The Sun Of Lapland

The Sun Of Lapland

It was an optimistic sky, wearing robin’s egg blue, that nudged me awake in the morning. A sky unaware of the future, unconcerned with the past, it beckoned me come outside with long fingered rays that reached through my curtains and tickled my bed. Though tempted, I had heard the warnings, seen glimpses of the weatherman wringing his hands as he stood by his map now vivid with the pinks and whites of ice and snow. So I shut my eyes against the tranquil tent above my head, and struck out with a list in my hands, to gather up all the essentials I'd need for a long winter's night in the snow.

To the feed store for bird seed.

To the farmers market for navel oranges and honeycrisp apples.

Fresh green vegetables and armloads of white flowers.

Pots of white hydrangeas with blooms the size of a sheepdog’s head.

To the knit shop for advice on how best to shape the neckline of the caramel coloured sweater I’m currently knitting.

To the bakery for cinnamon bread.

And sure enough, that carefree blue sky was in full retreat and a queer silence was descending as I hurried back home with my staples. With firewood stacked and chicken soup simmering, and Edward asleep on my feet, I sat down to patiently wait.

Did it come?

Oh yes, it came.

Unheard, almost wraithlike, it fell all around us. It fell and it fell and it fell. With the dedication of an athlete and the talent of an artist, this snow plunged down at rates of speed rarely seen in our little corner of the world, painting us inside a landscape worthy of Pissarro. It covered us so quickly it seemed to fairly bubble up from the frozen ground, to bloom like a strange winter flora all over the bare trees.

I ran outside.

As if hidden inside a grey Chinese lantern in a sky hanging close to the Earth, the Moon lit up the garden like the Sun of Lapland. It cast an eerie blue light, bright enough to easily spot a big white furry dog as he scampered amongst the black trees at midnight. Bright enough for the silhouette of a great horned owl to float across the white garden floor like a velvet clad dancer at a winter cotillion.

I stood marble-frozen in the garden at one in the morning, shin deep in this exceptional snow, enveloped in the silence created by this heavy blanket of eiderdown and, much like that blissful blue sky of the morning, I found myself happily unaware of the bother that can arise when one is completely snowed in. I only thought how marvelous it looked, how delightful it felt, and how inviting was the orange glow that shone out at me from the cottage windows.

I thought of the fire now roaring in the fireplace.

The mugs of Horlicks.

The stacks of books.

The knitting, the white flowers, the crisp sheets.

So we scrambled back inside, the big dog and I.... where we now remain, deliciously snowed in! For two days and counting.

Shame

Shame

It is a high pitched squeal that pierces the air of this cold Sunday morning in America. Emanating from the rocky coast of Maine to the thin atmosphere of Arizona, it screams out from televisions and radios, over computer screens, around dinner tables and even, sadly, from more than a few pulpits. It is a sound both familiar and expected, but no less irritating for being so. The unmistakable screeching of brakes, coming from those wishing to distance themselves from the horror of yesterday’s shooting of a Democratic Congresswoman at a public event.

It spews from the one-half term governor of the state of Alaska, who now claims the crosshairs she placed over the congresswoman’s name on the map of the Democrats she “targeted” for removal in 2010 were actually nothing more than “surveyor’s symbols”. (She has yet, to my knowledge, explained away her admonishment to her followers to “Don’t retreat, reload!”. Perhaps that applies to surveyor’s as well?)

It is a sound that pours from those who refer to the individuals with whom they disagree as “evil” or “nazi”, who compare our President with Adolf Hitler and tell their unfortunate listeners that he “hates America”. To the sane amongst us, these words are preposterous, heinous and disgusting to be sure, but we hardly see them as marching orders. To the unbalanced, however, they can be heard at an entirely different decibel.

Here in America, we are taught at an early age that we live in the “greatest country on Earth". (Although, as writer David Sedaris so perceptively says, “no country ever proudly declares... we’re number two!”) With age, hopefully, comes a bit of wisdom and we begin to see that our greatness is not guaranteed merely because of our existence. If we cannot admit our deficiencies and alter them for the good, if we lose our ability to feel shame, history clearly teaches, our greatness will wither and die.

