There is a preoccupation that inordinately takes up the time and attention of many ordinarily intelligent people, those who might know within themselves better, but who are nonetheless intensely involved in searching out news, morning, noon and night. What satisfaction they take away from their intense fascination with the news is questionable. Particularly given the unassailable fact that most news is comprised of footage of natural disaster linked to narratives of harm that has come to the unfortunates involved.

Other news focuses grimly on humanity's failings as compassionate, intelligent, reasonable people, for we are, in the aggregate, seemingly, none of that at all. Rather we are given to succumbing to base, primitive instincts based on tribal, clannish reactions of "us and them", and them always lose out, for they are never seen as "just like us", but rather as competitors in a world scarce of resources. And even those who have managed to gather resources aplenty are loathe to share them with those that have not, and become instead well prepared to heap further suffering on those who dare question inequity.

All that being so, why do we bother daily to gather unto ourselves more and even more news that simply reflects the dire news of the day before ad infinitum? We surely are gluttons in many ways, assembling for our gratification more of anything and everything than we possibly require to live meaningful lives. And for some people, that includes garnering news stories and coping with the results.

Because there certainly are results. We become moodily introspective, and anguish over the inequities and miseries of the world, knowing we are inextricably part of it all. Of course there are good-news items as well, but they so often seem contrived, as though representing the motivation of guilt-and-expiation on the part of the news gatherers and distributors understanding the burden they place upon the minds of the inveterate news-gobblers.

I have a secret, one that I have shared with no one. I have discovered something so unique, so compelling and so obvious that I simply cannot understand why alert scientists have not recognized the phenomena and stated the discovery of a new phase in nature's dominion of all matters in existence. In the past seventy years, it has become abundantly clear to me that there has been a gross alteration in nature's compelling feature that enables life to pursue itself into imagined eternity.

Where seventy years ago gravity evinced a delicate assumption, enabling us to leap and twirl and climb and scamper with alacrity, it has incrementally firmed its grip upon us, making such activities considerably less amenable to the wonderful lightness of being.

It wasn't until five-thirty that it suddenly occurred to me that I hadn't prepared cranberry sauce to accompany the half-turkey I had roasting in the oven. I wasn't feeling particularly energetic, and so confined my preparations to placing a few Yukon gold potatoes around the roast, as well as separately roasting cauliflower and carrots to accompany the meal.

It's Passover and Easter. We're not religious and don't pay too much mind to religion-inspired holidays. The ubiquitousness of Easter in our society does sweep one along, in a secular way, and the heritage-value to us as Jews of Passover is a sweet sentiment, absolutely devoid of religious fervour, however. My husband is fond of Matzo as a recall of our youth, and breakfasts like Matzo-brie delight him. I hadn't even prepared matzo balls to accompany the chicken soup I had cooking; just rice, as usual.

He had suggested turkey, instead of the usual Friday-night chicken meal, so I acquiesced, and he brought up a half-turkey from the freezer for that purpose. It had, after all, been there more than long enough. As it was, the turkey was flavourful and tender, just what my husband was looking for; he is inordinately fond of turkey, too.

But without cranberry sauce? A vital element to full satisfaction would be missing. So peering in the vast recesses of the freezer, I withdrew a frozen bag of cranberries and proceeded swiftly to cook up the cranberry sauce. Takes no time at all, actually, and while I poured the finished product into jars for refrigeration, I filled a small bowl with enough to do him for dinner, placed it in the refrigerator and by the time dinner was served at seven, it was refreshingly cold.

But it was the fruit pie I'd baked in the morning that really pleased me. I used three bosc pears, one black plum, and one McIntosh apple; used lots of clove and some cinnamon for flavouring and it was a delightful concoction to finish off that meal.

And now, the irritating aspect of having to deal with all that leftover turkey. Pies, of course.

At long, long last an end to this wearying winter. Spring has finally made her tardily shy entrance, though she is about a month late. Our lawns are now mostly free of ice and snow, and though there remain large areas in our neighbourhood forested ravine that are thick yet with ice and snow, on the flat areas the snow has gone, though the trails have yet to be freed entirely from ice.

In the past week we've heard and seen formations of Canada geese returning to our Northern climate. The past few days have been glorious, with ample sun and relatively mild temperatures hovering around ten degrees. Last night it was delightfully above freezing, though not yet mild enough to sleep with the windows open. But when that time arrives we will hear the early morning spring songs of the song sparrow, the cardinal and the robin, urging us to rise from our beds.

