Category: Nature

In the Infinities of the Desert

Driving on deserted roads through the desert can be quite unnerving if you haven’t the right company. I remember thinking of those brave folks who ran marathons across the Sahara desert with nothing but a compass for company, and I must say I felt all the more grateful for the companionship that I did have in the bleak desert just then (Girls trips have a joy of their own!). There are times when one feels alright alone with a compass and the stars for company, but that day it felt just right to have your friends about you – squealing and laughing at the jokes and the non-jokes with equal joy.

We had been to Joshua Tree National Park during the day. The park literature spoke highly of Cholla Cactus Gardens, and I must say I was yearning to see them too. After the tall tree-like cacti of Sedona, Arizona, I was curious to see their west-side cousins. Would they be dwarfish like their tree brethren? The Joshua trees were nothing like trees, but were trees alright. What would the cacti be like?

The cacti, it turns out, were beautiful. They sort of creep up on you when you least expect it. There are miles and miles of desert, punctuated with outsized boulders on all sides. The boulders! Really – some of them were the size of buildings just sitting out there with the wind whooshing past them, and the sun beating down on them.

The Boulders!

Desolate, barren, comical. I suppose they would make marvelous spots to star-gaze in. (It is a desperate thing to yearn for the night skies on a bright, windy day, but the signs for star gazing were there everywhere. It sounded marvelous,. I have seen pictures of star trails in the Joshua Tree National Park area, and could only imagine the thousands of stars visible in the night sky from there. ) 

Skull Rock

The cactus gardens grew there in the middle of the desert, elegantly shimmering in the rays of the sun. Round a bend, when you’re least expecting it, the cactus gardens open up (not the same beautiful as William’s Wordsworth daffodils of course, but a different kind of beauty altogether). A beautiful array of life – glinting in the desert sun, reminding you of the resilience of life on this planet. There were beautiful in their own way. They reminded me of coral reefs – only in the desert and bathed in brown hues. 

We approached a happy couple coming our way to take a picture of us. They glowed in the setting sun, and beamed. They had apparently gotten engaged to each other a few minutes ago, and were bursting with happiness to share this with us: fellow human beings, who were there at the time. We wished them both happiness together. It was a beautiful feeling of strangers sharing their happiness and good wishes. We may never meet again, but that moment of their happiness was ours to remember. 

The cactus bore testimony to human paths forging a life together, the boulders : indifferent, but providing the backdrop for a proposal and an engagement, the Joshua trees branches of every shape delivering a message of love. 

In the infinities of the desert, there was a small pause: punctuations of happiness, and joy. 

Where the Wild Girls Are

Every once in while we get to step in to a world different than our own, and the only thing that reminds you of your earthly existence are your earthly companions. Would space travel be the same way? Would an exotic alien world be made habitable with our companions? I know not, maybe our future generations will find out.

Traveling to a place Where the Wild Things Are or to one of Dr Seuss’ landscapes is a unique opportunity. I have to admit I had not read the National Park Service’s description of the Joshua Trees on their site. They called it Dr Seuss’s trees. I felt the same. Dr Seuss lived not far from Joshua Tree National Park after all, and I am sure he took inspiration from these curious curvy alphabetic trees for his many books. (The one on alphabets, On Beyond Zebra. The Wum, Humpfm, Thnad that seem to go past the twenty six that we do know; or the trees that Horton the Elephant sits on while hatching his egg for instance.) 

The Joshua trees have a life lesson or two to impart. 

Each tree seems determined to leave an imprint on the planet. Like the illustrious bristlecone trees up further north, the Joshua trees seem to chart a unique path for themselves. Each tree resorted to a rule of no rules. I saw no two trees branch out similarly. Some took to elegant and simple forms, while others reveled in the complicated heiroglyphics to decode the essence of living.

They seem to have taken Mary Oliver’s poem to heart – every one of them.

Tell me, what is it you plan to do

with your one wild and precious life?

Mary Oliver, The Summer Day

How does one become a tree? Like this 

Or like this?

