I'm not sure if you can get hypothermia inside your home, but I left the window cracked last night, and that mere eighth of an inch nearly froze me out. The fresh air was wonderful, and I was under several layers of blankets and a goose down duvet, but seeing your breath, when you wake up is something that should be reserved for a tent in the back country. Needless to say, the first order of business was to close that window. That and turn on the space heater pointed at my recliner so I could warm up once I pulled on several layers of clothes. The day got worse. I think everything that wasn't some how plugged into a heat source, froze solid. We got down to -32 C last night with a wicked north wind to add to the problem. I had a way to warm up, and I'm grateful that closing a window made my surroundings toasty with in an hour. My truck, not so lucky. When I went in search of gas line anti freeze, because I suspect I've somehow gotten some moisture into the fuel system, I found it most places are already sold out. No delivery expect till Monday. When I think of the services available to me now, like groceries that come to your door, and easily ordered help to get your vehicle started, I realized how woefully poorly prepared I was. When I was a child, we had supplies of all the basics, like flour, sugar, rice and potatoes stored on shelves in the pantry or in the basement. It doesn't seem necessary in this day and age, until you don't have a vehicle, and you don't want to spend the extra for convenience. II'm rambling, but you get my conundrum? I'll use the services because I trapped myself, but I will put some thought into making sure I have the basics in my kitchen cupboards. Mother nature can have her way with the weather, but it's up to me to out smart her to survive without emptying my bank account.

I Am Afraid Of November I Am Afraid Of The First Snow That Falls To The Ground, I Am Afraid Of The First Bleeding Chill That Hits Our Faces I Am Afraid To Feel My Heart Sink Lower Than My Feet, I Am Afraid To Fall So Deep And Grasp For Air I Am Afraid To Feel As Cold As November. I Know That I Have Done So Well, After Everything I Have Felt After The Lack Of Feeling Anything At All But I Am Afraid That Even With All Of This I Am No Match For November With No Pain, Comes No Change So Maybe I Will Just Stay Here Forever, Peacefully, Quietly Maybe I Will Fall Behind And Yell After Them "Hey, Wait Up!" Or Maybe It Will Be Too Late Maybe The Scariest Thing I Must Do Is Continue Knowing I Have No Control Over When November Comes, And It Will Come Maybe The Bravest Thing I Must Do Is Continue Knowing That November Will Once Again Pass And I'll Still Have That Shimmer In My Eyes After All, Look At What I Grew After The Snow.

Dearest Winter, Howdy Winter boy! How farest thou? (Isn't that a swell Shakespearian greeting!) I hope you are in the best of your health and joyous 😊 I write today, Winter boy, to tell you that I fathom not how the pages of Rainbow Valley dawn upon me a joyful sorrow. But trust me, Winter boy, Rainbow Valley is the best novel on childhood that I've ever read. The Blythes made me blithe and the Merediths made me merry. Though the dear children of Anne have always cast a magical spell on me, in the pages of Rainbow Valley my heart went out to the Meredith children, Winter boy. The Meredith children lost their mother at Una's birth. And Mr John Meredith, their father was an absent-minded preacher. He was a remarkable preacher that the Glen had had in decades, but his children were so poorly cared for. Not that he didn't care, indeed he cared and loved them much, but as I mentioned earlier, he was very absent-minded to the present world, and most often lost himself to the pages of theological books. But despite their deepest depths, they belonged to the race that knew Joseph and was soon acquainted with the Blythes as dear chums. Now, Winter boy, you might wonder what moved my heart to each of these children. Well, that's what's coming for you in my further narration. These children were young and wild and free. Faith would ride pigs, Jerry would attend the Methodist prayer meeting when he was a Presbyterian, Carl would put an eel in old Mrs Carr's buggy, and Una, the timid one was wont to dreadful thoughts on stepmothers. But you know what, Winter dear, I found their naughtiness cute. It reminded me of when we were small children. I'll now narrate an episode for you. The Meredith girls were oblivious to the gossips around their shabby manse in the Glen until Mary Vance brought them the news. So, Faith and Una decided to