Just Stop.

Some times, sometimes you have to just stop, you know? Just. Stop.

Yes, it's Nunavut. Yes there's a limited degree of "hustle and bustle" here to begin with. But it's amazing how hard it is to forget everything else and just stop for a bit. Just for a little while. Just stop.

I left work this evening just before 11PM. I was tired. I was droopy-eyed, I was ready for bed. I went outside to start the work truck, visions of sugarplums just moments from dancing above my head ... only to discover the truck wouldn't start. Battery's dead.

I considered my options. 1.) Go to the Red Top, buy some spark plugs, install them in my skidoo and drive home. 2.) Go to the Red Top, get cash back and call a cab (hoping they'd still be running). 3.) Walk the 20 minutes home.

For some reason, maybe just wanting to be done with the day, I decided to take the shortest (though by no means quickest) route. And I walked.

It was a coldish night. Sitting still at -30. And I hit the trail at a good pace, my warm breath making icicles out of my eyelashes and fur-trimmed hood. Without my iPod to distract me I was left with only my own thoughts for company. And before I knew it, I was just steps away from home. As I made the final approach, I unzipped my jacket just past my chin and flipped my hood back, shaking my hair loose.

I made a little turn before I climbed the stairs, and a wisp of smoke caught my eye. I followed it with my eyes, and then my whole head, cranked up towards the night sky. That wisp of smoke joined its friends in the most spectacular show of Northern Lights I've ever seen in Rankin.

It was like the northern lights were their own dynamic constellation. Or maybe a galaxy of sorts. As I watched, the little beams swirled around themselves; some times forming little milky ways, and other, delicate strands of green light. Before my eyes, one of the little green hurricanes of light wound itself so tight, pale shades of pink began to shine through. The pink began to escape from the eye of the storm, marching down, fading out into green, and finally dissapating to dark night sky.

I ran into the house to grab my camera my tripod, my puppy and out we went. I got my first photos of the Aurora, thanks to Mini Spy Cam. We spent the next half hour freezing and photographing. Though puppy doesn't have opposable thumbs, so he mostly did the freezing part.

As always, these photos haven't been altered in any way from how I took them. Just compressed so they'd upload easier to Blogger.

Admittedly, pictures and words do the Aurora no justice. Only when you see them can you really appreciate their beauty. But so often we don't see them, because we're too busy zooming home, the last thought in our minds being the night sky, and the treasures it holds.

Sometimes you have to just remind yourself to stop. Stop and... well if not smell the roses, then stop and appreciate the world for its beauty. Just stop.


Happy 500th blog post "The North is My Snowcone." It's been a slice.

Rideau Canal

I don't really have the energy to write. But below is the first thing I did in journalism school that was actually worth the paper I wrote it on. In first year university, our third assignment was to do a 'descriptive writing piece.' I went down to the Rideau Canal in late-February, and this was the result. I was very proud of it, and still mostly am. There's not much I would change about it, so here it is... largely un-edited (after that 4th draft I did before handing it in, that is).

The Mackenzie King bridge, the National Arts Centre and the Ottawa Congress Centre form a tunnel through which the otherwise calm wind whips. The benches within this wind tunnel are where skaters sit to lace up, and they emit a familiar smell of pine, bringing to mind the distant memories of Christmas. As the skaters leave the shadow of the bridge, they pass under a banner proclaiming the Rideau Canal as “the world’s longest skating rink”, and the sun reveals itself, staggering in its intensity as it reflects off of the hardened mounds of snow that have been turned grey by sand and salt. The power of the sun encourages the skaters to remove their heavy winter jackets, and a sign that skating season is almost over. The ice is slowly melting, creating puddles of slush, and closed-off sections.

The peaks of little chalets line the edges of the ice releasing sweet scents of pastries and the spicy tang of sausages, tempting the hungry stomachs of passersby. The cars zooming past the Congress Centre create a white noise hum in the background, but it is the scraping of blades on the ice, engraving the surface of the Canal that is distinctive. A man in a power wheelchair draws attention as he glides back and forth across a small patch of ice, etching unique designs of figure eights and circles. Few find him a bother and many stop to watch. There are gasps of shock as his wheels spin out of control and sighs of relief as they grasp the friction of the snow once more. Rarely do people strike up a conversation, but they smile in passing, or give ‘thumbs-up.’

The groups that pass him vary in grace and skill. The children bundled from head to toe in their winter snowsuits, providing protection from bruised knees and boo-boos, attempt his tricks, and although they cannot quite get the hang of it, squeal with laughter. The self-absorbed couples rarely pay him notice as they glide past with incredible grace or clutch onto one another for safety. But not all who pass are skaters, many are enjoying a leisurely stroll on a Saturday afternoon, alone or with their loved ones.

As they continue down the canal, these people fade from being families, friends and lovers of all ages and ethnicities. They are no longer unique for wearing boy skates, girl skates, speed skates, hockey skates or figure skates. Their strollers, toboggans, pets and children become unrecognizable. They become a mass of people, an indistinguishable group of bodies swaying back and forth, keeping time like a giant metronome.