The tiny musings found below will perhaps provide you an opportunity to pause and reflect on our world and our place in it. You can subscribe to receive posts in your inbox (approximately once a week)! Note: all writing and art is © Christopher Buddle.
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hideaway
the crackling fire
escape the urban sprawl
silent snowscapes
I sometimes dream of a cabin in the wood – or near the woods. One with a cozy fireplace, a crossword puzzle on the table, and a lazy afternoon watching the snowfall outside the frosted windows. It’s nice to imagine ourselves nestled in during this particularly chilly time of year. I also find that cities feel colder than the countryside during the deep freeze. The wind howls through skyscrapers in a rather unpleasant manner, sometimes, and standing on busy streetcorners with blizzardy conditions can be just awful.
So, stay warm! Huddle up, and enjoy some cozy time!
© Christopher M Buddle 2026
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January days
the snow falls
quietly
waiting, watching
snow plows
dog walkers
the world passes
the heart beats
soft-
the cat’s meow
Monday 19 January was, apparently, “blue Monday” – signifying the most depressing day of the year (at least here in the north – cold days, mid-winter, and all that). It was, for me, a lovely day. And when I got home a cat was peering out the window. Lots to observe and appreciate.
© Christopher M Buddle 2026
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Sea shells forever.
beach treasures
are reminders
of the miracle of existence
Several months ago, I received Maria Popova’s publication An Almanac of Birds: 100 Divinations for Uncertain Days. It is stunning. A few times each week, I tuck several of her cards into my backpack and read them on the train—small anchors of reflection amid motion.
Earlier this week, one card offered a line that lodged itself firmly in my mind: “Never forget you are a breathing accident of chance.” It stayed with me longer than most words do. Around the same time—perhaps not coincidentally—I found myself making ballpoint drawings of sea shells (see above!).
There is something deeply satisfying about finding shells while beachcombing. Part of it is their quiet beauty: spirals refined by repetition, surfaces worn smooth by time and tide. But for me, the deeper pull is this—when you hold a shell, you are holding the remnants of a past life. A life that existed because of a long and astonishing cascade of contingent events.
This life—and the countless species that share the planet with us—are not inevitabilities. Nor are they purely random or haphazard. They are, instead, dizzying in their improbability. For natural selection to act, there must be variation: the right mutation, arising at the right time, under the right conditions. The proper mix of amino acids, nutrients, energy, pressure, temperature. A chain both resilient and fragile, stretching across deep time. It feels almost miraculous that it was never broken.
How did sea creatures—squid and sharks, sand dollars and periwinkle shells—emerge from improbability into existence? And how did we? The rational scientist in me readily attributes this to evolution and the steady, unsentimental power of natural selection. But at the same time, there remains room for wonder, awe, even the mystical or spiritual. These perspectives are not in conflict. I find them mutually enriching.
I am deeply grateful for Maria Popova’s gift of reminding us of our impermanence—of our fleeting tenure on this planet—and for reminding us how extraordinary it is that we get to share this world, briefly, with so many other forms of life.
The next time you see a sea shell resting on a mantle or shelf, consider that it is far more than a souvenir of a past trip to the ocean. It is a quiet testament to improbability. A small, durable echo of life that once breathed, endured, and vanished.
Much like us.
© Christopher M Buddle 2026
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Winter birds
atop the pine tree
winter birds, ever watchful
the red sky dawns
Happy New Year to all!
I hope everyone had a restful break and the new year is now upon us. With it, at least in northern hemispheres, the daylengths start to draw longer again (phew), although it is bitter cold and ice and snow are blanketing the landscape. The crows? They are around, of course. My obsession with them continues. Ever interesting, ever present, ever curious.They are among the best of the winter birds.
© Christopher M Buddle 2026
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Flying
in the dark of night
fly and glide, from tree to tree
leap of faith
As I have mentioned before, I am involved with a local conservancy land trust, and our group has trail-cams in the forests, fields, and next to wetlands. We recently captured footage of flying squirrels – oh my! For some reason, I had not fully appreciated that they were here in southern Quebec. I think part of this is perhaps in part because of their nocturnal habits. I love thinking of these little mammals jump-flying from tree to tree.
And here we are – flying quickly towards the new year. I won’t post again until the new year – I need to get some downtime and find ways to re-energize in 2026. I hope you continue to follow, engage, and keep on finding ways to revel in our natural world, whether art, poetry, or any other creative act!
© Christopher M Buddle 2025
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snail away
slow and steady pace
a world of millimetres
shared with us
I recently finished a heartwarming and lovely book, titled The Sound of a Wild Snail Eating. It’s a bit hard to describe, but does touch on natural history, healing, spiritually and it is a book about appreciation of nature, no matter its speed or size. If you read this book, you will never look at snails the same way, and that’s a good thing.
© Christopher M Buddle 2025
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trees of November
bare branches shake
as north winds descend
deep roots
all your leaves are gone
quietly await spring
gentle backyard giant
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(yes these days I’m still obsessed with ballpoint pens)
© Christopher M Buddle 2025
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pocket poems
I did a poetry reading last Sunday evening – at the Accent Open Mic event in Montreal. I was honoured to be a ‘featured poet’ and read some poems about toads, rabbits, and green mountains (no surprises there!).
I have been writing a lot of haiku, and developed a process by which I carry a small tin around with a stack of paper and wee nub of a pencil contained therein. When I have a moment of time I write small poems about what I see, where I am, or what I am feeling. At the poetry reading, I shared a stack of these mini poems, and called them “pocket poetry” or “pocket poems” – they are unedited, quickly written, raw poems.
This is a way to capture a moment and the accumulation of these poems is a fun record of life. Poetry and journaling are close cousins, for me. Maybe this can become a thing. I love the idea of lots of people wandering about their world, ready at a moment’s notice to write some pocket poems.
I thought I would share a few here, today.
PS Interestingly, common phrases and themes do emerge when lots of short poems are written. “Fear the full moon” shows up twice, above, yet these pocket poems were written weeks apart. Huh.
PPS Whether these mini poems are haiku is debatable. I find the form and approach does generally resembles free verse haiku. Or maybe not. Who cares, really.
PPPS I know I have been quiet on this blog – it’s not because creative projects are stalled out – quite the opposite – too much on the go! I’ll try to get back on track going forward.
© Christopher M Buddle 2025
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Autumn garden
october hues
flowers gone to seed
fade away
As the light fades and frosts arrive, the birds are busy in the backyard, searching with great enthusiasm for fading insects, seeds, or other nourishment. The coneflowers have gone to seed, now starkly standing in the garden, side by side. It is beautiful, with a touch of melancholy.
(I’m trying other forms of art than watercolour – I’ve been playing around with the most simple of art tools: a ballpoint pen. Great fun!)
© Christopher M Buddle 2025
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toad friend
autumn frosts
the toad starts a slow dance
rest, old friend, rest
© Christopher M Buddle 2025
Nature's Reverie 