Snow and
ice. Ice and snow. It’s January in Alberta, what do you expect? By this time
the snow isn’t pretty anymore. It’s filled with rocks and sand and ice melt.
The ice on the sidewalks prevents safe walking.
This is my
thirty-third winter in Alberta. I’m tired.
As a kid,
growing up on the southern most end of Vancouver Island, snow was magic. It
came rarely, maybe once a year and lasted for a couple of days. There were only
a few hours to enjoy it. And enjoy it we did. It was perfect snow. Not too cold
out, the snow soft and wet enough to make snow men and snowballs. None of us
had snow gear. Our boots were rain boots. Our home made mittens would get wet.
Our sleds were pieces of cardboard.
But it was
glorious. And I wished I lived in a place that had four seasons. My mother,
coming from Thunder Bay Ontario, didn’t like the snow. I thought she was crazy.
Not like snow? How could that be? But she remembers cold days where it hurt
your throat to talk.
I’m on her
side now. Snow here lasts forever. Our summers are so short you don’t get to
see them.
But it’s
not just the snow I’m tired of. I’m tired of my rut. The one I can’t get out of
no matter how hard I try.
I know I’m
supposed to go back to the island. But I’m here, because my daughter's
life is here and my life is not my own yet. I can’t give her the dance
lessons or the studio she so loves. She has possibilities here, right now. I am
merely chasing dreams.
Which will
be fine to chase when there’s no one else that has to be involved.
I have the
goal.
Still the
waiting is hard. Especially in January, on a cold day after Christmas.
*****
Other Blogs I Have Read
Posts