The rules were different when I was growing up. I can only imagine the thunder in my father’s face if anyone dared to ask him for whom he intended to vote. We knew not to go spelunking in the deeply held beliefs of others. Society was a bit more gracious and respectful then and, at the risk of sounding like an old crank, our country was all the better for it. But we now find ourselves in world greatly altered, as well as one infinitely smaller. Change can be threatening for those who lack the propensity, or perhaps, sadly, the capacity, for reasonable thought. But we cannot flourish with our hands over our eyes and our fingers wedged deep in our ears, locked in a room that admits no one save those who think and look and are just like us. If those of us of sound mind, with a love of home and country that walks hand in hand with a heart for good... if we do not stand against the hate and vitriol that is surging through our streets and over our airwaves, exactly where will we find ourselves in the next decade? In the next year?

There is a clear picture that remains in my mind of our senators and congressmen standing shoulder to shoulder on the Capitol steps, some weeping, some with heads bowed low, singing with humility instead of pride the well-known verses of God Bless America. This happened in the wake of September 11th when we were attacked from without. I can now only wonder what their reaction might be after the horror of yesterday’s attack from within.

“Whatever is begun in anger ends in shame.”

Benjamin Franklin

The King's Speech

The King’s Speech

They give breath to the pages of history, they wander the fictional world. Within their numbers stands a shepherd boy who rose to slay a giant armed with nothing save a slingshot. A young man who firmly stared down a tank in the heat of Tiananmen Square. From Jacqueline Kennedy, who, on the blackest day of her life, controlled the blind wrath of a grieving nation with her exquisite dignity and strength, to the dozens of firemen who ran up the towers when the rest of the world ran down. They are celebrated in literature - think of Atticus Finch, or Charlotte, the grey spider, or perhaps the tiny hobbit, Frodo, who volunteered to go to all the way to the hell of Mordor though, “he did not know the way”. They are the heroes, the ones who accept the impossible challenge, not for glory nor renown, but because it is the right thing to do, because it has to be done. There are more of them than we realize, invisible and unsung, scaling incredible mountains, overcoming the most vicious odds.

I confess I knew more about his infamous brother than I knew about King George VI. Oh, I knew he was the father of the current Queen Elizabeth, the husband of the much-loved Queen Mother, and that his own mother, Queen Mary, wore an inordinate amount of long, wide-reaching pearls, as well as a rather sour expression, in most of her photographs. I knew that he and his wife braved the London blitz with admirable bravery. And perhaps I had heard that he once had a stammer, though I’d never given the matter great thought. But thanks to the genius of the actor, Colin Firth, I now see the former King in a much different light.

Accolades are swarming like honeybees around the new film, The King’s Speech, as well they should be. A near perfect film, its material is taken from the diaries of Lionel Logue, the unconventional speech therapist who treated the King for many years, assisting in his ability to rise above his debilitating stammer and lead his nation through a monstrous war. Bertie, as the King was known, was never meant to be King. Never wanted to be King. But when his elder brother threw off the mantle of duty like an itchy wool coat, Bertie, who couldn’t utter a sentence in public without acute embarrassment, became King. And not only a King, but a King in a time of war. Imagine being a man with a stammer and having to compete on the international stage with raging orators like Mussolini and Hitler. Imagine a country holding on to your every word, for comfort and guidance in a horrible time, and you are unable to trust your own voice. I wonder if I would have run far far away, changed my name, my appearance, and hid for the rest of my natural born days. It is a weighty testament to the man’s integrity and strength of character that he did not.

I highly recommend The King’s Speech for those of you who wish for something more than eye candy from a movie going experience. There are no car chases, no blue aliens, and not a teenage vampire in sight, but you shall leave with ideas to ponder, history to discuss, and a great man to admire. Go see it and tell me if you don’t agree.

Oh, and Helena Bonham-Carter is a revelation in this performance! Just wonderful. And the peeling plaster walls of Mr. Logue’s offices! Perfectly sublime. How I would love to get my greedy little hands on those rooms!!