clean their manse. And clean they did. But, Winter boy, these poor kids got messed up with the days, that instead of cleaning on Monday, as they'd thought, they cleaned on Sunday. This arose a sensation in the Glen church and brought a bad name to their father. Faith was ambitious to clear her father's disrepute. She decided that she would clear it the forthcoming Sunday when her father was away to a nearby town to deliver the sermon. That Sunday held strange awe for Faith. When Dr Cooper had concluded the sermon and the organist had brought forth the music of the anthem for the collection, Faith got up from her pew and went to the pulpit platform. Instead of speaking bravely as she had rehearsed, her throat went dry. It was Bertie Drew who saved the situation. Sitting in the front pew, he made a scorning face at Faith, whence her bravado returned mightily. She promptly made a dreadful face back at him and clearing her throat began thus: "I want to explain something. People are saying that Una and I stayed home last Sunday and cleaned house instead of going to Sunday School. Well, we did–but we didn't mean to. We got mixed up in the days of the week. It was all Elder Baxter's fault because he went and changed the prayer-meeting to Wednesday night and then we thought Thursday was Friday and so on till we thought Saturday was Sunday. Carl was laid up sick and so was Aunt Martha, so they couldn't put us right. We went to Sunday School in all that rain on Saturday and nobody came. And then we thought we'd clean house on Monday and stop old cats from talking about how dirty the manse was and we did. So, it isn't right for any of you to blame my father for this, because he was away and didn't know, and anyhow we thought it was Monday. He's just the best father that ever lived in the world and we love him with all our hearts." This was what she quoted, Winter dear. And I love Faith and her siblings ardently for their cute naughtiness. But you know what, these young children had to follow when Walter's old Piper played his music. Now I'll quote something that Jem said: “Oh, I wish we had the old days back again, I'd love to be a soldier–a great, triumphant general. I'd give everything to see a big battle.” Winter boy, I'm now strangely emotional. For Jem and the other boys were to be soldiers and were to see a greater battle than had ever been fought in the world. These lads who were to fight and perhaps fall on the fields were still roguish schoolboys with a fair life in prospect before them and these girls whose hearts were to be wrung were yet fair little maidens a-star with hopes and dreams. I now have no words to write further, Winter dear. For I'm unable to put a name to the weird feeling in my heart. Love you much. Write to me soon. I'm waiting eagerly. Take good care of your health. I'll make you a raspberry cake and a cream bun when you arrive this weekend. And, there's another charming thing about the Rainbow Valley, the children who remained alive, grew up to marry their childhood sweethearts, just like us ❤ With a kiss of love and a red rose, Your beloved.

Daddy, come home I know this house is getting real cold. Mommy, please say something Can you watch me grow while strapped in your seat? Daddy, I'm sorry You are God himself no Clark Kent compares This house is freezing up, yet you've found strength, always been right there Mommy, do you hear me cry myself to sleep as you lay in bed, shaking through those hospital sheets? Daddy, I know you are getting tired But I'll pick you up and take the title, I'll keep my parents safe forever I'll fight this never ending battle Mommy, Do you dream? Of what our lives would be— If you never went away and your brain was still ok? Would daddy be less in control? Because I've heard that you had a sharper tongue than us both. I wish you were here to put me in my place, when I feel this lost and misplaced I know you are somehow showing me my way, even if you can no longer talk to me from this physical plane Today I stare at your beautiful empty frame, You don't need to say a thing Your pain rips through me like an iceberg and pellets of ice crash right in our way, I'll never forget that day you wished your life away Daddy, promise me you know she is so fucking proud— of the god who kept his queens warm in this Arctic glass house