I know not. All I know is that life holds precious moments for those who attempt to become one, and the resulting camaraderie and joy of dancing and chatting in the deserts with one’s dear companions takes on a refreshing feeling that one can savor and smile at when Google Photos reminds you days afterward. 

Where the Wild Girls Are

If life is meant to be lived, live them like Joshua trees or Bristlecone trees  – hardy, beautiful, resilient, joyful and in the quiet companionship of your fellow souls journeying with you through this exotic world. 

Windy Day Adventures

An evening walk during the Christmas season is uplifting for the spirit even if one’s nose glows like Rudolph the red nosed reindeer’s with the cold. I stop here and there admiring the lawns lit up with reindeer. They remind me of the patronus charms in the Harry Potter series and make me smile. If there were this many patronuses around us, the dementors would have no chance would they?

One particularly wind whipped evening, I was out on a brisk walk. Brisk, partly to get warm, but partly because the winds were pushing me along with vigor. I was trying to keep my umbrella from flipping, and I was more distracted than usual. I did not stop to admire the trees swaying in the winds, and only managed to skittle away when a largish twig or two broke off from the branches above. 

When I stepped into the house a few minutes later, I said to the son, “ I saw the drunken polar bears lying on their sides, while the penguins huddled together like they do during the harsh winters in the Antarctic!”

“What?!” He said laughing. He looked happy and warm epitomizing the Hygge sentiments the Eastern Europeans gave us a word for. He was reading a book, listening to music and munching cookies with warm milk. His hair was plastered down and looked almost kempt (not unkempt but not exactly tidy).  I, on the other hand, came back with half the hair on my head pointing towards Iceland and the other half making a distinct beeline for Patagonia in South America.

It was after a dog out on a walk with its owner gave me an annoyed bark that I snapped to my senses and folded the umbrella. I had been wielding the umbrella like Captain America and his shield, and having as much success as a muggle producing a patronus charm. The winds were making me stagger and I hadn’t noticed the poor dog out on its evening walk till I almost walked into said dog. I stopped and looked contrite enough for the dog to give me a lopsided nod of the head before proceeding. The absence of the umbrella dance, and the amused expression on the dog’s face seemed to tickle a nerve somewhere, and the rest of the walk took on a gentle humor of its own.

The Christmas decorations were having a whale of a time in the gale force winds, and I was bursting with the joy of this whimsical take on the Christmas decorations in the neighborhood. I wondered what the deer that usually graze nearby thought of their patronus like brethren. Were they worried by the bright polar bears, chipmunks and Santa Clauses? How would it be to really fathom what the animals thought of us and our customs, and our lifestyles? I remember reading a short story by Louisa May Alcott a while ago on a girl who could talk to birds.

“Here is a riddle for you! The polar bears are lying drunk, while the penguins ..”

He gave me a mock-sorry look, and said, “Let’s get you warm – the cold has gotten to you maybe?” he said shepherding me away from the door lest I ask him to step out.

I pointed to the window and the son guffawed at the drunken-bear-penguin-dance take on the Christmas decorations on the lawns in the neighborhood. 

P.S: Wind Classifications

The wind classification charts that I managed to look up once I was safely tucked in bed after feeling had crept back into the extremities said that the winds outside had been either a level 7 or level 8 wind meaning gale force winds.

Dream Boats

Oh! Books! Marvelous Books! 📚

I am so grateful to live in a world that has an abundance of books. Take this one for instance: The Wanderer – By Peter Van Den Ende.

Paper boats have held a fascination all its own. The oceans must’ve been the first great frontier that humankind was enthralled by. How we came to design boats in the manner we do now must be an interesting journey. Why this shape – why not in the shape of a whale, or a swan with paddlers underneath? 

How long have boat designs stayed in this cup shape that floats? 

