from the Ninth Wave Arts caretakers

Winter arrived quickly this year.


Not one of the hesitant winters we’ve grown used to, but the kind that shows up all at once and means it. One week the ground was still open; the next it was locked fast. The cold settled in, and the land didn’t argue.

The ermine have turned white now, their black-tipped tails leaving fine little punctuation marks in the snow. Their tracks crisscross the ground, quietly revealing just how much is still moving out there. The fox is around too, wearing the most beautiful coat imaginable — rich and full as if winter tailored it just for this moment.

We felt the shift in small, practical ways. Water we’d set aside for the bonfire pit froze solid before we could move it. A simple thing, but a clear sign that the season had already stepped ahead of us. We’re catching up now, adjusting our pace, learning again how quickly things can change.

And through all of this, there’s Louise.

Louise is a raccoon, though she moves through the world a little differently than most. She weaves slightly as she walks as if feeling her way rather than seeing it clearly. We’ve come to think her vision might be limited, but her ease is not. She’s calm, unhurried, and surprisingly gentle.

She often comes to the back window of the program space at Ninth Wave Arts and settles herself there, leaning her hands and forehead softly against the glass. When sound sessions are happening or music is playing, she stays. Not for food, not for attention — just to listen. She seems perfectly content as though that’s reason enough.

Louise has bumped into a leg or two on the path over time, always lightly, always without alarm. She pauses, reorients, and continues on. She’s the kind of presence you can pass by and say “hey” to, and it feels right — like a neighbourly exchange.

We keep an eye on her. We help where we can without trying to make her anything other than what she is. She stays wild, moving on her own terms, and we respect that.

Her name came to us one day without much fuss. We were talking about her as “that raccoon,” when, clear as anything, it arrived: My name is Louise. It felt less like choosing and more like being told. Louise — a name that means renowned warrior. A quiet one, maybe. The kind who gets on with things by feel and patience rather than force.

As winter deepens, Louise will likely disappear for a while, settling into torpor like so many others. We’ll keep watch in our own way, holding her in mind as the nights grow longer and the land rests.

The stories of the season come to us through these small, everyday encounters — the ermine tracks, the fox’s coat, frozen water, sudden cold. And Louise, steady and unhurried, reminding us that not all strength looks loud or fast.

Some of it simply keeps going, calmly finding its way.