In the afternoon,.......

I stopped along the path to observe a male blackbird rummaging for his lunch under the frosted brown leaves that coat the earth. He snatched and threw them over his bird-shoulders, occasionally having to drag a larger, frozen clump away from his buried booty of wintering worms and insects. After each muscled throw of debris, he looked up at me. Without knowing better, I would have thought he were trying to impress me with such a display of brutish bird strength. ('Behold, poor human, the many leaves my mighty beak displaces! And do you have a bright orange beak? I think not!')
Of course, I am aware of my own dubiousness in the eyes of smaller creatures- even hearty blackbirds- even the predators of predators of hearty blackbirds. He was only keeping a wary, orange-encircled eye on me.
Now I sit on the marble base of an impressive metal statue featuring a robust male deer. He stands assertively on a kind of knoll between divergent roads amid the beech and rhododendrons. The cold stone stings my gluts to numbness, but the feeling of being watched over by an alert buck is a pleasant irony.
Having caught my fill of glinting sunlight, I slip along down the path of frozen leaf pulp to a certain artisan's shop where Santa follows vicariously.

Digging up the new roots...

"Are you for sure not coming back after Christmas," asks Ursula with rolled R's. She is Austrian, but the papers are Italian. Italy claimed a section of Austria in the beginning of the last century.
People are leaving Bergen. Ursula's contract is finished, as is Nicholai's.
But, others are here permanently. It seems like an early uprooting (for everyone), but it was wonderful while it lasted.

Ursula plays the violin, is 32, and has been moving around-working temporary positions and gigging since she was 23. Though she claims to "have nothing in life", she can turn a room upside down with laughter and overwhelm Ingrid Bergman's beauty any day. I hope to see her again sometime.

During the last few weeks, cordiality's chrysalis has been shed. A flock of freshly-winged friends flutter socially about. Polite dinner parties have become late evenings after the concert- sitting with wine or soup on the bed, which is Nicholai's and my only accommodating piece of furniture. I made a wreath last week to add a fresh scent to the entryway and elevate everyone's spirit with holiday hints. The mountain has plenty of kindly-needled firs. Our door is metallic, so the wreath is sneakily hung from the inside wall to dangle surprisingly in the air when the door has been opened. As guests depart they are informed that a glance from the inescapable hoop spells a long, happy life. Not living a long, happy life after getting into the hallway is, therefore, near impossible.
When I am home for Christmas we will dig up the young roots of our tree. For a while it will be inside, which doesn't suit trees so much, but afterwards it can continue to grow anew on the property. For people, I think that the roots are the others they bring into their lives. The loved ones. Family or friend. And it makes for a lush life when your friends are just around the corner or just that many more.