Twelve hours of flying, eight hours of layovers, forty four hours of driving, and a six hour time difference separated me from the others in my new home. When I came a month in advance to set up an apartment, get a job, and orient myself in a rural town, they merely drove a couple of hours from their hometowns, instead of flying across an ocean. This made me an outlier in any situation, but I enjoyed my inability to assimilate into the crowd. There were too many things to be excited about, to worry about normal. A school with only a thousand or so students, a town with so few people, the thought of regulars who helped out the employes at my job, all of it was new and strange. Heck, I spent a week marveling at the tiny red fire trucks, because they were cute just like the toys. They didn't need to be as long as a limo to reach up the hotels and condos, nor were they a sunny yellow. I found joy in discovering daily normalities for others. But, since day one the oddest thing was the weather. It had never occurred to me before that I could tell what the weather would be like, simply from the wind on my face in the morning until I had lost the ability. Instead of constant sunny days, north winds, and the occasional downpour the weather became something entirely different. I finally understood why there was a weather app on my phone and a weather channel on the TV; it was completely unpredictable. Every other day the sun and clouds would fight for superiority. One day humid and hot, the next a thunderstorm. The battle got worse when the sun gave up, defeated by the cold air, but by then I had a new distraction. When the leaves began to changed, I picked up the first that fell, goggling at its striking colors. I realized the fall leaves were nature's redemption for the lack of vibrant sunsets. The shades of pink, red, yellow, orange, and purple were identical. For the months of fall, whenever the cold hit I would merely look to the sky in order to set a smile on my face. Bright blue, peeking through scattered leaves from half barren trees, it was a beautiful sight. The sidewalk painted in red never failed to make me grin; I couldn't help but smile when I acknowledged the abnormality of my situation. Leaves changing from green to red--ha--only ever on TV, but now I saw it before my eyes. It was something people from my home would never get to see, because I knew many of them would never leave the rock to discover the grand world. Occasionally my mind would get confused, it could not understand how the sun lacked warmth, how the air was so frigid. When I walked into the light I expected to be relieved by the immediate heat; I was always disappointed. The sun was not warm, there was no temperature difference between shade and light. This disappointment continued through my first two snow falls. Each time I was stuck, working, wasting the hours away when I could be enjoying the frozen drops cooling the earth. By the time I was able to walk outside there would be rain melting the fresh shine away. But eventually I got a day off, and to my joy it was the first “real” snow day. A day when the snow was fluffy and permanent. First thing in the morning, ignoring breakfast and logic, I left my cozy apartment for an adventure, bundled up in three layers with waterproof boots, and a camera in my hands. Taking dozens of pictures at every stop I explored my first white world. The trees were caked in icing, roads and rocks smoothed by a thick layer of snow. With my first step my feet sank, three maybe four inches down. I walked down my usually path to class, with a spark in my step. Each was recorded by the snow, drawing a map of my journey. A tree from a fantasy world, a rock shaped like a perfect sphere, a metallic bell statue, a half frozen river, a troll bridge: a few of the winter wonders I captured as I explored my transformed world. Overnight a starch blanket had wrapped around the town. That day I learned a number of things: a snow bank is when the snow is piled up on the side of the road, they are called snow plows not bulldozers, always point your windshield wipers to the sky, buy something to scrape the ice and brush the snow. Oddities which I enjoyed being oblivious of. I loved the snow. Some would say my opinion would change. Give it a year or two and all of my joy would disappear, but I knew them to be wrong. The only reason I found joy in the normal things was because I could understand how for someone somewhere what I saw was the strangest thing in the world. I do not grin because I don't know; I grin because there are so many differences between culture even in the same country. I grin because humanity is vast but ignorant and I am always finding something new. I will not forget the abnormality of snow in the winter because half of the world does not have it. I use to be apart of that half. Now I am not.

