feb. 15

 

Covid day 342: This is counting the days since the World Health Organization declared Covid-19 a pandemic. When these days were running into the 50s and 60s it was foolish of me to think it would end soon. 342 days is a more realistic number for a pandemic, but it is distressing to see that in many parts of the world covid is still rampant, and always mutating to best take advantage of its human hosts as countries try to balance opening up for the economy and lockdowns to counteract the increased infections. We keep opening the oven, so to speak, to check how the covid cake is doing, but each time we do that it resets the time it will take for the cake to be done. Covid numbers rise whenever we let our guard down. Here in Canada, as prevention protocols have become more aggressive and more consistently adhered to, the number of cases is once again getting under control. With vaccinations underway there is a chance we will be able to get ahead and stay ahead. But as I think that, I turn my mind to the dozens of poor countries where a vaccine is still years away, with covid variants popping up like mushrooms in the rain, and I’m reminded that we don’t live on an island, there are no covid fences. The vaccine then looks like a fool’s party hat that we can don, but it won’t keep out the rain and at the end of the day; we are still in the midst of a world-wide plague. 

The occurrence of significant variants, although mutations are always happening, is alarming because they can affect the virus’ communicability, its severity and the threat to vaccine efficacy. It may be that a less severe variant might eventually take over, but I don’t know enough about what makes a successful virus! 

Live now, don’t wait; but tighten your mask strings: we are in this for the long haul. 

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Feb. 13

I sat on the porch awhile yesterday afternoon. [It was quite cold, minus 11, and I have discovered that my fingers start to freeze at that temp. Not used to wearing gloves, I’m from Toronto, and I forget.] I was watching the hills. I noticed that I did not hear a sound. Not a bird, not wind, not a car. Also, I realized I had crossed another line in the growing old journey. I was sitting with a blanket across my knees! But the symptom may not be the blanket so much as having the time to sit on a porch in the winter and look across a valley while the sun shines. We walk through our lives wearing the cloaks of the archetypes, not so much as individuals but as actors in an on-going performance of the human personas.

The witches in the sun.    

We are halfway between the solstice and the spring equinox and the sun does seem to be higher in the sky and the light warmer, a gold hue starting to show in the late afternoon. Very uplifting to see the winter easing even while we are not yet feeling winter burn-out. We’re gonna make it! Already my negative voice is trying to think of discouraging remarks, the muddy thaw, cold rain, cloudy weeks, March winds. Go away you nasty voice. The sun fills the valley with light and the hills are blue.

The late sun on the trees above the house.

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A note about living here. We don’t have a washing machine or dryer. We wash the clothes in small batches in the kitchen. I have rediscovered an ancient laundry tool: a sturdy smooth stick with which I agitate the clothes and then roll across them to squeeze out the water between rinses. Works like a charm. Saves water and laundry soap. (I use very little to reduce rinsing). We hang the clothes to dry in the mud room where I have strung up lines. It is actually quite meditative to do the daily chores when there is time, when the pace of the day is slow. There are only two of us to take care of: we have all day to clear snow, bring in wood, clean the fire-stove, make baked beans. 

 

We have a real woodshed! We are about halfway through our wood pile. 

Good night to our little village. 

Mumma Yaga