It was raining when I went to bed. Not enough to make that lovely sound that lulls me to sleep, and not enough to make the air smell clean. Not enough to wash anything, carry away any dust or even take the kitty footprints from my car windshield. Just enough to make the air cold and damp, to make the top layer of earth in the barren flowerbeds wet enough to cling to my dog’s paws when I let him outside.

This morning, there was snow. The night had turned the moisture on the ground to a thin but perilous layer of ice, and concealed it beneath a dusting of snow. It was inches deep and still falling. Not the fluffy flakes that float down and melt on your tongue or cling to your eyelashes, the ones that can be admired for their individuality when caught on mittens. Not flakes, rather granules, like sand, or salt, or sugar, shaken from a sifter, suspended in the breeze before settling on every exposed surface.

The microcosm of my neighbourhood gave my mind an image to play with. The snow was not what I consider to be ideal. It wasn’t perfect, in a poetry and prose and storybook kind of way, it wouldn’t hold together to make snowballs or snowmen, it drifted and blew up off the ground in the wind, stinging my eyes and skin and obscuring my vision. But in a moment of calm, I looked around. The imperfect snow had made my neighbourhood new. The sidewalks and street were blank canvases to be doodled on and signed by each set of feet or tires that travelled them, lawns looked like beds freshly made with clean crisp cotton sheets, and the quiet was tangible.

My dog didn’t care about the significance of the snow, whether it stood up to my standards or not. He dove into it, exploring his world made new, bounding through chest high drifts, burrowing through the drifts to take in the changes in the scents he knew.

So the best lesson I’ve learned in a long while came from a night’s change in weather, and a ten pound wee beast.


My world doesn’t have to be made perfect to be made new. And the medium with my new picture, the new backdrop to my life, might not be exactly what I want, but the newness is what matters. And once it’s there, it’s time to explore! It’s not a fresh start if I stall or idle and hesitate or refuse to take it. I need to actually start, if I hope to ever really start over.





~ by Trillian on 11/17/2010.

5 Responses to “Start”

  1. I agree with Jim. This is wonderful writing. I had to read this several times because it was so descriptive and yet, so simple

    • Thank you, Hiro! I can hardly believe that anyone takes the time to read my posts once, let alone several times. I value your opinion rather a lot, and take your praise to heart.

  2. I don’t know if you’ve taken any particular writing education or if this is talent alone, but I’m impressed just the same. Don’t be surprised if you pick up regular readers!

    My world doesn’t have to be made perfect to be made new.

    Sublime, that.


    • Thank you Jim, your words of praise make me blush. I haven’t had the education I would like to, I just try to take what’s in my heart and mind and let it out the best I can, hoping that someone, somewhere, will benefit in some way. I am honoured that you appreciate it.

      • Gee, now I’m going to blush too! I like your writing, and I’m curious to see what you write about in the future.


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