I remember making paper boats all the time. Setting them to sail on little puddles or watch them scooting along with a fast flowing rivulet of the rainwaters. Either way, the joy is never dampened, though the paper may be (please pardon the pun). Some folks made paper planes pretty well, but the paper boats were my little special things. I made them out of napkins in restaurants, out of spare paper in schools and work spots, and chocolate wrappers. I wrote poems on Puddle Boats, The Dream Weaver. A boat has an endless fascination: a mystical vessel with its ability to journey into places unknown, and encounter adventures unimaginable. Which child has not enjoyed the finale of The Adventures of Dr Doolittle even if the rest of the book did not enthrall?

Imagine my joy then in seeing this book. I had no words, and neither did the book.

Some books capture the heart’s yearning with no words at all. The Wanderer by Van Deck Ende is one of them. A simple concept, one that any one who has played with paper boats in rain puddles, rivulets and streams has often dreamed off. It takes a true artist though to capture those dreams and meanderings onto paper for others to enjoy. And an exemplary one to make the possibilities even better with monochromatic themes.

The little paper boat starts its journey off simply enough. As it traverses streams, rivers, oceans, and peeks into lakes, the pages come alive.

Whether you look around above the waters and take in the egrets and herons by the lake

Or peek into the depths of the ocean below and take in the sights of the reefs and whales below, this book is sure to take us on a journey of a lifetime. 

Every page is a different destination on its own, and every stop along the way adds unto a wonderful journey.

What a marvelous book! The above are a few sample pictures taken from the book to enable a review. The book has many more.

Tonight, after all is quiet, and the world can be left to its own devices, and the land of dreamlands can be entered; these images should help us along to the beautiful lands of possibility. 

Percy – The Enlightened Soul

Last night, I read a poem by Mary Oliver in the book, Truro Bear and Other Adventures, I got to the section where she writes about her beloved dog, Percy, and had a hearty laugh. Percy was named after an Italian poet, and as such was also wise in his ways. 

Take for instance, when he consumed the Bhagavad Gita.

Percy (One)

Our new dog, named for the beloved poet,

Ate a book which unfortunately we had

Left unguarded.

Fortunately it was the Bhagavad Gita,

Of which many copies are available.

Every day now, as Percy grows

Into the beauty of his life, we touch

His wild, curly head and say,

“Oh wisest of little dogs.”

Mary Oliver, Truro Bear and Other Adventures

Percy is indeed a wise soul, for she he seems to have an innate knowledge in the true things that matter in life. He has many friends, enjoys a romp by the seaside, polishes off good food, and is ever ready to provide companionship to his human friends. Show them a thing or two about living. 

I have several friends who dedicate a good amount of their time and energy to the study of the Bhagavad Gita.

One in particular also possesses the rare quality of sharing and explaining his learnings without the mantle of self-righteousness. (I call it a rare quality, since religion and spirituality are different things, and few souls have the wisdom to unify them in the pursuit of knowledge and humility. )

I am not sure whether all those who have immersed themselves in the wise learnings of the Bhagavad Gita have truly digested its many layered teachings (definitely not in the way that Percy did!). But a few of them I know would’ve enjoyed the following poem also in the book after several pages:

Percy & Books (Eight)

Percy does not like it when I read a book.

He puts his face over the top of it and moans.

He rolls his eyes, sometimes he sneezed.

The sun is up, he says and wind is down,

The tide is out and the neighbor’s dogs are playing.

But Percy I say. Ideas! The elegance of language!

The insights, the funniness, the beautiful stories

That rise and fall and turn into strength, or courage.

Books? Says Percy. I ate one once, and it was enough.

Let’s go.

Mary Oliver, Truro Bear and Other Adventures

Percy! Oh wise soul!

On the Shores of Sleep

I lay awake ready to explore the cosmic oceans of the subconscious, which is to say, the eyelids were heavy with welcoming drowsiness, but blessed sleep was momentarily elusive.

The infection in my eye was throbbing, and had morphed into a dull headache. A trip to the city earlier in the day had tuckered me out more than I cared to admit, and an over-tired body can take some time falling asleep. 

