Dispatch From The Tundra

Lord Wellbourne regrets his long and unexpected absence and wishes his Gentle Readers to know that he has not abandoned the blogosphere. He has been experiencing difficulty with his vertical hold control--in other words, he hasn't been able to remain upright for very long at a time due to some cardio-pulmonary unpleasantness. He hopes to be well and back very soon.

Now he must return to his horizontal position before the sentries posted to watch him realize he has evaded them and slipped into his studio.

Lord Wellbourne also wishes to thank Red for her very nice letter and hopes to be able to reply very soon.

And to all his Gentle Readers he wishes a very Happy Valentine's Day!

The Transcendent Tundra

Like most men I am captivated by women who possess the triple threat combination of beauty, brains, and boldness. In this particular instance the object of my fascination is a rather complicated creature. Freud would assign her with labels such as obsessive/compulsive, passive/aggressive, and possibly manic/depressive. She can be as volatile as she is serene. She can inspire one moment and terrify the next. She is generous and miserly. Her beauty is the fodder of poets and her wrath causes men to find their misplaced religion. She is an international superstar and the girl next door. Even her anger has a beauty that enthralls. She is older than the hills and as fresh as 'the darling buds of May'. Her name is "Mother Nature".

Winter here on the tundra gives a person plenty of opportunity to ruminate over one's environment. It is cold. Not as cold as it could be or has been but cold enough to brave the outdoors to gather up the wood for the fire that warms the thought processes.

The snow that fell before Christmas is what led me to ponder the mind of Mother Nature. I watched as she placed big fluffy flakes ever so gently upon every needle of every branch in the pines and firs. But she also took care to outline all the twigs and branches of the other leafless trees so as not to have them feel left out. Everything was highlighted--white upon green or brown against a greyish blue backdrop. The lower branches of the pines became so laden that they bent down towards the ground to create the flying buttresses for miniature Gothic cathedrals of snow and wood for the red squirrels to worship in. Vespers were said in the awesome silence wrapped in white.

Over the next few days the sun's warmth erased the scene so carefully constructed. Mother Nature took it in stride and yielded up her crystal confections to dazzle the eye. As each branch freed itself a cascade of pure white confetti caught the light as they joined their compatriots blanketing the ground. All in a deafening silence of delight.

The next snow was not so pleasant. She wasn't about to repeat herself. She tossed it down at us like a gauntlet and laughed as we attempted to pick it up. She's like that sometimes. And who can blame her? Humankind has as long a passive/aggressive-obsessive/compulsive-manic/depressive history with her as she has had with us. We rearrange her landscapes, we reconstitute the air in her skies, we exploit the resources in her waters. No one likes to be criticized or improved upon, least of all her. So every now and then she shakes things up a bit, blows out the candles along a few coastlines and prairies, and gives a few places a good dousing. It's just her way of reminding us that, do what we will, she's still the boss.

She is a strange mistress. Her daily routine keeps me humble while elevating my soul to her level. She gives only to take it away in order to reimburse you with something else. As benevolent as she is, it is a very dangerous misstep to take advantage of or for granted what she has to offer. Winter on the tundra behind the back woods lends itself to the realization that she and we are not so very different. We want to be appreciated and respected, loved and cared about. My only resolution for the new year is to be mindful of my place in her scheme of things and vice versa.

I Hope Yule Like This

Her official arrival isn't for a couple of weeks yet, but Mother Nature's frigid sister has been teasing us with her icy embraces. Just now it is snowing. Large, fluffy flakes wafting down and exerting effort to defy gravity while seeking out the ideal resting place. It's a Currier and Ives kind of snow. The type that almost makes you want to get out the boxes of decorating paraphernalia and yield to wild abandon. Almost.

I am acquainted with people who, as soon as the dinner dishes are cleared on Thanksgiving Day, hoist the evergreen into place and have at it. I am not one of them. I've already had to listen to tidings of good cheer for weeks in every store I enter. Aisles of sundries shoved sideways for Santa. The rabid retail redecorating of businesses is perhaps one of my biggest pet peeves.

Please don't misunderstand--I love this season! I love the lights, the glitter, and the colours. I love the crisp, brisk air and the snowy serenity. What I don't like is the avaricious pursuit of material gain. Everything is now 40 to 60 percent off. I believe that includes dignity as well. I have already informed those who are on my gift list that they will be receiving hand-crafted practical gifts. I will not be seeking indulgences from department stores or sacrificing myself on the altars of to-die-for whatevers at bargain prices.

The tree will go up at some point. It will be dazzling and bejewelled with family heirlooms and my latest creative efforts. The lights will dance off of garlands of faceted beads and snowflakes. My mother's hand-crocheted angels will dance among the boughs dripping with tinsel. The cats will vie for space on the tree skirt beneath the celestial confection above. Cats and ribbons are not a good combination so the gifts will be stowed in one of the guest rooms until distribution time. No surface will go unadorned. The creche here, old world Father Yules there, all bathed in warm lighting.

There may or may not be background music. Depends on the mood. I know that silence is scary for some people but, personally, I like the quietness when I'm taking all the Christmas wonder in. I don't need anyone to tell me how or what to feel. In fact, I think it's distracting to the other senses. I think Christmas should be a season of sponteneity not habit. Traditions are wonderful but should never be absolute as if they were written in stone. I don't want to be limited by the past or restricted by the present. Christmas should evolve just as we evolve as each year passes.

Time is the rarest and most priceless gift we either give or receive. If we spent as much time reaching out to one another as we do decorating and selecting the perfect gift, Christmas would get its' meaning back and the world would be the better for it.

Regrets

Today would have been my father's 91st birthday. He passed on in 1992. When he was 10 years old, the Stock Market crashed and he came of age during the Great Depression. When I was 11 years old Woodstock happened and I came of age during the Watergate fallout. Two very different worlds often collided under a single roof.

I wrote the poem below for my dad in November 1980. This is for you, Dad, as much today as it was then. Happy Birthday.


Regrets


I called my dad tonight;
We started with the weather
And ended with 'I love you'.
I remember I stopped kissing him good-night
When I was fifteen.
I wish I were back home tonight,
....And fourteen again.