Write Me a New Day
And Make it a Good One
It’s mid-February, and I’m neck deep in my dedicated hatred of this, the longest shortest month of the year. February feels like a damp shroud wrapped around my face, pushing my anxious breath back against my nostrils, a cold fabric of mist and malaise. It is not quite dawn; the sky is breaching the hold of night and manifesting a sad tableau of sodden-teabag clouds. Mother Nature has found a way to push every one of my dread-buttons, as she does each year without fail. Even here, in my new home in the gorgeous wine-country oasis of the Okanagan Valley of British Columbia, Canada, where we have seen exactly three days of snow so far, and only a handful of days that have been in the double-digit negatives, I feel petulant and annoyed to have to spend whatever life I may have left shivering and shuddering and staying inside. I can tell you now, when you have cancer and have been told there is nothing but maintenance drugs to hold the advance, the restraints put upon my ability to live life and celebrate each day to the fullest seem extra cruel, those precious seconds of each hour ticking by with no regard for my anguished state of mind.
A hot cup of tea in hand, I stare through the sliding door to my front deck, taking in the sullen view. I am feeling impatient, aching, and antsy, and it occurs to me that to survive the rest of this season, I must toss a Winter Survival Tool Kit up into the universe and conjure a New Day.
The images begin to coalesce, a sudden, sweet wind ruffles my hair. The bitter ochre sky becomes blue, with just enough chubby clouds floating by to paint a picture in my mind, a young lady in a billowing white gown, perhaps, reclining against the buttermilk nebula, her face in soft profile, hair streaming down her back, her arms raised in …… supplication? Celebration? Better…..much better, but what else?
I want to see the deep sapphire-blue surface of Okanagan Lake glimmer in the near distance, sewn, as it is, to the russet foothills of the Cascade Mountain Range, a canvas stretched so smooth and tight that the blocks of vineyards and orchards dotting the sage slopes are reflected without flaw and the tawny pastels wash and mingle with the dappling blues.
Show me softly, in the distance, the bone-white feathers of Trumpeter Swans as they whisper across the sunset-ripple of the lake, impossibly long necks undulating in a tableau of stardust and splendour. Later, the heads of thousands of small black Mud Ducks will appear, bobbing and dipping, retracing the arc of the swans, painting the blue with long, squiggly lines before forming into dense balls of black, peeping beaks and feathers, their tight bond their only protection as the night draws in. Their day has come to a soft close; they have done what ducks are made to do, their purpose, their “raison d’etre” never questioned as they repeat their daily ritual of survival. But this begs the question I ponder so often now. You know, since the diagnosis.
Back in my February kitchen, the sun has continued her reluctant rise, although it is clear that she does not like this month any more than I, and wishes to stay hidden, burrowed into the dark hatch of night, resting her face upon the furry thatched slope of the Silver Star Foothills, sleeping for another few weeks. It brings me some small comfort that February is an abomination for her as well. I look through the sliding patio door out to my front deck once again, sigh, and step into my fuzzy slippers. I pull my dressing gown closer, tighter, and step outside.
Lifting my head, I inhale, wincing at the chill, but determined to speak, as though on a grand stage about to begin a soliloquy. I speak out, facing the irresolute sky that alternately seeks to depress or beguile me, depending on the whim of the sun herself. “Write me a New Day!” I say aloud, in a pitch and tone as if I am casting a spell in Hogwarth’s. “And make it a good one” I add. There is no reply, but I feel emboldened.
Every New Day should begin with deer and sunrises, in that order. On a New Day, my glance out the window will show a bevy of white-tailed beauties balanced on the ridge of a slope by my house, a silhouette of long legs and twitching ears etched against a pale, pre-dawn, slumbering light, their huge, brown eyes capturing every move I make, willing me to venture out with my pail of deer food. They run down the slope as one, bounding hoofs and wet noses, unable to stand the excitement. They line up along my garden wall, shuffling for the best spot, some gentle jostling amongst the does, some angry, huffing chortles on the part of the older bucks. Send me the two little ones, Feefo and Jinx, who still nuzzle and preen by their mamas, their eyes so wide and excited to see me that it seems they might jump up and down with joy.
Next, send me a Mischief of Magpies to careen through the treetops, chattering and quarrelling with each other, their curiosity and social skills setting them high above the intelligence levels of most other birds, some say the level of a five-year-old child. Let me see them dip and dive, their long, turqoise-blue and mauve-plumed tailfeathers steadying them in acrobatic tumbles and soaring wind-borne theatrics, clever enough to keep guards posted in trees and rooftops to ensure flock safety. One day I will set out a blanket and some toys to see if they will take an interest!
As my beautiful New Day slowly morphs from morning to afternoon, send a covey of Quails to visit. They will mumble and peep as they run from bush to bush, chortling and pecking, one after the other, always one more left to run behind and join the group, seldom giving in to flight, their tiny little quilled hat feathers jostling to and fro as they race to keep up. As spring begins to warm the soil, they will suddenly resemble small children’s toys loaded with fresh batteries and no off-button as they jump, toss, turn, dig, peck and roll in my small garden, their antics appearing to serve no other purpose than play, They jump upon each other, roll over upside down and play dead, only to surprise each other when they jump back to life. They appear to be here only to enjoy and celebrate their small, fluttering lives.
My New Day is winding down, now; there is not so much more that I will need before I rest my head on my pillow and sink into my dreams, to reflect on the beauty I have experienced here on my little postage-stamp home in the Okanagan Valley. Before I sleep, I step out onto my back patio, the better to hear the rhythmic pulse of the crickets, and beyond, the hushed hooting of our local Great Horned Owl as he perches on our roof, awaiting movement and the snack to follow as mice scamper deep in the vast folds of golden-grass hillsides. Then, I feel something touch me on my arm; I look down. A Praying Mantis has decided to anoint me as a Person of Interest, and I enjoy his company for a few moments before he realizes I can do nothing for him but offer a safe resting spot and moves on. I feel privileged by his short visit.
The sky is a honeypot of crimson, gold and purple now, and as the astounding hues deepen, I realise what a perfect day it has been. I breathe in. Breathe out. One more time, take a deep pull of the arid night heat of summer into my lungs, even if, for now, it is only in my mind. It is only when I look back one last time to witness the spectacle of this staggering sunset that I see something truly enchanting. There, nestled on the slope, a baby deer has chosen to sleep here, near us, for the night. I feel like a little bit of magic just happened.
Loved this...
Every day should be made a "good one". Thanks for sharing yours and the nature you live by 🤗
this is beautiful, Deborah. I feel i’ve lived two days in one: my own, and yours, through your eyes. thank you for bringing us this beauty in a too-long february ✨