The quick trip to the city had also rekindled some familiar feelings. Some things never seemed to change. The city with its trembling lights, its massive office buildings, the scores of people rushing, rushing towards something, nothing. Life felt long, unchanging, and yet, distressingly tumultuous all at once.

I stopped to take pulse – the anxious rush of traffic, the speed with which one needed to act and react on the streets, the cacophony of ambulances and traffic, and the frenzied pace were one thing. Colleagues who had moved out of the geographic location, colleagues who had moved on was quite another. The memory of a colleague who had succumbed to cancer a few weeks prior: another good human being whose companionship and solid good sense I missed.

How could time feel swift and still at the same time? 

How can our ephemerality coincide with that sense of life being long and varied?

“We are like butterflies who flutter for a day and think it is forever.” 

― Carl Sagan, Cosmos

Every moment plucked like a strand from a whirlwind, and yet, every person’s appreciation of the whirlwind was their own. Life seemed meaningless and meaningful in spots of flashing clarity in the confusing overwhelm of the day.

I tried to sleep that night – back in the quiet of our suburban home. I couldn’t, and took to moon-watching instead. The moon had risen – the same moon that rose over the Sierra Nevada mountains – unmoving, majestic; the oceans – calm and serene; the vast plains of the desert – cactii-laden amidst multi-hued rocks and sands; the coastal regions  – the sandy shores and the redwood forests reaching up to eternity; and the bustling city all at the same time. 

Moon Watching

The Japanese have a beautiful word for moon-watching:

Tsukimi (月見) or Otsukimi (お月見), meaning, “moon-viewing”, also known as Jugoya (十五夜), are Japanese festivals honoring the autumn moon, a variant of the Mid-Autumn Festival.

Time and Space in the physical realm invites us to think of Being in the meta-physical sense.  The land of dreams beckoned again, and I went to bed – grateful for the quiet solitude of the night, the calming nature of moonlit thoughts and blessed sleep.

The sun will rise bringing with it a whole new perspective.

Tweet Talk

The cheery morning had us all chirping – much like the world around us. A beautiful, bright, sunny November morning around the time of Thanksgiving is always a special time. The glorious world around us transformed into multi-colored hues, and the auditory world rich with the orchestra of birds made our human companions on the trail more friendly as well. Every single one of them cheerily greeted one another on what a lovely morning it was. The world seemed to be in harmony.

Geese lifted out of their slumbering fields and flew squawking great big messages to one another as they splashed down into the lakes and rivers nearby. The blackbird murmurations overhead trilled and flew flashing their streaks of red in marvelous patterns overhead. The californian blue jays swooped among the marshes and the trees, their brilliant azure feathers twinkling and shining in the rays of the sun. The great blue herons and egrets stood waiting in their great cloaks of grey and white, relishing their solitude and just being part of the great lovely world around them. 

I read somewhere that people who were among many birds were generally less stressed in life, and I could readily imagine why. The joyous chirps, blending together in a great, harmonious orchestra along with the swift usage of wings to fly up and above, taking one’s spirits with you is enough to reduce the stress. 

I sniffed rapturously and we walked on. The ponds in the marshes seemed perfect for reflection, and the mind wandered. I took some pictures: not too many, and certainly not of great quality for posterity. There were talented photographers  for that. I have several friends whose photographs have that essence of transcending the current space and time and tranporting you to that very moment they captured. How they manage to catch the birds in flight is beyond me. I said as much to the son, who gave me an amused look at yet another blurry picture I took of a nesting heron in the marshes. 

Seeing how enamored I am with our winged companions in this world, the daughter got me a book titled Bird Cottage – by Eva Meijer for my birthday. I look forward to reading it. I looked at the son as we walked on in companionable silence, and told him so.

“Now, I am reading a book on hummingbirds.” 

“I am sure you are!” He said with a smile on the corner of his lips.

“Less sass young man. It is a fascinating book. “

“That’s what I meant. You would like to read a whole book on hummingbirds. What’s it about?” he said indulging me as he walked on.

