January's mascot

I have decided to nominate slugs, all of them, as a group mascot for the month of January. Most of the time, I feel like a slug, just an ordinary land one, nothing too fancy.

Slugs suit this endless month which seems to take forever to pass: day after grey day, cold, and wet dark.

Most January days are hard to distinguish.

In honour of those few lovely days when the wind abates and the sun catches the facets of snowflakes as they fall from the skies or lie in perfect drifts, I offer this stylish fellow, a Sacoglossan Sea Slug (Cyerce nigricans), surely one of the most dapper 2cm beings on this or any other planet.

What we all miss

Imagine being a member of a scientific expedition exploring the remains of a rain and cloud forest, 95% of which has already been destroyed to make way for farming.

Think about how crowded any forest is with countless bits of life (and death) — the newly born or hatched and therefore hidden, the flash as a fully mature animal streaks past, the numberless array of growing plants and trees as well as all of these in their different stages of long decay.

Now imagine having the both the skills and luck to isolate something this small, a previously unknown species of gecko, the same dull grey in tone as parts of the leave litter on the ground or perhaps the filigree mould colonising a small tree.

It is one thing to notice what we expect to find but another thing altogether to strive to see what was there all along, in plain sight but beyond what our narrow imaginations could dream of.

Remembering Butter

This is my late cat Butter, a tabby of questionable character.
She was born at a rural dump and was found under a pile of broken windows at the tender age of four days, eyes closed, ears still folded down. The vet pointed out that she possessed an indomitable will to live, having mewed loudly enough to be heard over the cacophonous racket of heavy machinery and screaming gulls at the local dump. Nose to tip of tail, she fit nicely into my open palm and spent her early weeks in the front pocket of my overalls peering out at the wide world now and again and drinking expensive canned cat milk from a small needle-less syringe.
When she got a little older, the expectant Jack Russell used to welcome her into the whelping box to snuggle up against her taunt sides, but the welcome was immediately rescinded once the puppies arrived to claim their mother for themselves. Too big to return to my pocket, Butter felt she was on her own.
She lived in the farmhouse but at a distance and took to disappearing whenever possible and hissing at guests or positioning herself in advantageous corners to take an experimental swat at passers by in the halls or halfway down the stairs. Her reputation spread. House guests would trade Butter tales, many involving an evil presence beneath the guest room bed, detected too late. Only my daughter could handle the cat and then only briefly, and with careful planning.
The problem of a hostile cat isn't really solvable. Unlike the friendly barn cat, no one wanted to adopt Butter when we moved away from the farm and she was not equipped to stay there either.In the end, she came to live in the new house and after a short period of adjustment, resumed her reign of terror, cornering guests and frightening old ladies.

Dublin retriever

This dog, built on a Dublin sidewalk in mid-December deserves to live on!
The artist whose name I didn't learn, is seen in the first shot in the final moments of the sculpture's creation. In the last shot, my husband, sand builder enthusiast and lover of all things creative, is giving the sleeping dog a light pat so light that it will not awaken the slumbering creature

Brand new foot, never used

This tiny foot has never been used. Well, not for standing or walking or kicking the sand on a hot morning. It has not yet been dirty, has no calluses and those tiny toenails, not yet 24 hours still glow with the soft delicate newness that is the mantle of the newly born.

The cold and wet curveball

These English Baboons knock me out.

I took a look on Google and learned that baboons are extremely adaptable which is all very well but being native to Africa and Asia, they cannot be that familiar with this amount of snow. Certainly the majority of this troop were likely born in England (and in captivity) where it is notoriously damp but hardly ever choked with heavy snow.

Nonetheless, this gang look pretty relaxed to me, setting their famously wild derrieres down and snacking on what look like oddly oversized shortbread balls or some form of portable oatmeal. Whatever it is, I won't be lining up for this anytime soon.

Animals don't eat when they are uneasy so these baboons have clearly adjusted to the unexpected change in the weather with grace.

It's an enviable response.

I often react to the unforeseen with an arsenal heavily tilted to the negative: fear, panic, irritation.

I could learn a lot from these charmers.

Passion for the rest of us

My own copy of Mastering the Art of French Cooking arrived today, a set that perhaps inadvertently triggered my determination to set up a disciplined writing structure.

I have no great desire to set about cooking my way through Quenelles aux Huitres towards the towering achievement of Pate de Canard en Croute and on to the Cinq Gateaux section where glazes and creams abound. I am willing, even eager to learn a thing or two from this fine cook but judging from the recent movie, she has much to teach women about living a good life and nurturing a fine and happy marriage.

She landed in an unfamiliar city (Paris) and once she became at ease with the sheer beauty of the place, and applied her friendly manners to one and all, set about finding something useful to do which is not all that extraordinary: everyone, other than the terminally self-involved, likes to feel useful. What sets her apart, I think was that along with useful, she demanded that this thing be something she loved, woke up in the morning and leapt out of bed to get her mitts on, lived, breathed, lay in bed scheming over. That's the real prize.

I should do well in my search. Certainly I have all the right tools: time, energy, a library to make thousands envious, health, abilities, a belief in my fledging talents.

Note to self: get out of the Thursday afternoon hat making classes (see "Julie and Julia" for reference to hat classes) and get a move on.

First step: clear out the reams of clutter; perhaps under all the muck is the passion.

Second step : get to work — yes, you.

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The photo above is of my grandson Andy, aged five, a man who clearly understands passion.

Hello

Something about 2010, just the sound of it, the elegance of the tidy number itself that makes me happy. For no defensible reason, this year seems promising and hopeful to me personally or perhaps I am just ready to start paying attention in a brand new way.

Other people have suggested that nature likes to play to an attentive audience — Annie Dillard, perhaps? And then there is that clever wag who points out that a big part of life and making a difference is just showing up, not slouched down in the back row but sitting up straight in one's seat in the middle of the auditorium and being ready to participate.

So that's the plan: show up, make a few demands on myself, pay attention.

The friend from the Guardian above arrived to cheer me on!