I decided to work from home on Friday. Year end is coming up and I had a lot of data to enter into AIM and knew from (painful) experience that the work goes faster in the quiet of my home office.

If Lindsay was glad to have me home for the day, she concealed it well and could be found sleeping in various places around the house without ever seeming to move from one spot to the other.

About two o'clock I noticed three young teenagers walking down the street with shovels and assumed they were out to make some money shoveling driveways. They'd make no money from mine since I'd already cleaned it off twice that day.

However, one of the boys, without a shovel, walked up my drive, momentarily disappeared from my view, and then turned and walked back down it again. Thinking he had been delivering pamphlets, I went to the door to check the mail box.



Only to spot the same boy retrieving my ergonomic snow shovel from where he had tossed it into the middle of my neighbour's front lawn. I yelled, but he and his friends just kept walking. With my shovel added to their collection. Running back into the house I quickly put on a pair of boots and raced out the door. But they were gone, the street empty.

So I phoned the police and, it obviously being a slow crime day, two patrol cars rolled up to my front door within five minutes. They took my statement and description of the boys and description of my shovel.

Being a pessimist, and faced with another snowfall today, I have just returned from purchasing a new shovel.

In the "be careful what you wish for" category, I was musing yesterday about the need to practice forgiveness. Not too hard in this case, but I'd still like my shovel back.

Oh, and Lindsay the guard dog, of course, slept through the whole thing. If a squirrel had stolen our shovel, I'm sure the entire neighbourhood would have heard about it.

This isn't like yesterday. The snow is still white and powdery and deep; but today the sun is hidden behind grey clouds. There is also a trail for us to follow, where others have come and gone over the past twenty-four hours.

But Lindsay and I are still alone, sharing the walk, each with our own agendas. Lindsay has dog interests to occupy her mind and keep her black and white tail wagging with pleasure.

I'm thinking about Whit's Whittlings post on Forgiveness yesterday. It was a powerful and disturbing message.

I wonder how I feel. I read the many thoughtful comments the post elicited. Nearly everyone agreed that forgiveness is the least damaging response to the harm others cause our loved ones or ourselves. Some were uncertain they could forgive, viewing forgiveness as the ideal but impractical if the harm was severe, like the killing of a loved one. Others knew forgiveness, in such situations, would be beyond them.

Whit was clear that forgiveness does not mean turning a killer free to harm again. Forgiveness is not stupidity. First we keep our family, our community and ourselves safe. That's what jails are for.

But a significant part of Forgiveness is self healing, not keeping that bitter chemical, hormonal soup of anger and revenge contained within us. Not acting out of anger or revenge and becoming the very person you cannot forgive.

Lindsay runs to the edge of the 90 meter bluffs and peers down at the placid lake below, its cold languorous waves pulling at the beach. Afraid she might slip, I call her back. She comes immediately, bounding through the deep snow drifts, eyes sparkling with anticipation.

It occurs to me that if we want to be able to forgive, we need to start, not with savage and unlikely crimes against our loved ones, but with the numerous minor slights and petty cruelties we encounter on a daily basis.

I'm not sure I can do that either. But, at least I'm willing to try.

I've been using the random feature and skipping through the blogs on the stream. More than half the ones I landed on had only one post. Many of them were months, if not years old.

So I thought I'd better get busy and break that jinx by getting in a second blog right away.

Not that I believe in jinxes or the supernatural or anything like that, of course. Nothing supernatural ever happened to me--well, except for the night my wife and I spent the evening of the summer solstice on the top of Tabor Hill. Tabor Hill is an Iroquois burial mound located in the middle of a subdivision about three kilometers from our home.

Over 700 Iroquois are buried under Tabor Hill which is now a beautiful park with a large granite rock marking the site. As we watched the sun going down, we suddenly noticed a number of seagulls swooping and turning in a graceful ballet at the foot of the Hill. As we watched in amazement the number of seagulls grew to over thirty, all gliding and swooping and cresting in an amazing demonstration of acrobatics that went on for nearly an hour. For both my wife and I it took on dimensions that were both awe inspiring and reverential, if not deeply spiritual.

Or, it was, until I realized the gulls had found hundreds of junebugs rising into the sky from the grass at the base of the hill. What we saw as an aerial ballet was actually a feeding frenzy! Although as my wife said, just because it had a natural explanation doesn't mean it wasn't also a very sacred act. It was certainly one of the more memorable moments of my life.

The Scarborough Bluffs soar over the frigid waters of Lake Ontario. Two major winter storms have left three feet of fresh snow in their wake. The air is crisp and cold and my feet sink into the snow up to the top of my boots.

My dog loves it.

She bounds through the snow with an enthusiasm and sheer love of life that is infectious. It energizes me and I plow on.

The snow stopped falling today and the sun is bright and sparkles off the waters of the Lake. My muscles enjoy the exercise and the challenge. Over head a flock of twenty Canada Geese honk their way toward the south. I can hear their wings beating as they soar off into the distance in a ragged "V" pattern.

Then Lindsay and I are alone again, not one of the three million people in Toronto have bothered to come out to vast East Point Park in the wake of the storm. The bluffs stretch out in a horseshoe that stretches ten kilometers into the distance and the only sound is the gentle lapping of the waves on the unusually quiet Great Lake.

But I'm distracted and not really seeing the view. I'm wondering what to write in my new blog, as I watch the air from my lungs evaporating into the cold winter day. How will I fill the empty space with words? What will I say?

Then Lindsay comes bounding back toward me. Her shinning black coat caked with snow, her bushy tail wagging delightedly, her eyes dancing with joy. She looks at me as if to say, "Isn't this just the most fun anyone could ever have?"

And suddenly I don't care what I write. Something will come to me. In the meantime, Lindsay and I head off for a race through the untouched snow.