I was proud of the fellow. He had been promised a short, zipping bike ride with the wind blowing against his face. Instead, here he was on a long walk. On the trudge back, he said, “I think I am going to go home and replace my legs with another pair. They hurt!”, and he laughed raucously at his own joke.

“It would be nice to fly on home, wouldn’t it? Become a hummingbird so we can fly swiftly and purposefully home every few minutes if you so wish!”

I told him about this person who lives in Marin County who takes on orphaned hummingbirds and nurses them back to life. “They need to be fed every 20 minutes all day every day till they are strong enough to be released into the wild.” I said.

“Wow. Why do they eat so much? They are so tiny!”

“Well! They are tiny and almost fully lungs – so you have to give them tiny portions every few minutes, so they can survive and thrive. A hummingbird mother is a very busy one. She has to fly in and out of the nest every few minutes feeding, and looking after her little ones, till they are strong enough. Just like most babies.” I said. He looked confused and awed. I addressed that look and said, “Even human babies need to be fed every couple of hours throughout the day for the first few months. You know that?”

He had a vague idea until then that babies were work, but he had no idea they needed to be fed every 2 hours.

He was quiet for a few moments digesting this piece of info. I swooped in, and gave him what the early days of human baby care looked like. I rounded it off saying, “Yep! You do all that, and what do they do? Sass you on walks, and roll their eyes when they are teens!” He laughed raucously frightening a goose nearby, and we spoke of this and that, the great web of life, and the fantastic nature of living.

The Art of Words

There are days when fiction exerts a strong pull on the mind. We are, after all, children of stories.

The nature of the allure is in the constantly changing nature over time. Some days demand active adventure, mysteries to be solved, and battles to be won. These flights of fancy can be just as fascinating as the timeless nature of love encapsulated in the pages of P G Wodehouse and Jane Austen – the balm for the soul. Just as special is the quiet, kind, and often humorous companionship among humans written by the likes of Miss Read, L M Montgomery or RK Narayan, especially for one who is tired after a day of dealing with people and their problems at work. Revelations that give us tiny insights into the possibilities and depths of the human spirit.

Some days, the allure of poetry is there like a soothing essence of the night. Like a lavender enhanced bath drawn up – cocooning one in the safe tendrils of the fragrance. Could you not be the imaginative child drawing up a Block City, or the crane standing quietly in the marshes waiting for the right time to strike? Or the star far away twinkling and waiting for us to absorb some of its light and magic into our very being?

Then, there are days when non-fiction calls out to one with a clear call like a foghorn in a tempest. The days when the most delicious pieces of revelation are nestled as innocuous facts in a book. A book in which the writer has graciously shared their enormous love for the universe and their learnings kindly with the rest of humanity. A giving of their very soul – a sharing of knowledge so deep, so pure, it feels almost visceral to read through the contents and absorb as best as one can.

In all these genres, there are stellar writers, writers who have their streaks of brilliance, and writers who strike it big with or without the art of craft, for popularity and merit do not always go together. Nevertheless,  most of them are united by the common thread of striving continuously in their art. 

As I read Conversations on Writing with Ursula K Le Guin compiled from a series of interviews with David Naimon, I felt a thrill of the art of words once again. 

As David Naimon points out, Ursula K Le Guin is probably one of the select few authors on which one could have a conversation on fiction, poetry and non-fiction, having written all three to great acclaim.

Starting off from this simple place of:

“Children know perfectly well that unicorns aren’t real, “ says Ursula K Le Guin, “But they also know that books about unicorns, if they are good books, are true books.”

That was my experience of reading Tales of Earthsea growing up.

Wizards walk the earth and dragons fly the skies. yet the further they took me from “reality” the closer I felt to the real.

Conversations on Writing – Ursula Le Guin with David Naimon

Her conversations on fiction and how she was unable to insert her science fiction portion of her mind to her poetry was fascinating.