Yesterday we saw a tiny chipping sparrow at our bird feeder, for the first time. Also at the feeder were redpolls, those delightful tiny birds with red caps that we used to see so often in the earlier neighbourhood we lived in. Descending the long hill into the ravine for our daily walk a few days back we noticed that the bees that make their home in the large old pine at its foot, before the trail verges off in either direction, were out and looking for pollen. We can only surmise they have enough honey stored in the chamber they use in the trunk of that tree to help them survive over the interim after their long winter hibernation.

We saw, for the first time this spring, returning goldfinches, beautiful bright yellow birds with a tantalizingly lilting song.

The ravine doesn't present, at this time of year at its best; there are areas that look downright dismal, badly in need of the softening velvet tones of new-grown foliage. The creek is swollen with muddy run-off from the continually melting snow and ice. We can see the beginning of new buds on the maples and poplars. Hawthorn will take a long time, and so will oak and ironwood before they begin to evidence signs of spring renewal. We've already noted that some of the ash trees are dying, thanks to the pervasive presence of the tree-killing emerald ash borer.

We've been alert, the past week, to the first signs of the first butterfly to appear in the spring, the Mourning Cloaks. And today, in one of the two areas in the ravine where they tend to appear, there were two, performing an arabesque, winding in the air around one another, a fascinating twirl of butterfly courtship.

Once in a while, when we're setting out for our afternoon ramble in the ravine we access up the street from our house, we will come across an elderly couple, likely our own age, with the man, standing perfectly erect and in obvious good health, patiently waiting while his wife, dessicated with age and ill-health, laboriously takes footstep after footstep with the aid of a walker. He is obviously devoted to her. Or feels it his responsibility borne of a long partnership through life to see to her ongoing welfare.

I always call out a "hello", and because my own hearing ability is somewhat impaired I'm never certain that there is a response, since this man has a habit of looking straight ahead, and not ever in my direction if ever we confront one another, which we have done in the past, under different circumstances. My husband, who has a habit of naming people the way he sees them, calls him "the Nazi", and he tells me that there is invariably some manner of mumbled response whose gist he cannot quite make out.

So yesterday, embarking on our walk a little later than we'd intended, we did briefly see them on the street and the usual occurred. Perhaps the man feels resentful that another couple living on the street close by his own home are able to enjoy life without the constraints of physical disability. Who knows?

I do know that he has exhibited toward me a chronic churlishness that does no credit to his world view. Each time I have knocked on his door over the years representing myself as being associated with a door-to-door neighbourhood canvass on behalf of some well-known charitable health organization -- to fund research and medical-protocol coping strategy assistance for people suffering from ill health effects or from chronic conditions, or from a frightening health diagnosis they must learn to cope with -- he slams the door in my face.

Initially, he would ask me first in French, then in perfect English if I speak French, and if not, why not? I responded to him on the first occasion that I would be comfortable speaking with him in English, failing that using my second language, Yiddish, which would be of no use whatever to him. He grimaced grimly, I recall, but perhaps with an imagined hint of sympathy. But no donation was forthcoming.

On another occasion, he sternly addressed me with the lecture that he fully expects anyone who comes to his door to speak French, and only in French will he respond to any requests. We have other neighbours on the street for whom French represents their mother tongue, and they have perfectly good relations with all their neighbours.

We have as well people on the street who originally hailed from Egypt, Hong Kong, Russia, India and Bangladesh, and never has any of them balked at communication on the issue of language. But then, this is an issue that has many counterparts; culture, tribalism, clannishness, nationality, ideology; all of which can become socially lethal instruments used in malign ways to separate people and create animosity and rage between them.

It is the long, sad story of human failures to cherish the commonalities between people and societies when many among us deliberately choose to focus instead on the cultural, ethnic, geographic variations to evoke our darkest emotions to advance instead the differences that divides us.

He looked a lot better than he had when I saw him last, a year earlier. His face wasn't drawn with fatigue and he wasn't moving in an exhausted manner, as before. Courteous and friendly as always, he said, when my husband remarked that it looked as though he'd lost considerable weight, that he had, and he felt better for it. He was exercising, attending swim classes, and it relaxed him. And he planned to see fewer patients in future. The night before, he said wryly, he'd been called at 2:00 a.m. to an emergency, so he wasn't feeling all that alert, but that was hard to believe.

He is exactingly punctilious in knowing patient background, interviewing with distinct purpose, and carefully applying himself to respond in detail to any questions his patients may pose. At least that has been my experience with this man whose professionalism matches his humanity.

I am required to see him for his professional advice and he wishes to monitor my heart health, no more frequently than once yearly. He feels professionally compelled to keep an eye on my "leaky" valve. In the hopes that it remains stable, but with the understanding that it could also possibly become a problem, and catching that problem before it becomes a serious one is vital.

