Usually, in the winter, I prefer to spend a lot of time indoors, reading, writing, working on jigsaw puzzles. But these past couple of days, in the midst of a stormy, snowy blizzard, I had this great urge to be outdoors. The temperature was bearable, our snow covered trees provided protection from the winds, and the gently falling snow made the world resemble the inside of a snow globe. Snow flakes fluttering before reaching the ground, often being swept away by the wind.

Going outdoors in the winter is so much more inviting when it is something you want to do, versus something you have to do.

I found my snowshoes, dusty from lack of use, and stepped out into a wonderful wintery wonderland. The tracks I had made, yesterday, had all but disappeared.

It’s amazing how quiet the world is when you are surrounded by snow covered trees. The rustle of autumn’s old brown and yellow leaves, the crackles of winter’s bare branches, make me believe that when a tree falls in the forest when no one is there; it makes a noise.

Life’s changes are often hard to make. Even the good ones.

For the past 20 years, I have been very privileged to work in a field that I am passionate about. Helping people stand strong, on their own to feet, makes for a very rewarding career.

I knew that retiring would happen one day. And that day is very quickly approaching. This change is something that I am ready for.

In the distance, I can see the yellow brick road that leads to the golden years. I am very excited to set foot on that path.

“I will be retiring from my position as Family Home Visitor with Healthy Babies Healthy Children. My last day of work will be April 30th. These are some of the hardest words I have ever written.

Old houses hold so many stories, so many secrets, so many tall tales. No one knows them all, except for the house itself. If walls could talk, I would sit there all day and just listen.

To the stories about the original builders of the home. The excitement they felt when they first moved in. Stories of the births and the deaths, the weddings and the birthday parties that must have taken place within those walls.

The different sales that happened. Old families moving out and new families moving in. And then, somewhere down the line, for reasons unknown to those passing by, the old people moved out but no one moved in.

And the house began to weather and wane. The grasses grew taller and the trees began moving in.

I wonder what the house would say now. Is it sad, is it lonely? Or perhaps quiet and content? A big part of me wants to restore the house to it’s former beauty, giving it more stories to hide within it’s walls.

But today I cannot do that. So I will just preserve it with pictures.

My earliest memories of mixing colours was when I was playing on a pile of weathered stumps with a cousin of mine. We had gathered flowers and grasses, squished them, and painted their juices onto the pieces of dried wood.

Somewhere along the way, I forgot about art. For a long, long time.

Immersing myself in art came back as a form of therapy. Dipping a brush in that day’s colour of choice, and feeling the brush move along the canvas.

Then, I took an art class at a local art gallery with my youngest daughter, a high school student at the time. Our instruction, during an outdoor class, asked us to sit and spend 15 minutes looking at the bay in front of us and watch as the different colours appeared.

I thought to myself, ‘I can do this. I need to do this.’ Our basement is now full of canvases. Some I will keep. Some I will paint over.

My father used to tell us stories about how he loved to draw. How he would take pieces of charcoal from the wood stove and draw on whatever canvas availed itself.

As I watch my little granddaughter diligently working on her canvas, I visualize her grandfather working on his.