I can't see it, but I can hear it.  It's a tiny blue-gray thing with a tufted head, and even though the temperature is still in the thirties, I've thrown open the window so that I can hear it better.  It seems to be calling around to see if anyone else has arrived yet.  If ever a year needed a spring it's this one.  Now in the distance I've started hearing other types of birds joining the chorus.  Of all the things I miss in winter, including light, birdsong is in the top three.

There is an ocean separating me from where I want to be right now.  Funeral preparations proceed for Jim, who will be laid out in Saint David's Church in Mold, North Wales on Thursday evening in preparation for his Mass on Friday morning at ten, led by the Bishop.  It will be five o'clock here, and I'll be up, saying the rosary with the ring he gave me years ago, and listening to "Jerusalem" through my iPod, rocking and weeping in the ancient tradition of "keening".  Nothing will help the pain.  Still, I know that under the melting snow outside my window there are daffodils, the flower of Wales, which will emerge in a few weeks to remind me of my precious friend, and to connect me to him and remind me that it takes more than death to break the bond of love.

I find the period after a "hit" physically exhausting.  Going to the boutique and pasting on the happy face as I deal with ladies buying clothes I couldn't begin to afford and which they don't need serves to distract me, but doesn't begin to deal with the issues.  I want a bit of quiet, but that doesn't seem to be on the schedule.

It has occurred to me that I need to start cultivating younger friends or I'm going to run out.  Since I was a child I have always gravitated towards "wisdom figures".  I wept bitterly on the last day of school from the third grade right through high school.  My teachers were my first real guides and friends.  After school I would sometimes stop by for a cup of tea and then work in the garden.  While I was in college I was the weekly housekeeper for my retired eighth grade English teacher, and we remained friends until I was well into my thirties when she passed away. 

My first priest friend fell into my life when I had surgery at the age of thirteen and hit it off with the hospital chaplain.  Since then I have met and added to my list of "inner circle friends" a number of priests.  I'm not sure why.  It's not a plan.  If there's someone in a sweatshirt and jeans at a party and we have a wonderful time talking about important things, at least six times out of ten I'll find out he's been ordained.  I guess I see the human being behind the Roman collar, and treat him accordingly.  And sometimes very irreverently, which we all need once in a while to keep our feet tethered to Earth.  My husband considers the clergy part of my dowry, and he and my children have become the family that some of these men never had.  It's "win, win" until you get to today when one of them leaves and then everyone is reeling in pain. I suppose that's true any time you open your heart wide to let someone into the inner circle.  The pain is in proportion to the depth of the joy received. And over the years this family has been blessed with great joy.

There's been another tear in the tapestry of my life.  Canon Webb (aka "Uncle Jim" around here) slipped away quietly in his sleep on Sunday night after dedicating the new chapel in Saint David's Church in Mold, Wales.  Since my boys were tiny (indeed, before they were born), we would spend our summer holidays at the presbytery, using it as a launching place for exploring castles.  Every Saturday at 7:30 either I would call him or he would call me and we would catch up on the week.  There was never a birthday, Fourth of July, or Christmas that the phone didn't ring with a greeting.  We were family by choice, which, as I maintain, is the best kind of family to be. 

Scary at first, his Cambridge University accent, hard acquired after a childhood rife with poverty, could prove off-putting.  Then he would say something outrageous like, "One found that very amusing.  We laughed so hard the tears of mirth ran down our leg," and after doing a double-take to confirm that I'd heard what I thought I'd heard, we'd howl.  He introduced us to the phrase "tickety-boo" for use when things were just lovely.  The first time I saw the town of Mold I commented that it was much larger than I'd imagined it.  He replied, "Yes, but even in one's moments of most diminished sobriety, one would never mistake it for midtown Manhattan."

