The sun glares across the sky at an angle that makes the horizon awash in pale light. There is a little heat, but the air is mostly crisp and cold. Before coffee or even much thought, I dress for a walk and follow the road to Cottonwood Park. It is usually afternoon when I wander this way, so today the world looks new and different. Everything is lit from the other side. Sunlight streams through the Catholic church's stained glass. It makes me stop and gaze at the red and golden glow.
I want to see the inside of this place. It looks so beautiful. Pictures on signage beside the old church depict a chapel that could be found on the Mediterranean or Central American coasts: pale blue-washed walls, with bolder blue and golden accents. The image evokes the effect of a cool clear breeze across a warming summer morning. Simple, calming, yet rich. I hope I can go in. Sacred spaces have always stirred me, and it is only recently that I have felt reluctant to enter them. I am not devout, I am not at home in any one religion, but feel deeply connected to the essence of faith and grace. In years past, I never questioned the permission to enjoy these spaces built for steeping oneself in this essence. I was sure that my religious orientation mattered not, as I always entered with deep respect, admiration, and curiosity for the traditions, the rituals, the human expressions of the intangible spirit. These days, I seem to worry a lot more about overstepping boundaries and the perceptions of others. When did I start to care what people think?When I turn from the church, I head out onto the frozen lake. The snow on top is shallow and compact now. The entire lake can be traversed without snowshoes. It is so inviting, this wide white space. The mountains across from me look inviting too. Since I first laid eyes on those hills I have felt their pull. Something about the curve of their peaks and the texture of their faces intrigues me. I love the way the sun paints them in the morning. And this special morning, from my view at the foot of the lake, I can see even further up the channel. More mysterious mountains curve out of sight.
Last night's storm seems to have washed me clean and now I can see. It is not even the most beautiful of mornings, but I notice everything. The sparkle of the crystals on the snow. The way the surface of the lake has ripples and crests of snow and ice, not so different from its liquid self. And the ice. The ice. It feels so solid. It is easy to mistake for earth, but then it shudders and shifts and thumps against itself. Cracks split across the surface as the ice sheet stretches and moves. The first thump is alarming. I cannot tell where the sound originates - from beneath? To my right or my left? I am close to shore - does the ice thump like this in the middle? Is there any danger out there?
Along the shore I find where the ice has pushed against itself and buckled, then frozen again. Now I can see that the ice is very deep - more than a foot. I feel relief, and I think I am safe to walk its vastness. And as I do, plodding along one hundred meters from shore, I study the patterns on the snow formed by skidoos, the wind, the movement of the lake. The Stuart River is not frozen, and water from the lake continues to drain through it. It occurs to me that under this solid sheet the water flows. It is like knowing what is beneath my feet is breathing, changing, alive. I suddenly feel less alone.
Another thump, and the crusty sound of frozen snow crackling and gently falling back into place. I am walking past my neighbour's carefully constructed rink. Over the last few weekends, this rink has been the stage for the most iconic Canadian play: young toqued and mitted boys and girls chase the puck and each other all day. They only slow once the setting sun makes the chase a futile one. The shouts and laughter fall quiet as the players gather their props and make their way into their warm and glowing homes. This morning the stage is empty, but I smile at the scene that is likely to unfold. I can already hear the hushed scrape of skates and sticks against the frozen lake. I hope they come to play today.
As I pass the rink I hear another thump, and this time there is the sound of something snapping. I catch a glimpse of razor thin cracks slicing their way across the rink. The integrity of the skating surface is intact, but I notice that it is decorated with these fissures. Elsewhere on the lake, the snow insulates the ice's pounding and shifting - it sounds so different without it.
Although it is cooler than recent days, it is still like an early spring morning. Birds are chirping and busy, the touch of the wide sun is warm on my face, and there is a sense of newness, of this cold and patient world slowly rounding a corner. I feel like a happy passenger.
Perhaps what I sense comes not from this bright white morning, but from inside me. Maybe last night was a changing of the inner season, and I see it reflected in this morning. Perhaps there is no distinction at all.
The ice thumps again and I smile.
