Valentine's Day.

I slowed down today and the world caught up. Or the world slowed down, and I caught up. Either way, we seem to be friends again, and I'm experiencing the serenity I've been missing for many months. 

I am house and pet-sitting in a beautiful character home in the Nutana area of Saskatoon. The little dog, a rescue, is nervous and fairly needy. We are establishing a kind of rhythm, Max and I. In the morning I dress him in his plaid "sweater" and Velcro him into his felt booties (which he is fond of losing). We get in my Subaru and I drive to the Shell station on the corner of 8th and Broadway. There's a Tim Horton's attached, and Max waits while I steal in for a large coffee and a plain, old-fashioned doughnut. I eat the doughnut at the counter, then we return to the house and go for a walk. Thus far my coffee has not sloshed onto my coat or gloves. 

Later in the day their is a reprise: another walk. Outside of these activities I work on the edits of my essay manuscript. I Wasn't Always Like This (And Other Essays) will be out this fall with Signature Editions.  I feel there is so much left to do on it. The writing really never ends. Nor does the editing. Eventually you just have to make yourself stop.

Sometimes I see friends, or family. Mostly I don't.

Today I took Annie Dillard's An American Childhood into a patch of sun on the bed. The small dog with the slightly-foul breath curled next to me. The cat, Mr. B, was in his usual window perch. I read Annie's good words. I fell asleep. I felt loved. 

It is Valentine's Day, and three times young men have walked past the house cradling bouquets wrapped in brown paper. My love is six hours away, and this, our first Valentine's Day as a couple. 

I can't help thinking of all my friends -- and all my strangers -- who don't have partners, and how this day might be among their most miserable of the year. Or not. I'm a "couples" person; some people are, I understand, content with their own company. One year not long ago I was alone, and feeling sorry for myself. I e-mailed 14 valentines to friends, and didn't receive a single valentine back. So much for that experiment!

Let it go ... 

There comes a time when the offspring become wiser than the parent. Recently my daughter told me I need to love myself more. Maybe it starts with the quiet, and the sun. Maybe I need to learn to let go of stress. Just close my eyes and let it go, like a child lets go of a kite ...  

  

The Beauty of His Feet on Christmas Morning

                                                  (for Janos)

     

Outside the covers, beneath my lips.

Paper and bows from last night’s unwrapping

crushed into balls

on the carpet downstairs.

Stockings now emptied. 

Board games await the afternoon.

The coffee’s unmade, and his son sleeps

in his jeans. Rabbit tracks pock the snow

between townhouses. Spruce stand there

like shepherds, like the souls

of our beloved dead.

Possibly I have died, too. Another spent candle

among the ceramic nativity scene,

the donkey and cow

each missing their right ear.

The world glows. Daylight on his feet,

the gospel of snow. A rain of crumbs

where we sat late into the night, laughing

and eating Hungarian biscuits.

The poinsettia’s leaves. The silent guitar.

The delicate sculpture of his arch.

Amid the chaos and flurries—

holiness and champagne. These bared,

innocent flares. No one beating

at my doors. Only these

two stark winter birds. I begin again

at his shoreline.

-Shelley A. Leedahl

   

New book contract signed today!

These are days of yellow roses and champagne ...          
                    
Signature Editions (Winnipeg) is bringing out my collection of essays, I Wasn't Always Like This, in Fall 2014. Many of these personal essays have appeared in journals, magazines, and in anthologies, and some have been recognized with awards from the Saskatchewan Writers Guild. 

Now the work of choosing what stays, what goes, and what remains to be written. The final essay is in progress. It will be called "Egészségedre" - the Hungarian way to say "To your health." 

Colour me grateful.

Huatulco, Mexico.

 

From the air, the jungle surrounding Huatulco resembled broccoli. Dense, dark green. I could smell it before the Sunwing jet door opened like a jaw, and we Albertans walked toward the palapa-roofed airport arrivals building. We had our passports stamped, our luggage dog-sniffed, and were free.

 

Late afternoon. My good friend Flo had arrived an hour earlier, via Vancouver, and she was waiting for me. My first ever girls'-only trip; now I understand the appeal.

