TUESDAY,FEBRUARY18,2020 | THEGLOBEANDMAILO A
I
trudge through the days of February as if wear-
ing the dirty overcoat of a large, sweaty old
man. It is heavy, yet it doesn’t keep me warm
and I can never take it off.
I feel like a beggar; for inspiration, for sunny
days, for sparks of insight. My mind is blank and
my body is sluggish. None of my self-gratifying
tricks and occupations work to improve my mood.
How apt that this wretched month is referred to as
“the blahs.”
To correlate the actual month of February with
the blues is not totally accurate because I experi-
ence several “Februarys” throughout the year,
when hope eludes me.
However, it does seem to be the nadir of the
months descending into dulling light, dampening
cold and a general greying of everything. As a
countermeasure to the unrelenting dreariness, we
have contrived Valentine’s Day cele-
brations of romantic love to mitigate
this pall over all. But I am not moved
by attempts at artificial emotion. The
romantic love that is hyped has, for
me, turned from flaming red to deep
maroon and sits as a weight in my
belly. Love is heavy.
Even the brilliant amaryllis bloom-
ing in my window makes me melan-
choly, for I know of its imminent de-
mise. This splendid plant stands like
royalty – tall, straight and proud. It
has forced a thick green stem up be-
tween its tongue-like leaves. It is stiff
enough to support the huge burgun-
dy bud that has just begun to burst.
But it is a cruel deception, this prom-
ise of spring.
Far too quickly the spectacular
bloom will lose opacity as it begins its
rapid decline. The flower dries up
and its petals, similar to onion skin, will peel away- leaving nothing but a naked little nub at its tip.
The impressive fan of leaves at its base will be-
come limp, then wrinkly, then dead. Then finally,
for pity’s sake, I must sever the bare stem. It yields
easily to the shears, oozing drops of slime like
tears.
Some people escape to warmer climates, but
even if I sprouted snowbird wings I would not
leave. I would feel like a cheater if I avoided the
bleakness by such a cheap trick. And then, return-
ing from places that nurture breathtaking tropical
flowers all year round, would it not demean our
paltry early pansies? How then could I rejoice in
the emergence of cheerful grape hyacinths? What
joy would our shy little forget-me-nots bring? How
would I revel in those chartreuse halos, the prom-
ise of leaves that April bestows on the trees? How
would I be able to celebrate the blossoming of
cherry trees and appreciate the lavish colours of
tulips in May? What would it feel like then, to shed
the overcoat of February and raise my face toward
the warming sun? Would it feel as warm? No, the
gift of February is to mark the contrast between
blah and bling.
It is inevitable that spring will come, but in Feb-
ruary I cannot summon the joy of it while the
wind howls and sends ice pellets clattering against
my window.
Even the glorious amaryllis cannot ward off Feb-
ruary’s gloom. The shortest month seems the long-
est as it limps along, tired and bedraggled, toward
the end of a marathon of winter months.
Daylight is miserly short and has a murky qual-
ity because the sun is shrouded by a smoggy veil.
February daylight is forever twilight.
But, imperceptibly, the veil lifts slightly day by
day, as the sun begins to assert itself
once again. I glimpsed it briefly yes-
terday. I know it was not an aberra-
tion because I saw it again today,
higher above me, the angle of its rays
straighter and shorter.
They highlight the slush and detri-
tus that has accumulated under dirty
drifts of snow and reminds me that
there is still a long way to go. I no-
ticed what that ray of sunshine has
pointed out – the windows need
washing. It arouses an instinct to ac-
tion. Although the lethargy I feel is
still in my brain, my body wants to
move. Soon my brain will shift to
follow suit. Already it has begun to
organize all the things that will need
doing. Soon the garden will need
tending. Soon will come the sowing
and soon the plants will begin grow-
ing, demonstrating the perpetual cy-
cle of life.
Outside my window, I hear the cacophony of a
flock of hungry finches raiding the deck, searching
for the long-discarded feeder, hoping it will still be
there filled with seed. Their hope to find suste-
nance and their noisy chirping awaken something
akin to cheer in me.
To reward them, my brain adds to the list of
to-dos; I must replace that feeder. Inside at my
window the amaryllis is resplendent in its second
blooming.
I am astounded by the stamina required to cre-
ate such enormous flowers a second time! Once
again these ostentatious blooms dare to proclaim
their resilience. It is inspiring.
Its huge red flowers call out to me: Look at me!
