It's rediculously beautiful outside. More beautiful than beautiful. Snow is balanced on every tree branch, every edge of fence, every railing. It's still falling now, and, as Iryn said this morning, "everything looks painted".

A fire is burning low in the fireplace and I have just finished a great book that I have loved with my whole heart and now that I'm done, I feel as though I have lost someone close to me.

This always happens.

After a good read, I wander around the house in a daze for awhile, wondering what to do next, jolted by my own ordinariness, unsure of where the book ends and my life begins. When I'm reading, I mistakenly believe that I'm part of the book, that what is happening to the characters is actually happening to me, and when it's done, it takes awhile to realize it is just me on my couch in an old pilling sweater beside a cold cup of tea.

So today I stoke the fire one more time. I blow on it the way my dad taught me when I was 14. Get right underneath and blow, bring the flames to life until they snap and rage and become so hot I have to back away. Sometimes when I do this, I imagine I am blowing on myself this way too. Bringing something to life again.

Sitting here by the fire, my fear of winter (leftover from my 7 years in the prairies) is pleasantly absent. It feels good to get quiet, to not have to run, to not have to rush out. It feels good to look out the window and see the brightness of the whole wide world.

Plus, I found $5 in my winter coat pocket this morning. That always feels like a direct order from the universe to go buy a really yummy coffee drenched in whipped cream.

But that's for later. Right now, the fire needs blowing on again.

There's snow on the hills now. Not down here, but it's coming close. You can feel it. The Chinese Elm in the front yard is completely bare. Not a leaf left. They were hanging on for dear life, but they're gone now. The wind has blown every last one of them away.

It's windy tonight, the kind where the house shakes a little, the windowpanes and the walls. Where strange shadows blow outside in the darkness.

I have a head cold. At night I dream I am suffocating. I wake at 2 am horribly thirsty and confused, drowned in strange, busy dreams.

I can't smell anything. Which means I can't taste anything either. I made a nice dinner for myself tonight and I might as well have been eating a plastic bag for all the pleasure it gave me. It makes one wonder what goes into smelling and tasting and how all those nerve endings work in there, the little tiny chords and circuits and buttons way inside us all.

I had to see a nose, ears & throat specialist once. I thought I had something wrong with my vocal chords and he had to stick a little tiny camera down my throat, which made me gag and almost puke. It ended up that I was fine. I don't think I would ever want to be a nose, ears & throat doctor, all that poking around inside people's heads with tiny instruments. I can't imagine it would be a very fun job.

So It's mid-November. Winter is coming. There are already Christmas trees in some of the windows and Iryn's eyes get wide as we drive by. She is thinking of the magic of Christmas morning, of cookies and snow and shiney tinsel and surprises and new toys. I hope the magic lasts a long tiime for her. Because it hurts so bad when it's over. You wonder if there is any magic left at all anywhere, or if this whole life thing is just one big sham too. (I've since gotten over this. No need to worry...)

On Friday, I played a wonderful show to a room full of people who were actually listening. The whole lot of them. I wasn't background music or dinner entertainment or the opener that no one comes for. (I have been all of these things before at one time or another. ) They were there to see me and I heard my voice and my guitar and my lyrics float out from way inside me across the room and I knew it wasn't wasted. It's so good to sing to people who listen.

Thanks to all those out there who are really listening...