Helen, our local physiotherapist, teaches Pilates several mornings a week to the ladies of the parish. Not only do I make the 5 minute walk to the Village Hall, where the classes are, but also spend an hour gently stretching and pulling and using those deteriorating “core” muscles so I can stand up straight, and fight the plunging senior belly . The classes are composed of people – we have one male – who live in the surrounding area, many of whom I already know. It’s friendly and comforting to feel an inclusion I rarely achieved in France. Helen also helps keep Bernard’s excruciating back pain under control, as well as the aches and pains of the rest of us over 50’s. She used to treat Olympic athletes. Now she’s stuck with us.
This morning’s walk will require shoes with traction. The snow is mostly melted, although patches remain in sheltered spots, but cold nights have rendered the sidewalks icy and slick. Shiny frost glitters in the morning sun and, as it melts, coats the leaves and grass with twinkling light.
This morning, most magically, the big roof windows of our summer room are glazed with arabesques and curlicues, beaded strands weaving up and around and over the glass in white and glorious trees of life. We took pictures, which I will try to post later, as they are in this case really worth a thousand words.
And then, as I sit at my desk looking out the window, an little yellow and gray bird looks in at me, wings fluttering, before perching at the window, as close to me as the length of my arm. We look at each other, sharing our hopes for an early spring, before he swoops down to the garden to scratch for seeds.
Kathleen, this is very evocative. Could be a poem, but no need to take it any further.