He was the friend of my high school history teacher, Rosemary, and I'd known him almost twenty years before we became friends.  She passed away two months after my wedding, and when he came to town to collect his things which he'd left on various visits, we mourned her death together and sealed a friendship that will last forever.  Himself and I named our second son after him, which delighted Uncle Jim.  My friends are carefully chosen and fiercely and permanently loved.  To take a third major hit in six months has been difficult.  I haven't seen him face to face since 2007, what with college tuitions and airfare costing what they do, but the bond has never faltered.  His face, intentionally stern and unsmiling, sits atop the piano and keeps me company.

Jim's funeral will be on Saint David's Day, which is Wales' equivalent of Ireland's Saint Patrick's Day.  He'll miss the field of daffodils which should be in full bloom in his garden by then.  But not a thousandth as much as we'll miss him.  Sleep well, my dear, dear friend.  And save me a good seat.

Such a lazy Sunday.  It's snowing again, but just enough to cover the rapidly graying remnants of the last storm, so that's not necessarily a bad thing.  We went to Mass last night, so there is no need to even brush off the car, and tomorrow is a holiday for both of us, so the possibility of sleeping late two days in a row looms like an oasis on the horizon.  I actually got up at nine today, which is ridiculously rare for me.  There were, of course, plans for the day (dinner with my sisters and their husbands and reminiscing over the pictures Mom left behind, and that's been postponed) but one of the joys of winter is that most events cannot be written in stone...or even ink.  There has to be a flexibility to the thinking that is not required at any other time of year.  One must decide what is critical and what is not.  Most things are not.

I shall throw on a laundry or two, and shuffle some papers around, but my most serious plans involve a good book, an afghan (the blanket, not the dog), and a cup of tea or ten.  If I'm very good I may reward myself with a nap later.  And I am usually very good. Or at least good enough.

All morning the backhoes and loaders have been filling dump trucks with mountains of snow and carting them away, widening streets and reducing the likelihood of a head-on collision at every intersection.  Between that and the climbing temperatures, last week's blizzard remnants are rapidly disappearing.  Larger patches of ground are visible on the lawn, and a few very confused bulbs have started to poke a nose out of the ground to find out what's up. The Groundhog (that dirty liar!) is still buried up to his misinformed whiskers, but my hopes are still high.  Spring can't be far away now!

Valentine's Day has come and gone, another milestone in the march towards better weather, the final obstacle traditionally being Saint Patrick's Day in this neck of the woods.  And while we're on the subject, why is it "Saint Patrick's Day" but just "Valentine's Day"?  I guess chocolate isn't as important as beer.  In any event, Himself spent the evening caring for his parents while I helped out backstage at a production of "Almost Maine" at the local community theater.  I dropped a shoe on cue, and made it snow onstage.  Not exactly romantic, but any participation in theater is always much better than a box of chocolates.  Now if I could just land a part in something.  It's been ages.

The job hunt continues, while I spend a few hours every week at the boutique trying to run the cash register, which I find intimidating.  Another job interview looms next week, at more than twice the hours and at fifty percent more pay.  And who knows where that may lead or who I might meet?  The last time I took a "temporary job" it lasted twenty-two years.

And so begins Lent.  Just as my New Year's resolutions have totally dissolved around me, in comes Ash Wednesday with a booster shot of discipline.  I waiver every year on whether to give something up or to do something positive.  I sometimes try to do both.  This year it's no alcohol and no video games (sacrifice) and an attempt to meditate at least once a day.  Motives are not pristine for most people, and I'm no saintly exception.  While the spiritual benefits of discipline are many, there are very few of us who aren't secretly hoping for a lower number on the scale or lower blood pressure at the same time.  I don't suppose Jesus minds as long as we do (or don't do) SOMETHING.  At least we give Him more than the usual passing thought.

