Walking through ten centimeters of fluffy fresh snow, boots squeak on the base beneath while, feet create little clouds of tiny flakes. In front, there is a smooth blanket. Behind, deep prints bigger than my actual feet. Farther on, a line of small indentations crosses this open path among the trees. Will it be a deer or a fox? In the open, with this wind, all our marks will be scoured away in a very short time.

I remembered how delightful it is to walk in fresh fluffy snow. The loose flakes offer no resistance, slipping out of the way as my feet move forward. I am, however, glad I am not driving. In the open, the wind will be driving the same flakes. Drifts will be piling up. White outs on the roads will be making driving hazardous. Indeed, that same morning, my daughter had to detour around a ten car pile up on highway ten and help shovel out a stuck car on the S bend before Kemble.

The walk was a delight because, among the trees, the dog and I were sheltered from the wind. It was lovely because we were not going anywhere in particular, just walking as far as we felt comfortable. Out on the road, the wind would have frozen my cheeks. It would have been exhausting to walk miles this way. But the moment I lived was delightful.

Julia Cameron, in The Artist's Way, wrote "The quality of life is in proportion, always, to the capacity for delight. The capacity for delight is the gift of paying attention...The reward for attention is always healing." (p 53) She learned this from her grandmother who wrote letters about the small wonders of daily life, things like "the forsythia is starting...the sumac has turned...the Shetland may drop her foal early...we named the little boxer Trixie..." The grandmother's life was difficult due to the excesses of her husband, but her account of life was always full of little wonders, abounding in delight.

But here I am. Again. My intention, when I sat down to write this column, was to explore delight. To speak of the squirrel dashing gracefully across the road. To remember the dance of the brown leaf, torn from the tree it had held onto for nine months, dancing on the wind. But in creeps the other side of life.

For almost two years, I have been pondering the problem of gratitude, and here the issue surfaces again. Out walking, I thought, "I want to describe this lovely sensation." But as I walked, I knew my daughter would be driving up Highway 10, and I have been on the road in blustery conditions and knew what she would face. Cameron's mother thought her grandmother deeply troubled for avoiding the issues her husband created and wallowing in little things.

How do we understand a world in which there is both good and hard? Can we be thankful for the good in our lives and be aware of the challenges in us and in others? Can we live grateful for each moment without masking the trouble around us and in us?

Francis Ward Weller is quoted as saying that we need both gratitude and grief, holding one in each hand and being stretched by them. "How much sorrow can I hold? That's how much gratitude I can give." (The Wild Edge of Sorrow) Holding grief alone brings cynicism, she wrote. Gratitude alone is saccharine, without compassion. We need both lament and thanksgiving.

I believe that, but I also think we can stumble into delight. I remember finding dim sum on the menu of the Wiarton Inn. We ordered their three dim sum dishes as take a couple months ago. The taste was authentic, delightful. I ordered it again this week when my daughter came, and we all were drawn out of Canadian cuisine into the gifts of real Chinese cooking. It was pure delight.

Not everything has a touch of grief in it. The chickadee's voice. The downward hop of the nuthatch. The brilliant colour of the male cardinal, and the soft hues of the female. But our moments of observation are often fleeting, and we may be called away to see what summons compassion.

Cathy Hird lives on the traditional territory of the Saugeen Ojibway