As the conversation unfolds in the poetry section, David Naimon observes that her fiction stems from her imagination, but her poetry from contemplation. How true and marvelous? The quiet contemplation of the wind rustling through the leaves has quite a different rhythm in the heart from the mind imagining the wondrous life of the creatures by the riverside. 

The book provides many asides, many references to other writers, poets and non-fiction writers who have inspired her. Little snippets inserted on black pages while referencing another’s work provide branches into other worlds to explore into such as Lao Tzu’s Tao Te Ching. The reference to wu-wei (the act of non-doing) getting a smile out of me.

Oh! To be cocooned in the Magical Art of Words is bliss indeed!

A Rainy Day Adventure

“Just like that, summer collapsed into fall.”

Oscar Wilde

“I like that quote and plan to use it on my blog!” I said, sitting down in front of the teenage daughter’s wall of quotations, though I was feeling luxuriously wet. Summer had collapsed into fall just like that! How these writers find the exact sentiment!

“Hey! That is my quote.” 

“Looks like Oscar Wilde’s to me.” I said and she laughed. I looked appreciatively at the quotes she had pinned up. She has some saucy ones, some spicy ones, some warm ones and some ‘meh’ ones as she calls them.

The rains had set in with a whim and the day in my mind was magical. It was a Sunday, and for a change we had arranged life so that nobody had anywhere to go that day.  A rare luxury. Marvelous days of rain and clouds with no list of  engagements can be quite liberating, and I had taken myself on a walk with a friend who was willing to bear the elements. We may have had a few close calls in which the umbrellas insisted on flying off with the winds, or the rains lashed in at an angle not expected, but overall, it was a marvelous walk. I felt alive, wind-whipped, cold, wet, and all the smells of nature mingled and tingled my nostrils. 

“Do you remember that little book, A Rainy Day Adventure, that you both loved as children. Your grandfather was quite sick of it. The one where the elephant, tiger, and monkey went to shelter under the tree from the rain, and when the elephant was dry, the tiger wasn’t; and when the tiger inched in, the monkey was wet?” The pair of them laughed at that story. They did remember. It was a sweet book that had served many an afternoon adventure for them. The tiger did not like getting wet at all, and consequently takes off in a huff to find shelter elsewhere. Read in their grandfather’s stentorian voice, it was always accompanied by an hilarious laugh, when the tiger falls into the river and gets completely drenched, and is pulled out by the elephant and monkey.

I sighed happily. “I didn’t exactly plop into the river like the tiger, but I was quite wet. I felt like a little girl in Lovedale again, the winds, the rains, and the scents of eucalyptus and pine were just so. The ducks were having so much fun in the fast flowing waters of the river swollen from a mere stream to a gushing river in the rains.”, I said rapturously.

The river – usually a strip of water

The daughter had a moment of indecision. Should she, or should she not? Finally, she said, “You paint a promising picture of the rainy day adventure, it sounds fun! Maybe, I’ll try it.” I whooped with joy and then went downstairs to get her set up with a sturdier umbrella and some boots before sending her on the way.

I went upstairs to change, and for the first time cursed the double paned windows that were touted as a marvelous feature when we moved in to the new nest. Mostly, I appreciate them, for there is no outside noise that percolates into the home. But today, I wanted the noise to percolate into the home. I wanted to hear the wind buffeting the dear home, I wanted to hear the gurgling waters as they sped towards the gutters cleaning up the months of summer dust with them, I wanted to hear the momentous crash that sent half a sturdy tree crashing down in the front. But I heard none of that. 

A few minutes later, the daughter crashed into the home, looking like a battered duck that flew into a tree, and said to the husband. “Amma here! She really ought to be checked. The way she spoke about it, I thought it was mild to moderate rains, and you can just listen to the pitter-patter of rain-drops against the umbrella. Nothing like that! I was almost swept off my feet several times by the winds, the umbrella turned inside-out at least 3 times, and all this in a 15 minute walk inside our community! Look at her looking so happy after being soaked like this!” 

