It’s 10:30 Sunday morning, and my sweetheart is outside somewhere, travelling over the white snow in some farm vehicle (okay, another bastardized Joni lyric), probably helping his father haul bales for the cattle.

In a way, the fact that he’s there and not here is a relief. It means I can sit here a couple hours if I want, reading my email, writing, without any sense of guilt because I am being lazy and he is not. He is working, and I am playing (yes, reading and writing are my play), but he is not in the house moving around while I am sitting here on my ass.

I love weekend mornings. I sleep till 8 or 9 or 10 -- until a noise wakes me -- and then get up and sit at the computer till noon or so. Or until I’ve had enough. It is rare that I am inclined to do much other than make pancakes for my two children, and sometimes I make them wait till I’m good and ready. After all, they’re capable of getting their own cereal or making some toast. They don’t have to go hungry.

Loverboy had the flu Thursday and on Saturday got a very sore throat. He is susceptible to strep throat, he thinks, so he has been gargling with salt water and suffering the pain that comes with every swallow. I had something like that once and remember it well. Ow.

He was up during the night, or at least sleeping on the couch. I don’t yet know exactly why, since he hasn’t been in the house since I rose. But it wouldn’t surprise me if he’s half-dead but could not allow his mother to help his dad haul bales when he himself is here to do it.

I am enjoying the luxury of not having too many places to go, too many things to do that require driving here and there. I go to town once a week and get groceries and mail, drop off the recycling, and perhaps one or two other errands that differ from week to week. Sometimes it’s a trip to the library, sometimes to one of the schools, or to pay a bill. On the weekend, the boys and I go to my home town to visit my grandma, who is 85 and a widow for the past five years.

Once a month I take the boys to meet their dad at a hotel in a town halfway between his residence and ours. Then I go back to Saskatoon to spend the weekend with my best friend.

Every three weeks I may or may not have to drive an hour to pick up organic produce, then drive an hour back and spend a couple more hours sorting and pricing. As we get further along in this endeavour, Ma (this is another of her ventures) and I hope to spend less time at it as others in the group take on more of the responsibility.

I have deliberately tried to keep my commitments to a minimum. Ma invited me to take the same Creative Writing diploma course she is taking, so we could travel together the hour-and-a-half to the campus it’s on, once every two weeks. Between the travel and the assignments, I knew I simply was not ready for it right now, and declined.

My sister wanted me to join a choir to learn two Christmas songs for a one-time-only carolling event she has organized in our home town. I said no, she said oh come on, this went on for some time and finally I just did not show up for the first rehearsal. I don’t want to have to go out in the evening, to drive the 20 minutes to practices, even if it’s only for three weeks. And I do not like to perform. Yes, I *can* but I don’t enjoy it. It’s a stress, a pressure that I do not need.

My sister, wedding singer that she is, cannot understand that. Why spend all this time learning and practising a song, she asked, if you aren’t going to sing it for others? She doesn’t comprehend that I feel the joy of singing only when there is no audience, when I am not self-conscious of being watched.

We were set up to sing, she and I, since we were little girls. My mother taught us to sing at an early age and then offered our little duets to bridal showers and family gatherings. I remember being only three or so, at a great-uncle’s home on the farm, and insisting on being allowed to stand under the kitchen table to sing so that no one could see me. Then I was okay with it. And I’ve been this way ever since, though I’ve often allowed myself to be talked into singing in public.

“You should, Kate. You have a beautiful voice,” they’ll say. Well maybe I do and maybe I don’t, but what does that have to do with it? Why is it thought to be an obligation? Half the time the only reason I’ve ended up singing for an audience is because it was the only way I could sing with others at all, since they insisted on performance being the end result.

Like figure skating. If you took the lessons, you were obligated to be in the carnival. (My last year of lessons, age 11 or 12, I bargained with my parents that I would take lessons only if they would not force me to be in the carnival. They agreed, and some townsfolk thought I was a little snot because I didn't participate.)

Like piano lessons. To take them, to graduate one level and go on to the next, you were obligated to perform a piece and be judged in public. I wouldn’t get far academically if I had to do that now. I wouldn’t, that’s all. Public performance is not what I want to learn to play the piano for.

12:48 p.m.

There, pancakes out of the way, one sinkful of dishes washed and drying in the rack, and I am going to have a bath before doing any more or going to Grandma’s.

This fall I went for a walk and took pictures as I made the loop around the farmyard. At the end of the driveway, on the main grid (called “the correction line” around here), I looked both ways and snapped a photo. That’s what I am going to post here today if I can figure out how to do it.

It’s a month or two later and those lovely fields are now white, with faded gold stubble poking through since the six inches of snow that fell here two weeks ago has mostly melted.

Loverboy and I have decided to buy each other a digital camera for Christmas. I’m looking forward to being able to shoot lots of pictures and not have to wait two weeks or more between snapping one, finishing the roll, taking it in to be developed, and getting it back. And won’t it be great to discard all the poor ones without regret, and with luck be able to distill at least one decent photo out of every bunch?