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Title : Winter Sunshine and Weathered Memories
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Winter Sunshine and Weathered Memories

 In contrast to Monday's post about urban noise, I'm featuring a more tranquil scene today, and I only have to swivel my head a quarter turn to the left (and plug my ears!) and I eliminate those digging machines from the cityscape. . . I love the way the morning sun tracks over our terrace garden, and yesterday, its winter-watery light was so sweet, so promising, so magical really, that I grabbed my phone and scooted outside barefoot.  No time for shoes when the light source is moving . . .

(And while there was a crackle of ice on the roof opposite, the terrace concrete was dry, so no toes suffered unduly in the making of this blogpost).

 This corner of the terrace holds a collection of artifacts invested with memories. That iron "It All Began In A Garden" plaque, for example, which I purchased in a little metalworking shop at least ten, perhaps fifteen years ago. It wasn't rusted when I bought it,  and it hung for years on the white wall of our kitchen, linking indoors with out. Here, rusting beautifully on that bench, it does the same thing in reverse, drawing my eyes outward through the window. . . .

 I spotted the green bench the day I drove 90 kilometres home from the university where I'd just Passed (with distinction) the oral portion of my comprehensive field exams, and thus become a Doctoral Candidate. I'd studied over six months for those exams, spent a gruelling seven hours ten days earlier writing feverishly in a small closed room, so much, it seemed, at stake.  Exultant and relieved on the scenic drive back, I'd just begun thinking about how I might celebrate this milestone,  when I saw those uplifting, simple green arches of the vintage Doukhobor bench siting outside a store.  My car seemed to drive itself off the highway and into the parking lot, and I left the shop ten minutes later with a slightly complicated moving project for the coming weekend. . .

The bench sat on our deck, facing the ocean, for sixteen years, and it seems to have adjusted happily enough to its new home.  Once, it may have hosted members of a rural congregation. These days, it hosts a plaster cast we brought home from Bordeaux five or six years ago, an interpretation of one of the many mascarons that adorn that city's architecutre.

 Like the ceramic crow you can see above this aged face, in the third photo above (a gift from an artist friend who was experimenting with sculpting corvids in many, many postures), this fellow is showing the effects of weathering, and I'm not sure how much longer we'll be able to discern his features.

 But I've come to think of him as the primeval Green Man, so it seems altogether fitting that he should demonstrate the transformative power of Nature this graphically . .

 As well, I suppose, since the building we now live in is almost new and constructed from contemporary materials more resistant to weather, I'm very appreciative of any element that points to a longer history and that testifies to the beauty of decay. . .

Back inside, and my toes are completely warm again. My sympathy to the many of you who are hunkered down against the Polar Vortex right now. I sincerely hope that my post from the currently mild climate of the Pacific Northwest doesn't smack of smugness or, even worse, of gloating. . . Just trying to share some sunshine and tranquility. . .

xo,
Frances

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