I am a big fan of making such photos! It is a pity that we can dowloand only one photo. Anyway, that is one of first photos i ve made on nikon d5300

On a cold November morning, after attending an exhilarating youth conference in Strasbourg, I was on a train on my way to Paris. My heartbeat was mimicking the rhythm of the rails. I was only 19 years old and blessed with the opportunity to visit one of the most beautiful cities in the world, Ville des Lumière or ‘the city of lights'. As a young woman from India, raised in a traditional family, most of my choices were made for me. This was my first step into an independent life and it was all very unnerving. An hour into the journey I met a young man who, to my surprise, was also from India. We exchanged life stories as the beautiful French landscapes of freshly cut grass, fauna and wineries painted our windows as they raced by. He invited me for a walking tour in Paris taking place in a few hours, telling me how we would explore the city guided by a tour manager who would narrate to us its dynamic history. Possessing an inherent love of the past, I readily agreed. After reaching Paris I rushed with my heavy suitcase to find the subway and caught the train that lead to my accommodation. Reaching just in time to leave my luggage, I ran back to the street and caught a bus to Saint Michel, where we were supposed to assemble for the tour. On my way, I realized that I was so intent on not being late, I navigated easily through an alien city with a language I didn't speak. A little proud, I smiled at my ability to adapt so quickly to an environment so different from home. Indeed, I was growing up. The tour was very enjoyable as I carefully observed the interiors of Paris painted with flora and Gothic architecture. We were walking along the Seine, the river which holds the spirit of Paris within it, when the sun was engulfed by thick clouds. Soon, I could feel icy droplets of rain on my skin. Each raindrop felt like a sting, reminding me that I was turning twenty soon. We ended the tour in Tuileries Garden, as the sun interrupted the rain, blessing us with its warmth. My friend and I then walked to the Eiffel Tower. Coming from India, a country with a rich heritage, I firmly believe that historic monuments that have witnessed the ravages of war and tranquility of peace are the most precious. They have a story to tell. And so, I always felt that the Eiffel Tower was merely a metallic structure unworthy of praise, much like the French did in earlier times. But I was wrong. The Eiffel Tower emitted magnificence. It was like an anchor of the city, holding it from sinking into the blue skies. We sat on a lonely bench placed on a pavilion just behind the tower, surrounded by green trees slowly rustling in the cold air of the twilight. I was evaluating the photographs I took of the Eiffel on my phone, when my companion reminded me to appreciate the moment I was in. “But we have been here for over an hour” I replied, “there is nothing new to-“ I stopped short in my words as I looked up once again at the majestic tower. It was lit up with a golden light, almost as if with a thousand candles, against the backdrop of the slowly brewing night sky. Suddenly, I could not feel the chill on the tip of my nose or the cold air in my lungs. I felt warm from the glow of the Eiffel, as if someone had tucked me in a cozy blanket with a hot cup of tea. I went to sleep that day feeling like a changed person. On my last day in Paris, I visited the celebrated Louvre. Its high ceilings that housed tremendous artwork made me feel small and insignificant. I visited the intriguing Mona Lisa painting and felt that I could never be as famed as its maker, Leonardo Da Vinci. So what was the point of even trying? The best or worst part about accepting mediocrity was the comfort it provided. I found myself walking once again towards the Tuileries garden behind the Louvre, but this time on a warm sunny day bustling with people and energy. Yet somehow, I was more alone than ever. I felt that independence was equal to isolation. I was walking beside an intricate fountain in the garden, when my melancholic thoughts were interrupted by an old man, just like the sun had interrupted the rain in the very same place on my first day in Paris. The man was in his mid-sixties with grey hair and a thick beard. He muttered something to me in French and grinned. My first instinct was to walk away but his compelling eyes held me back. I looked at him questioningly, signaling to him that I didn't understand French. He happily repeated in English with a thick French accent, “Are you thinking deeply?” I was shocked. He continued, “You should not indulge in your thoughts so deeply, enjoy the present”. He walked away immediately after, but I was transfixed. It was as if God had come to explain to me that the meaning of independence was not isolation, but the pure enjoyment of moments in life you have created for yourself. In those few seconds at the conclusion of my sojourn, I was finally ready to embrace my 20 year old independent self.