The EKG taken a half-hour before we met for the consultation informed him that there had been no real changes from the one taken last year; same time, same place. He ascertained that my lung capacity is excellent, and the series of six routine blood-pressure tests, results passed with flying colours.

My husband accompanied me for the appointment, and it was a relaxed affair. He is feeling rather grateful that all is well with his lifetime companion. Any question we asked was responded to in slow and careful detail, in language geared toward the full understanding of the intelligent, interested layman, and typically for this doctor, with hand-drawn impressions to further understanding.

Even Riley was impressed, so much so that he slept comfortably throughout the proceedings, comfortable in his little carrier, on my husband's lap.

April 14 marked the second year of our loss of our miniature poodle, Button. We had taken her to the emergency 24-hour animal hospital on the evening of Friday 13, 2012, and emerged hours later, into the morning hours of the following day, without her. Little did we realize that we were losing her at that time, but the sudden inexplicable and horribly violent seizure she had experienced that evening marked the end of her journey in life.

There is no comfort to be had in the knowledge that she shared our life for 19 years and four months. We wanted more of her presence, for a longer period of time, and we can only imagine that she too enjoyed whatever she could of life with her sharply diminished senses. Though blind and deaf she could still smell everything about her and 'feel' where she was. Though blind she never missed a day's walk in the woods with us, though she had to be guided with the use of a halter.

Without her presence we have memories of her as a puppy interested in everything around her, eager to explore, to have experiences, to be joyful and energetic. As a juvenile she was capable of outrunning dogs whose size and physiques suited them to speed and she was never loath to contest them, always the winner.

She was a magnificent companion to us, sharing our undiluted love of the outdoors, whether it was through close-to-home adventures or going considerable distances. She was able to climb the same mountain peaks we managed, despite her size, an eager little quadruped. Her endurance and determination expressed her qualities as a persistently reliable little soul, intrepid beyond our expectations.

On the night of the second anniversary of her leaving us we lit a candle to her memory. It is a tradition in the Jewish religion, although we are not religious. Each month, actually, on the 14th, a candle is lit. But we speak of her, recalling her exploits and her companionship on a far more frequent basis than that.

We look at the puppies and young dogs that other people bring with them into the ravine close to our house for their walking exercise, and admire their freshness and exuberance. Perhaps it's attributable to our chronological age, but we don't feel able to do as so many others mourning the loss of a beloved companion do, and acquire another in its place to salve the wound.

And then, of course, we have our other little dog, a pugnacious, sometimes-cranky, unadventurous little male poodle named Riley, whom we also cherish.

What a vast atmospheric difference 24 hours can make in this geography we inhabit. Yesterday, a balmy high of 24 degrees with high winds, sun in the morning, pelting rain in the late afternoon, but warm, so incredibly warm. Last night thunderstorms, and continuing warmth, during the night when a total eclipse of the moon presented itself. The night-time cloud cover was too dense, though elsewhere the spectacle was seen of a fiery-red moon slowly overtaken by a disappearing act, then its presence slowly revealed.

This morning we woke to another incessantly heavy downpour, and a temperature that had plunged to plus-2 degrees, and descending. The rain and the cold appeared to spur the ravenous appetites of neighbourhood squirrels, accompanied by cardinals, juncos, chickadees and a song sparrow. There was such a pandemonium of moving bodies shuffling among themselves for best seed-and-nut advantage it seemed like a staged entertainment.

First off, I counted seven black squirrels, one red and one grey and a multitude of birds. The birds weren't at the hanging bird feeder; they awaited their turn there, until a black squirrel tired of its antics, hanging upside down from the feeder in between righting itself to scoop seeds, then resuming its acrobatic position again, repeatedly. One little squirrel, black with a red tail, is clearly lactating or gestating, from the evidence of patches of hair missing on her haircoat, used to line a nest. In either instance she needs additional sustenance.

The competition between the tiny red squirrels, the much large blacks and the less numerous grey squirrels that come around is ongoing and amusing. Usually the red squirrels we see in the ravine appear to be dominantly aggressive, chasing the blacks whereas on our porch it seems some of the blacks are aggressive enough to claim dominant status over all the others.

By the time I decided to grab a few photographs, I had been fastened to the window of the front door for so long many of those present had dispersed, and a new horde had arrived; too late for me to capture the absurdly comic behaviour of the feeder-centric black squirrel. Besides which, the stage alters so instantly and so continuously, it's frustratingly difficult to grab the scenes I'm interested in filing through photography.

You'll just have to take my word for it.

And now? The temperature is still dropping and it's gone below the freezing mark. The rain has turned to snow. We've been advised to expect freezing rain pellets, episodes of freezing rain and snow, about three centimetres on a landscape that has just in the last few days managed to free itself from its winter-acquired burden of snow and ice.