cedar pheasant feather mountain ash golden grass

It's the calm before the ski-bum storm here in Revelstoke. Quiet small town life, but there's a sense of building, of growing tension, of bracing. Now is the time to fly to Mexico for a week or so, time to get the wood cut and split and stacked, time to enjoy the aquatic centre before the crowds hit and catch a few early shows where you know it'll be locals, year rounders, or at least the long time seasonal returnees. Faces you'll recognize and that have some cred. There are already the occasional shaggy ski bums to be seen - tuques and moustaches and frizzy unwashed and uncombed hair and baggy layers, but they're laying low, eating potatoes and watching law & order in basement suites, waiting till the snow really starts flying and the hill opens.
Work is slow, I'm settling in to a new clinic, the fourth in twelve months. This one is the newest one to date, white and soundproof, with beautiful wooden floors, windows that open, lots of light. But almost no clients. I'm up late, reading reviews on website building platforms, brainstorming how I'll sell myself online. Long gone are the proud days of no internet presence.
I go for walks everyday, and despite week after week of heavy grey skies, it's lovely out there. Just a skiff of snow and not too cold yet, the red mountain ash berries are beautiful against birch and cedar.
I think my body has figured out by now that instead of building into the growth and expansiveness and freedom of summer, we've done an about face into another winter and it's once again time to hunker down, finish projects, eat root vegetables, put cheery lamps in dark corners, match skirts with leggings and thick socks, protect extremities. I do not welcome the shivering muscles and shoulders hunched against the cold and damp, nor the absurdity of twilight at 3:45 pm, nor the chest cold Hamish brought home, nor the frozen garden.
I miss the lambs, a lot. I miss van life, and bare feet outside and late bright evenings and soft warm air, and new zealand beer and cheese and braided rivers and mountains that rise straight up out of the plains and all the lushness and diversity there. The way people wear what they want, and are friendlier and just all round shiny. Maybe all the space here speaks of isolation and that makes people less open. I'm sure part of it is the weight of long cold winters - months of subconscious survival mode; there's less energy for creativity and art and splurging on bright colours and making whimsical dreams come true.
I've had to eat my words again, this time about hating Revelstoke. It's only been a couple weeks and I've already reconnected with six awesome gals who I met last year, who all want to hang out with me, who are all outdoorsy or creative or great bodyworkers. And I see the active young community and the interesting shops and the focus on sustainability and local food, reusable, outdoors, good music, good drink, etc. It's just too bad that it's such a small town and far from everything else. But really, the big things that are missing are open rolling hills and horses. Bit of a deal breaker there.