I laughed heartily, and said, “Well, I did tell you it was a good rainy day adventure. I never extolled a gentle stroll. I called it an adventure! That is what it is. Come! Admit it – you loved it.” She threw her hands up in the air and shook herself to dry like a dog does. A few minutes later, I found her holding a large cup of hot chocolate that she had made for herself and her little brother. “I am going to my room, lighting a scented candle with pumpkin spices, listening to some music, curling up with a good book, and sipping hot chocolate. That is what you are supposed to do on a day like this, not take off on sloshy walks.”

“I heartily agree. “ I said, calling after her. “Admit it! You appreciate this all the more because of the rainy day adventures.” She laughed in spite of herself.

I recognized the wisdom in her words, and did the same. The coziness of a rainy autumn day is heavenly indeed. 

The river after the downpour

Just a Little?

—————

I’ve written before about how one of the best gifts of growing up in a different world from the one I inhabit as an adult is the marvelous gifts of literature that keeps on giving. For instance, this week, I am contending with my love for Anne of Green Gables and its TV show, Anne with an E, juggling the arrival of our in-laws from India, Greek myths that ebbs and flows like the tides with the children and their interests, a full Navarathri season, a pile of books begging to be read, a craving for some quiet, and a few entirely new Dr Seuss books.

All of these things seemed to reiterate the one thing that Virginia Woolf said,

“As a woman I have no country. As a woman I want no country. As a woman, my country is the whole world.”

Virginia Woolf

The children thought it might be a good idea for me to watch Anne with an E. Seeing that I am not much of a Television person, a profile was created for me on Netflix. Every one else’s profile was given their own names. Mine was touchingly called ‘Amma’, and it had one entry in the ‘Continue Watching’: Anne with an E.

This tickled the son every time, and he showed it off to his friends, who all shared a chuckle with him.  The series is beautifully rewritten by Moira Walley Becket, and is based on the original book series by Lucy Maud Montgomery. The series boldly irons out some aspects that could have been better in the books. A number of side stories and characters have also been added (some I liked, some I didn’t).

Ever since my first acquaintance with Anne of Green Gables, I have a yearning for the Canadian countryside. I would love to visit Nova Scotia, and Prince Edward Island one day ‘with kindred spirits’ to take in the October beauty. 

I am so glad I live in a world where there are Octobers

– Anne of Green Gables – Lucy Maud Montgomery

I must admit Anne with an E rekindled the love for the series, and I started reading the series again. Accordingly I went to library to look up Anne of Windy Poplars, and found the rest of the series on the shelves, but the one I was looking for. I asked one of the librarians putting some books away nearby and went to ask her if she knew whether there was another copy somewhere else. Her eyes seem to light up when I asked after the Anne of Green Gables series, and I smiled inside my mask. She acknowledged that the Windy Poplars one was not there, and I thanked her, and went my way. 

I meandered around the library and when finally I washed up at the checkout desk, she came up breathlessly, and handed me a well-loved copy of Anne of Windy Poplars. “I knew there was another copy for you somewhere!” 

I thanked her profusely. I cannot tell you the joy I had in curling up with Anne that night, reveling in the quiet way in which the old rivalries between Anne and Gilbert blossomed into a companionable friendship, and then into love.

I said so to the daughter late that night when she found me reading well past midnight. Her eyes crinkled with laughter, and she said,”Amma! Look at you. Aren’t you just a little bit embarrassed to be fan-girling like this?”

“Well…since you ask, Just A Little Bit!” I said, but found myself laughing. “I can’t help it, I seem to like it, and well, makes me think of Appa & me a long time ago.”

“All right – TMI!” she said. (TMI for oldies as I was lovingly enlightened means Too Much Information)

But she nodded approvingly before adding, “I like that you are reading and watching Anne of Green Gables ma! Gilbert Blythe indeed!” Her back registered indulgence as she turned and left me to my reading. I chuckled, and became a little girl enjoying the twist of the trees, and the way the moonlight danced on the waters, till the mystical realms of dreams claimed me.