Breakup

by

I spend breakup at Kathryn's cabin, at Marsh Lake, about 60 clicks out of Whitehorse. I have given up the pottery studio.

It was a mistake; it was too soon; it wasn't the right time.

So I drag "Fred", my wheel, out with me. I try to throw pots on soft ground amid the conifers.

It's all wrong; the ground is too soft; I'm not focused.

I forgot the proper seat at home and use a chunk of log for one. It doesn't fit right. Nothing feels right.

I line my pots up along Kathryn's railing. They don't make the right statement. They are the same forms I made down south, but I've left so much behind: my husband, my adult children, my home, the studio. Three thousand miles. Behind.

I go inside for a nap. While I'm sleeping, there is a torrential rain. I awaken to find my pots ...

... mud again.

I scrape the lifeless forms into a bucket and carry it down to the lake. The walk is quiet, save for the quarreling of a squirrel.

I walk the spongy, mustard-coloured moss that grows beneath the stunted evergreens, the forest floor speckled with cones. I arrive at the beach. It reminds me of Long Beach on Vancouver Island. Marsh Lake stretches for miles.

I walk to the water's edge and just listen. There is a sound at this point of breakup. Breakup ... It is the time when the ice crystals that have covered the lake all winter begin to melt and break apart. This is a familiar sound. A similar sound to the gentle pinging of hot pots fresh out of the kiln.

The last of the ice chunks stand close to the edge of the lake. I dump my pots on a piece of it and bid them farewell. I light candles on the beach, later in the evening, in the sand.

But the light lasts longer now; candlelight is wasted here; I leave my candles lit.

They are an invitation, bidding goodbye to the old – to the past – and inviting the light, the newness and all it brings ... as we move here towards the longest day in the Land of the Midnight Sun.