I’m here now and I’m beautiful to behold!Susan Hoffman lives in Toronto.AWAITINGTHEBLOOM
AFTERTHEBLAHS
ILLUSTRATIONBYMARYKIRKPATRICKItisinevitablethatspringwillcome,butinFebruary,Icannotsummonthe
joyofitwhilethewindhowlsoutsidemywindow,SusanHoffmanwritesFIRSTPERSONEventhebrilliant
amaryllisblooming
inmywindow
makesme
melancholy,forI
knowofits
imminentdemise....
Itisstiffenoughto
supportthehuge
burgundybudthat
hasjustbegunto
burst.Butitisacruel
deception,this
promiseofspring.Haveastorytotell?Pleaseseetheguidelinesonourwebsitetgam.ca/essayguide,
[email protected]FirstPersonisadailypersonalpiecesubmittedbyreadersTODAY’SSUDOKUSOLUTION TODAY’SKENKENSOLUTIONNEWS |H
ow to best tellAnne of
Green Gablestoday? Lucy
Maud Montgomery’s 1908
novel about a feisty orphan sent
to live on a PEI farm has already
been retold numerous times, in
film and onstage. Recently, CBC-
Netflix’sAnne with an Eleft some
critics groaning over its gritty
lens, with added characters such
as a seedy child abductor. (No sur-
prise to learn creator Moira Wal-
ley-Beckett is a former writer on
Breaking Bad.) But a large online
fan base loves the pumped-up ac-
tion.
Ballet Jorgen’sAnne of Green
Gables – The Ballet, which I saw at
West Vancouver’s Kay Meek Arts
Centre on Saturday, takes a sweet-
er direction. Bengt Jorgen–avet-
eran choreographer who has run
his Toronto-based touring com-
pany since 1987 – applies a rosy
filter that works beautifully in the
brightly imaginative Act 1, but
wasn’t enough to lift Act 2 out
from under its heavy plotting.
Much of the sweetness comes
from Norman Campbell’s score
forAnne of Green Gables – The Mu-
sical, arranged here by Alexander
Levkovich, to which the ballet is
set. By the second half, I found its
cheerfulness wearying, but the
musical has run every summer in
Charlottetown since 1965, so
there’s obviously a fan base for
super sweet, too.
As for that dash through the
second act’s plot points, in the
novel, Anne goes from being a
lonely orphan with an overactive
imagination to a confident young
woman who is a beloved member
of both her adoptive family and
the wider community. This
makes for a long character arc in-
volving multiple relationships,
which the ballet tries to present
in a two-hour evening that in-
cludes an intermission.
Nova Scotia’s Hannah Mae
Cruddas, as Anne, brings great
charm to the ballet. She is young
enough at 26 to believably por-
tray youth, and she’s a natural
redhead – Anne’s defining phys-
ical characteristic. More impor-
tant, Cruddas is an elegant tech-
nician and, in romantic duets
with Gilbert Blythe (Daniel Da Sil-
va), was emotionally transparent.
The Cuthbert siblings who
adopt Anne needed shading to
bring to life their individuality as
elders living outside the family
norm – and more steps. Hiroto
Saito’s sprightly Matthew did kick
up his heels, but Marilla (Clea Ive-
son) was too prim and proper to
do much. The ensemble carried
off their lightly classical moves in
the garden-dream section with fi-
nesse. They were also stage-fair-
ies handling props and moving
Sue LePage’s miniature-sized,
easy-to-tour set pieces (a church
exterior, kitchen and schoolroom
furniture) as needed. The horse
and carriage constructed made
almost entirely from dancers,
with two forming the horse and
each wheel made of two ent-
wined, somersaulting dancers,
was wonderful choreographic
magic. At such inventive mo-
ments, it seemed as if Anne’s fa-
mous imagination had rubbed off
on Jorgen himself.SpecialtoTheGlobeandMailAnneofGreenGables–TheBallet,
whichpremieredinSeptemberin
Halifax,toursB.C.toFeb.28,
continuingacrossCanadaand
intotheU.S.untilspring,2021.Aninventive
butrushed
AnneofGreen
Gablesportrayal
KAIJAPEPPER
VANCOUVERBalletJorgen’sAnneofGreen
Gables–TheBallet
BASEDONANNEOFGREENGABLES
–THEMUSICALOriginalchoreography
byBengtJorgen
Musiccomposed
byNormanCampbell
Balletscorearranged
byAlexanderLevkovichHannahMaeCruddas,left,brings
greatcharmtotheballetinthe
titlerole.
LINDASCHETTLE/BALLETJORGEN