Dear reader,

I may be a child of the tropics, but I have grown to become a woman of the winter. You might think this seasonal infatuation frivolous, but I assure you it is not. Admittedly, I have only lived through about three winters in my life — in slushy London and Arctic Finland (-40c!) but not a Canadian one, and definitely not one like this. The very moniker of “The Great White North” appeals to my soul!

Today, we walked an hour and a half through the woods on the Indian Path. Everything was so beautiful, I thought I would lose my mind. The frozen-over pathways, crunching underfoot; the inlet an icy, glittering pasture, broken up by jagged shards trying to encase the rocks; little fairy pools sealed off by paperthin ice, wet magical, swirling shoreline ice fringes bordering the pond… I imagine the bare branches of nearby trees like ebony, spindly fingers delicately arranging a lace doily of refrozen meltwater, this way and that.

The winter sun, bursting through the Evergreens, reflecting off the frosted dirt roads, so that our path shone, lighting up our way ever so brilliantly. And the snowflakes! Falling gentle all around us, they almost seemed to hover, suspended in the brisk air.

Reader, I wish you could have seen it. These wintry woodlands MUST be an indubitably magical place, where gentle giants walk in the dusk. Sure-footed on the organic horizon.

You might think that the blue sky apricity of the east coast has lulled me into love, but no, I love the shitty days almost quite as much. When it sleets and all is wet and miserable, I light the candles with glee. When the temperature plummets overnight and our water pipes freeze, it is a fun mission to piece-meal an insulation solution together. When the weak winter sun peers through dark clouds and casts the world into a monochromatic, blue-grey hue, it all feels a little softer.

I know that Winter may be a caustic and severe lover, but her snow is a balm to my soul. I love when the knolls and the lawns of the Maritime countryside are painted white, when the millions of microscopic ice crystals sparkle in the sun. When a ghastly midnight gale billows all around the house and keeps me awake. I love keeping tabs on the ocean ice, creeping further and further away from the shore. Look, we say every time we drive into town, the ice has gone past the tip of the peninsula. Look, it has almost reached the small island. If Larry leaves his boat in the water, the ice is going to wreck her hull.

I am quite certain that I will love winter forever and ever. I can’t imagine not. I can’t imagine not losing my marbles whenever it snows, not jumping to go for a walk, not flopping backwards for a snow angel. I think I will always belong at the hearth of a great fireplace, always kept warm on a cold night, candles aglow, tummy full, dreaming of the Atlantic giants that walk the frosty woodlands, just down the road.

With wintry wonder,
Laura

4 January 2026, Nova Scotia