lost many relatives and friends to death and more recently a friend and colleague for whom I have shared a series of haiku;unfortunately there are many I have not quite accepted…sudden deaths, people too far for me to go to their service are mostly the people I still struggle to accept and sometimes I feel it was all a dream and they are still here.
How often I wanted to dial the number of my friend, Janet, who died suddenly when I was far away. The only person who read my mind, felt my emotions; our signal to chat after midnight…one ring…we both knew was the other who wished to talk until dawn. I still don’t accept the infinite passing of this friend.
(American Sentence)
Grandpapa, tu es toujours près de moi, dans mon cœur, ombrant mon âme.
(haiku)
humble corps affaibli enfin libéré douleur fini
âme pétillant pure et infini les cieux attendent
yeux brillants plonge dans l’éclat céleste lumière blanche
After a snowstorm, it is like walking on another planet. The sounds are varied…I don’t need my earbuds…the winter air provides a concert. Hearing the muffled sound walking through fresh powdery snow …30 cm or more. Along the way you hear a flop and look around to see the weight of the snow on pine tree, flop, flop falling to the ground.
Hearing a crunchy sound on spongy snowy surface…makes you want to stop…when my children were little, I would lie on my back on the snow and wave my outstretched arms…we had made our first snow angels on this soft fluffy snow.
If it is warmer weather, the snow will be sticky and heavy…wonderful time to make a snowman or two or nice big fort!
Last winter we had such bitter cold days, not that much snow…well, for our standards in Quebec but the cold…brrrrr… the loud echoes of crunch crunch when walking is so vivid…I love that sound walking home late at night. It keeps me company walking alone. Wrapped in layers starting with cotton long johns, gloves covered with mitts, lamb lined boots, topped with duvet lined coat, my pilot hat, over a ski mask the air too cold to breath, cheeks prickling from the biting cold. Greeting other pedestrians and we can only see each other’s eyes, masked for warmth.
Of course I cannot, not mention, the unnatural sound but still, the sound that lulls me to sleep or puts me in a mellow mood, the concerto of snow plows part of the night across the street from my home is a huge shopping mall. And then the thundering boom of the road snow ploughs clearing the roads for morning traffic.
ice draped branches
shimmer with radiant glow
moonbeams
crunch echoes in biting cold
warm breath forms cloud puffs
whiff of burning pine
recalling romantic evenings
roar of busy ploughs
![tablet-win_20141116_092522-2[1]](https://cheryllynnroberts.ca/wp-content/uploads/2014/11/tablet-win_20141116_092522-211-e1416869034785.jpg)
Tournesol dans un Jardin 