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Currently at Toronto Pearson: -2. High "today": 0. Dewpoint dropped down to -17 this afternoon; up to -7 now.
Lately I've been getting that feeling I had a couple of years ago when I was teaching two compressed courses at once, with basically no time to prepare in advance--that feeling that, silly as it may seem, reminds me of Orwell in Homage to Catalonia talking about how one of the worst things about trench warfare is the unending sleep-deprivation. I'm sure I'm actually much less sleep-deprived than the average parent of very young children, but ... I feel like I deal with sleep-deprivation particularly poorly.
As trying as this school year has been--and boy oh boy has it ever been trying, and so very long (though still, in the end, deeply rewarding)--I think I may be getting somewhere with something now. Just don't ask me what. But if I can get ahold of my 99 acres of bushland--oh, have I mentioned my 99 acres of bushland?--which is to say, first of all, if I can actually get a canoe up to it, and then get myself together to actually acquire it--the latter being probably the real hurdle--then ... I think I will be getting somewhere with something. Or I may just be up a creek.
Last week I turned down teaching work for the first time. Tonight I turned down the possibility of more teaching work. Last week I also decided not to apply for teaching work that there's a good chance I would've gotten. Early last summer it looked to me like I might never get teaching work from anyone ever again. Now it looks like I could maybe get more than I would know what to do with if I wanted it. And since I don't want it at the moment, it could turn out that I will never get teaching work from anyone ever again if I do want it.
On Tuesday, most of the snow had melted off of my vegetable gardens, and I saw that most if not all of my chard plants that made it through last summer had made out through the winter. I love it when plants that are supposed to be annuals in our climate manage to live through the winter; all winter long I'm pulling for the ones that might. (It is still yet to be seen whether my one remaining cauliflower plant will revive itself and resume its attempt to make a cauliflower.) Last winter wasn't much of a challenge for the chard, but this year we had something more closely resembling an actual winter, once it got going in the second half of January. Last year the chard that sailed through our pale imitation of a winter did not survive long after the return of the groundhogs in February. I had really been inclined to believe that the groundhogs would not come back this year--but Wednesday morning, there was a little groundhog, the smallest one I've seen around here, wandering around the backyard, munchity-crunchity. The chard was still there as of this afternoon, and I tried to close off the hole in the chicken wire where I saw the little groundhog escape, but, well, here we go again.
I've been playing around with my NaDruWriNi poem a bit more:
Yellow light above the line
Still lies across half-lighted trees
A fleeting line of light that frees
That green and lets it shine
If the line would only freeze
And keep the sun across the sky
Another moment there, and I
Still here to see it, please!
Red the light begins to die
A fading line of light that flees
Up through the clouds, until for these
As well it lies too high
Black the night sets in to seize
The light away from every eye
And leave the green without reply
From anyone who sees
Yellow light above the line
Descends across half-lighted trees
A growing line of light that frees
This green and lets it shine.
... still not quite there, maybe, but getting closer.
( Sexy kitty! )
Lately I've been getting that feeling I had a couple of years ago when I was teaching two compressed courses at once, with basically no time to prepare in advance--that feeling that, silly as it may seem, reminds me of Orwell in Homage to Catalonia talking about how one of the worst things about trench warfare is the unending sleep-deprivation. I'm sure I'm actually much less sleep-deprived than the average parent of very young children, but ... I feel like I deal with sleep-deprivation particularly poorly.
As trying as this school year has been--and boy oh boy has it ever been trying, and so very long (though still, in the end, deeply rewarding)--I think I may be getting somewhere with something now. Just don't ask me what. But if I can get ahold of my 99 acres of bushland--oh, have I mentioned my 99 acres of bushland?--which is to say, first of all, if I can actually get a canoe up to it, and then get myself together to actually acquire it--the latter being probably the real hurdle--then ... I think I will be getting somewhere with something. Or I may just be up a creek.
Last week I turned down teaching work for the first time. Tonight I turned down the possibility of more teaching work. Last week I also decided not to apply for teaching work that there's a good chance I would've gotten. Early last summer it looked to me like I might never get teaching work from anyone ever again. Now it looks like I could maybe get more than I would know what to do with if I wanted it. And since I don't want it at the moment, it could turn out that I will never get teaching work from anyone ever again if I do want it.
On Tuesday, most of the snow had melted off of my vegetable gardens, and I saw that most if not all of my chard plants that made it through last summer had made out through the winter. I love it when plants that are supposed to be annuals in our climate manage to live through the winter; all winter long I'm pulling for the ones that might. (It is still yet to be seen whether my one remaining cauliflower plant will revive itself and resume its attempt to make a cauliflower.) Last winter wasn't much of a challenge for the chard, but this year we had something more closely resembling an actual winter, once it got going in the second half of January. Last year the chard that sailed through our pale imitation of a winter did not survive long after the return of the groundhogs in February. I had really been inclined to believe that the groundhogs would not come back this year--but Wednesday morning, there was a little groundhog, the smallest one I've seen around here, wandering around the backyard, munchity-crunchity. The chard was still there as of this afternoon, and I tried to close off the hole in the chicken wire where I saw the little groundhog escape, but, well, here we go again.
I've been playing around with my NaDruWriNi poem a bit more:
Yellow light above the line
Still lies across half-lighted trees
A fleeting line of light that frees
That green and lets it shine
If the line would only freeze
And keep the sun across the sky
Another moment there, and I
Still here to see it, please!
Red the light begins to die
A fading line of light that flees
Up through the clouds, until for these
As well it lies too high
Black the night sets in to seize
The light away from every eye
And leave the green without reply
From anyone who sees
Yellow light above the line
Descends across half-lighted trees
A growing line of light that frees
This green and lets it shine.
... still not quite there, maybe, but getting closer.
( Sexy kitty! )
