JOY

To discover joy, you must go to the far north in the middle of winter. I propose a journey up the ice road from Inuvik to Tuktoyaktuk in late January. They houses are small. All are painted the colours of tropical fruit... of Popsicles. The sun has not risen yet. Twenty four hours: no dawn. The stars are brighter than you can imagine. Hera spills her milk across the blue bowl of the heavens. Aurora Borealis sways in curtains of Chartreuse, phosphor, ivory, gold with tints of red. Bertha from Sach's Harbour whistled to make the Northern Lights dance. You whistle. The sky dances. For four hours every afternoon the sky lightens to dusk... purples, mauves, lavenders with hints of avocado green. The edge of the horizon aches to release Old Sol our star in the sky. In twilight ice fog hugs the ground. Smoke climbs straight up. All is still. The air is brittle. Moving through a pastel landscape.The edges are soft. The wolf fur of your parka hood holds the silver mist of your breath. This is the air the Ravens call home. You feel Joy. Pure Joy.