 

A regular-sized van waited to shuttle us to our 60-room hotel, the VillaBlanca, 4 kilometres from where 99% of the other tourists were headed: the all-inclusives. There was a little delay, as I've come to expect in Mexico. Good. Time enough to peel off my clinging pants and sweater, and slip into the linen shorts and light top I had at-the-ready.  

 

We settled into the van and not three minutes passed before someone said "Saskatchewan," and I realized that Rhonda, the daughter of my former neighbour Ruth (in Middle Lake), and her husband Greg were among the small group. Rhonda and Greg had rented my house for a few days over the Christmas holidays in 2011. (I would also soon meet folks from Eston, SK, who knew my sister Crystal and her family.) 

 

I am too tired to write more now. Will pick this up again later in the week. For now, here's a short video.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Musical fun on a November day.

Trio: Megan on cello, Anna on guitar, Shelley on piano.
Playing Bach ... and Elvis.

Daylight Savings

An extra hour of sleep is snow-ushered in

as if time and the elements colluded.

And yesterday the city’s good citizens

were raking last leaves, tarping

patio furniture. Even us. The garden draped

in crackling blue plastic

weighted with old-fashioned bricks.

                           One day into winter

and we’re surfing foreclosures

on Vancouver Island. My bed calls,

the window draws my heavy eyes

to the white sky and raspberry canes

bent under the fresh weight of snow.

Winter wipes away.

It calls for snowy owls.

Unburdening.

And Qualicum Beach: oldest mean population

In Canada. Will I surrender? 

The neighbours did not get their trampoline

packed up. Nail-sized icicles decorate

the eaves of the dilapidated garage.

A woman in the alley sweeps heaps of snow

off her compact white car

and it stops resembling a sleeping polar bear.

The skeletal plum trees’ throw graphic shadows

against the cedar fence. The light sharpens

and before my gaze the snow-garden softens:

cat’s paw-prints across the deck

become pocks, become larger nothings.

Winter advocates slowness. It compels us

to sincerely see.

Qualicum: republic of retirees.

Difficult to fathom green winters.

Nights without a furnace’s calming push

of heat.

An extra hour to these new days.

I allocate mine to snow.

-Shelley A. Leedahl

Book Spine Poems

The Regina Public Library 

is sponsoring a book spine poetry photo challenge. 

What a terrific idea! 

I looked around my office this morning, came up with 

six piles of books, six photos, six poems.

So much fun, I had to force myself to stop.

No apologies for the weather

beneath that starry place

closer to the sun.

Who has seen the wind

where the wild things are

inventing the hawk.

Your last day on earth

everything arrives at the light:

the touchstone,

birthday letters,

clay birds

beyond my keeping.

Yes.

The small words in my body

could be the gates of the sun,

proof of a tongue,

earth after rain,

you.

-Shelley A. Leedahl

  

October.

The day is a cold grey stone

under her skin.

That night we were ravenous

in the vision of birds

in a city you will never visit.

Two citizens

accordion breathing and dancing,

becoming light.

Coming home from home

west by northwest.

Waking in Eden.

-Shelley A. Leedahl

Listen, Honey,

tell me everything:

     a few words for January,

     what is already known,

     country roads, great Canadian murder

     and mystery stories,

     orchestra of the lost steps,

     the house of the easily amused.

How did you get this number

in a sunburned country?

Riding planet Earth?

Talking down the northern lights?

Listen, Honey,

you haven’t changed a bit.

-Shelley A. Leedahl

Confidence:

a dangerous friend,

the angel on the roof.

What was mine:

the sweet edge,

a new path to the waterfall.

The other sea. Lost gospels—

various miracles—

The bare plum of winter rain.

The laws of ice—

                                    hard light

vanishing.

-Shelley A. Leedahl

Let me be the one

clinging to the myth

in the misleading absence of light.

The roaring girl

getting to know you

where the rain ends.

What can’t be changed shouldn’t be mourned:

          blood of angels,

          the dogs of babel,

          19 knives,

          a haunting sun.

Listen, Honey,

let’s not let a little thing

like the end of the world

come between us.

-Shelley A. Leedahl

Origami dove

through black spruce

the colour of bones,

a grain of rice.

The blue field.

Restless white fields.

The height in between

yellowgrass, red clay

legacy.

Atonement.

The old familiar

fascination.

The day is a cold grey stone,

the yellow heart

cool.

Black zodiac.

What is this thing called love?

-Shelley A. Leedahl