The Catholic traditions (you've caught on that I'm Catholic, right?) are very comforting.  Some of them are weird, too, and I don't dispute that, but the music, the stained glass windows, the incense, and the vestments all help to put me in a sacred space.  I don't stay there long on the average day, but at least I get to dip a toe in once in a while.  Everything else on the planet seems to be in turmoil, but the Church just keeps on keeping on.  OK, I would vastly prefer it if they would ordain women and accept that many wonderful people happen to be gay (I know several priests who I am reasonably sure play on that team), but it is quietly reassuring to have something which is pretty much unchanged since my childhood.  Or Geoffrey Chaucer's childhood, for that matter, give or take Vatican II.

I wish you calm and peace, perspective and insight.  And from now until Easter I'll be missing the "Alleluia" more than a little as we focus on the more somber side of life.

Life is crawling back to normal around here.  The ice at the end of the driveway is losing its oomph.  It now only takes me three tries to scale the snowy mound to get to the street.  The sun is shining and my "to do" list is back to looking like the Boston phone-book.  I'll be happier, however, when I have a place to park my car other than inside the house.  We have a "garage under" and the ONLY time the car is in there is when there is nowhere else to put it.  Between carbon monoxide, fire hazard, and my complete lack of depth perception which occasionally leads to some REALLY scary close calls, this is no fun at all.

Himself has gone back to work,  and it's the first time I've had the house to myself since last Thursday.  I find it's making me miss the boys even more than usual.  I'm hurrying to get to the point where I have to go out to do errands, just so I can hear a human voice besides the one in my head.

I am fascinated by the retirement or resignation or whatever it is of Pope Benedict (or "B-16" as we call him around here).  Mind you, I am not expecting much in the way of progress from his successor, whoever it is.  The ones who recognize the worth of women in ministry, or the sacredness of every human life, including gay ones, have a tendency not to rise very high in the system, if you know what I mean.  It will be a company man, I'm sure.  But perhaps we'll zoom ahead into the 17th century, and wouldn't THAT be an improvement!  And now I shall take my cynical self outside with the ice chipper one more time to change what I can.  (Are we sure we can't get the Dalai Lama to apply for the job?)

Yes, it snowed.  Lots.  Yes, I shoveled, it was scary overnight, we lost power, blah, blah, blah.  This is the obligatory shot taken from my front steps.  I don't know why the wind decided to sweep my walk for me (and my front porch) but it did, while it piled stuff over my waist everywhere else.  Go figure. I'm already bored.  Let's move on.

Today is Himself's birthday.  A kinder, gentler, saner man has never graced the earth, and I am a very lucky lady.  He took the day off from his work and I took the day off from mine so we can get some errands done (Valentine's gifts for the kids, bank, post office) and he can exercise.  Tonight we will go to his parents' house, make dinner, and get his mother to bed.  But there may be a movie tucked in there somewhere, a lunch out, a "nap" ;) and a trip to the Mall so I can get his present, which the snow managed to keep me from doing earlier this week. 

It's very revealing to be cooped up for days with one person and intermittent electricity.  It either really works or it REALLY doesn't.  While the cuisine was less than "haute", the company was still wonderful after all these years, and it makes one consider what constitutes a good relationship.  We forgive each other for all the little stuff.  I am not the world's worst housekeeper, but I am a contender.  He spends more time tapping on his computer than he does with me.  But we say "Thank you" a lot.  For doing the dishes, for ironing clothes (yes, I still iron), for making meals.  When he is home he always offers a cup of tea when he's making one for himself.  He is not much of a talker, but I would (and do) trust him with my life.  He is so strong he doesn't need to prove it to anyone.  He is secure enough to let his friends have their own opinions without having to turn them around to the "right" side.  He works hard and is generous to his family.  He is an amazing role model for our sons.  He is disciplined and dependable, but he still manages to surprise me every so often.  And after almost twenty-two years neither of us can believe how long we've been married, because the time has flown, so I guess we're doing something right.

Now off to get a present for this most amazing man.  Although I thought it was pretty cool of me to arrange for the resignation of the Pope.  How on earth will I top THAT one?

