I got lost in Venice one cold and wet fall night a couple of years ago, ankle throbbing from a bad sprain, right turn after left turn, under this arch, over that bridge, through that stone corridor, trapped in an Escher drawing.   Panic parched my throat, until beside me I heard the shrillness rising in another tourist, also lost.   That calmed me long enough, this rite of passage to be lost in Venice, until I found and followed the bread crumbs back to my own hotel, lobby burning bright out into an empty dark and wet square.

Today I got lost in the suburban ruelles and walkways in my neighbourhood.    I went for a walk with Edgar.  There could be nothing more enjoyable today than stride on ground that wasn’t iced or snowed over, in full warm sun.   I passed African grandmothers taking their babies out to sun, Chinese seniors swinging their arms in gymnastic gyrations of good health, an East Indian woman crouched low on her back balcony cooking over an outdoor stove, and a stern Sikh man washing down his front driveway with a hose looking up to give me a smile and a cheery greeting of good spring day finally arrived.   This passageway led to a cul-de-sac, but another back alley hooked up with a street, that had another passageway through to a park, which linked with another passageway to a small street, running parallel to a greenspace which I could spy between the houses.  Every street was a Panamount, the suffix stretched thinly into every permutation that I could ever imagine; drive, street, blvd, hill, road, rise, row, square, terrace, point, view, view-point, way, passage, bay, circle, court, crescent, common, close, plaza, gardens, grove, green, gate, heights, heath, lane, landing, manor and mews.

How lost could I be in one suburban community of Calgary?  The day is bright and warm.  I have my big boy on a leash faithfully trotting beside me.  I did have a modicum of relief when my postal-lady pulled her jeep up to a bank of mail-boxes beside me.  She may not have recognized me, because I’m loser lady in a nightgown when she rings my buzzer at 11am with an endless procession of books for delivery, but she recognized Edgar.

“Oh, you’re way out.  You’re over there”, big smile, bemused.  I asked her where the big boulevard was, and she shook her arm in the direction that I trundled off in.  At the intersection of ruelle, park and passageway, I recognized one of the four main passages that run off my little park.   We turned down that path, recognizing the hill views I see from the back deck.  Home, bright and warm.

It’s been a long cold lonely winter.  It feels like years since it’s been here.  Here comes the sun.

 April 4^th 2014, Calgary, Alberta

I was knitting a generic sock this morning, bright light behind me, drinking my coffee, cross-legged fat buddah belly in my new “nesting” chair.  The local morning television news guffawed on TGIFs and a warm weekend coming.  All notable things because, I haven’t been rote knitting since I arrived here, and my mornings have generally been cold dark and terse.  Edgar lay beside me on the ottoman, his head on my chair, his nose pressed into my hip, sleepy puppy satisfied safe and warm.  I might have been watching too much Game of Thrones.  I’ve lived in a place where “Winter is coming”, nay, winter has howled me into an isolated suburban cottage on the edge of nowhere and rolling northern acreages.  I pull myself out of other worldly revelry, and situate myself here and now.

My mind was set to come here, regardless of the pain I knew that I’d experience leaving my house, my ‘hood, my city, my mostly ex-husband, my friends, my career, my geography, my climate, my program, my kind of people, and even my dentist.   It was simply time, time to come home to my family.  There were lots of reason to leave, but they’re smaller in my rear view mirror now.  There were more reasons to come here.  Lynn, aging, time, my nieces and nephew, clean air and a full view, and after what will hopefully be a long adventure of learning a new city and finding new   friends and pleasures, a place to die.

In that place I came from, I craved the winter I just went through, where slow food barely simmered, and I could spend a day knitting and watching war documentaries, if I wasn’t reclining on a bundle of quilts and knit blankets reading.  I can’t really account for what I did in the last four months.  The main floor is clear.  The lower level is mostly a disaster.   I haven’t sewn the quilts on my wish list, or finished any knitting.  I haven’t read a book.  I don’t have a job.  I haven’t cross-country skied.   Important things did get done, but that refinement of multi-tasking a dinner party, dressing smartly, going for a swim, writing on a blog and clearing some boxes has eluded me.  My brain has droned down to slow, one thing at a time, with lots of pauses in between.  This morning it was the sock.  Klick, klick, klick.

There is a warm Chinook breeze today, which is going to melt ice.    Later this afternoon, I’m going to open the door to the deck.  The sun will be hot, and I’ll need to open the front door for a cross-breeze.  By late afternoon, half the snow in the yard will have leached into prairie grasses.  It will be a bit brighter, smells will be a bit sharper, and the bunnies will be darting white and gray across the park.

Sheila told me to stake myself to nature as a way to walk through this mire of indecision and fear.  So this winter I’ve watched skies and snow drifting, ached for the deep blue in sunsets, been thankful to finally hear birds again as a welcome bridge from winter winds through the pine trees beside my deck, and squeaked snow steps in -40C temperatures.   The Chinook arch is a promise, here comes the sun.   Klick, klick, klick.