Monday morning, and the Cawston hills are an indistinct blur through the sheets of rain. Welcome rain, - always, in this semi desert valley that requires spring showers to turn the hills a tender green, if only for a few weeks. The air is at once heavy with moisture, and yet fresh and invigorating when Caspar and I go walking this morning. Me with an umbrella, - he, requiring a good toweling when we come in. I feel the plants in the garden sighing gently as they absorb the welcome moisture.



The spiney dragon's tail that stretches eastward from K Mountain stands out against the grey clouds that occupy the valley.



This was to have been 'planting pots' day. Our Sunday drive after church yesterday included a short visit to the greenhouse. Husband was magnanimous in stopping in front of this most dangerous of all establishments where the wallet is concerned. However, I suspect that he felt his presence waiting in the vehicle out in the parking lot would curtail the expenditures.... he doesn't know what a fast shopper I am. Especially when I have been making lists for the last three weeks.

He will retire to the garage to advance his organization of the accumulated tools and treasures, frustrated in his mowing plans but blessed in this opportunity to create order ........ I will find a spot to pot up the plants that I scooped yesterday.

Monday mornings can be invigorating in the most pleasant ways. The stress of the weekend has dissipated and the days stretch out, filled with empty hours, waiting to be filled and fulfilled.

This past weekend saw the culmination of all the piano practicing I felt was necessary to accompany a bell solo at Music under the K. Music under the K is a wonderful annual event which involves school bands from all over the province, visiting musicians, local talent and a great influx of students and music enthusiasts. A festive air in the village, echoing music from a dozen different venues.

Our Handbell presentation took place in the Church, - noted for its acoustics as well as its holy usage. On Sunday we did a repeat performance, taking part in the morning service of Eucharist.

The Prayers of the People ended with the following words, - a portion of a modern hymn written in 1988 by Shirley Erena Murray, with traditional music by C. Hubert Parry (1897).

'Psalms and symphonies exalt you, drum and trumpet, string and reed,
simple melodies acclaim you, tunes that rise from deepest need.
Hymns of longing and belonging, carols from a cheerful throat,
lilt of lullaby and love song catching heaven in a note.

All the voices of the ages in transcendent chorus meet,
worship lifting up the senses, hands that praise, and dancing feet,
over discord and division music speaks your joy and peace,
harmony of earth and heaven, song of God that cannot cease.'

Most appropriate after a few days of living in a valley from where all sorts and kinds of wonderful music soars skyward.

I am off to pot in the rain...

Sunday evenings, when I am able, I tune into Radio 3, BBC and listen to Evensong. I am comforted to hear the old traditional prayers that I grew up with, (and which are no longer available to us as we worship in an Ecumenical Church).

Husband and I found great pleasure in going to Evensong, - to me it was like a "date" with God along...... This was before Sunday Night TV squeezed in and took priority, so that an evening service in church has been long abandoned. I note that 4:00 p.m. in the afternoon is starting time in the Cathedrals where these services are broadcast. When I am not playing the organ I still enjoy standing beside Husband in church, feeling his good solid presence and hearing his fine voice.

While I listen to the BBC Evensong I sing in my mind the prayers and responses, and somehow all seems right with the world, at least for a short time. The music is exquisite, - the organ soars majestically, and when the hour is over I am filled with the beauty of the old familiar words.

In between Sunday evenings there is much to remind me of God's bounty. Yesterday, a rainy day in the Similkameen, started off with a painted sunrise in the East, reflected as a delicate pink watercolour in the West



The day wore on, the clouds gathered and the rain came intermittently. At last, in the late afternoon, the sun broke through in little patches, illuminating the scarlets and the golds of the remaining leaves.In the pile of brush to the right of centre (which provides a pyre for the Old Year and a welcome for the New Year, come December 31st) a troop of quail find shelter and security. Callie watches them from the window as they make a daily foray through the pasture, across the road and into the neighbours, where the walnuts are thick on the ground. Four or five nutcrackers join them and it is a time of plenty.

The snow creeps down the K of the mountain on the opposite side of the Valley, and up the cut which marks the Ashnola River there are signs of swirling snow clouds.


The fall flowers vibrate with radiance as an errant ray of sun reaches them.


Towards evening the snow skirts the southern mountains and the Cawston hills disappear behind a turbulent slate curtain.




This morning, at seven, the daily show began again. Heaven's got to be pretty good to beat this.