There's a blizzard on the way.  Bread and milk are flying off store shelves, as is traditional.  I'm not really sure why people load up on bread and milk when it's going to snow.  I'd much rather heat up a frozen pizza and wash it down with a beer, myself, but New England traditions are hard to break.  It has been years since we've had a real blizzard.  There is a vulnerability coupled with an excitement that goes into every really big snow storm.  We become pioneers in the wilderness (especially if we lose electricity) and are cut off from our neighbors.  We are bears in their winter den.  All of the "important" things we had to do will just have to wait.  I'm scheduled to work in the boutique for four hours tomorrow afternoon.  It's hard for me to believe that anyone will have a critical need for sequins, or that I will be willing to risk the roads for a total of about $36 before taxes.  We will see what happens.

The part I like best is the "digging out".  We emerge from our houses once the snow has stopped (or sometimes before) and clear our stairs, and help elderly neighbors clear theirs.  Whoever has a snow-blower usually does more than his share, and after a while the kids come out in their multicolored snowsuits in shocking contrast to the stark white background, and start constructing snow creatures, which they top with hats and scarves, rocks and carrots.  But that will be Saturday morning.  First we have to get through the scary Friday night of whipping winds and stinging snow.  We will listen in the dark, and light our candles, and if we lose all power we will go to our goose-down covered beds and bless our flannel sheets and get one more reminder that we are not really in charge.

It's been a wild few days, with covering "emergency shifts" at the boutique caused by sickness and problems with the building's exhaust system.  Add that to Super Bowl parties and taking care of my mother-in-law, and I've had my hands full.  The house continues to look as though the Roman Legions tromped through with their sandals on, but the Christmas decorations are put away, lights and all, and even though the temperatures are back to frigid, it is lovely to have daylight (sort of) at five in the afternoon.  Spring is certainly on the way.

There is a feeling of expectation.  I'm waiting for something, but I'm not sure what.  Spring, certainly, and maybe a little more peace in my soul brought by time and healing, but there is something I can't quite put my finger on that's getting nearer.  I'm glad Lent is coming.  I find it helpful to "pare away the excess".  It gives me room to think.  Knock off a few video games a day and I find I have more time than usual do get things done.  I really do feel on the edge of something (not "whelmed").  An old friend of mine used to tell me, "The groundwork doesn't show until one day....."  It feels like that.  The groundwork is about to pay off in some area.  Stay tuned while I figure it out.

I may be modifying my stance on the Christmas lights.  They are even beginning to bore me.  And this morning, while researching a question about "Candlemas" (look it up) I discovered that right after Epiphany, or "Little Christmas" (January 6), Candlemas is the traditional day to take down Christmas decorations.  I guess I'll take them down tomorrow, since everyone knows Groundhog Day and Candlemas are the same day.  Well, almost everyone does.  I once tried to tell a really hysterically funny joke that had Groundhog Day for a punchline, but unfortunately I was in Wales at the time and was met with confused stares and stony silence.  Once I explained the extremely bizarre tradition (which sounds weirder the more one tries to explain it) they were, of course, howling.  But at me and my mistake, rather than at the joke (which is still pretty darn funny and if you're nice to me maybe I'll tell you some day).

That said, Candlemas was superimposed on an ancient feast day which celebrated the coming of spring.  There are stories of the goddess, Brigid (not to be confused with Saint Brigid, but I do anyway) and loaves of bread, buried in the first furrow of the field dug in preparation for the coming planting season.  The Christian holiday has to do with the Feast of the Presentation, when Mary, having been delivered of a male child, was "purified" after forty days, and Jesus made His first appearance in the temple.  It is also the halfway mark between the winter solstice and the vernal equinox.  There is no mention anywhere of a meteorologically precocious rodent, with apologies to Punxatawny Phil.

So tomorrow the rest of the Christmas decorations come down, right on time according to ancient traditions.  Or maybe I'll just throw the circuit-breaker until around April, because let's face it..whether Phil sees his shadow or not, it's still winter out there!