Long before dawn I’m awake. It’s still mostly dark as I reach for my iPad to read for a while, and tap out some words. Through the open door, the eastern sky takes on a pinkish hue. Lines cut across it: whether clouds or contrails I can’t yet tell. They might make an interesting photograph
I write in the morning, weaving threads and creating tapestry, lost in the process. In the afternoon, I settle into my favourite spot on the deck with a book, and a highlighter, and a Yorkie on my lap. I read slowly—rereading when I realize I’m skimming—setting my book down now and then, when a hummingbird buzzes
I have a propensity to overcomplicate things. Spring reminds me of the wisdom of simplicity. Breathing morning air, spending an hour or so on the deck with a book, puttering in the garden (watering with a nozzle on the hose), these things fill me with gentle joy and gratitude. A simple salad of garden fresh
I’m standing outside in the backyard watering the herb garden with a spray nozzle on the hose. I know. It’s not the most effective way of watering. Master gardeners advise drip irrigation, and my husband touts the benefit of a gentle sprinkler, but I prefer the meditative gift of standing with a hose. Watering and
At some point, I have to stop accumulating books for summer reading and start reading. Images of hot afternoons spent on the deck are dancing in my mind as the forecast turns from wet to wonderful. This afternoon, I’m going to finish reading my library book and then dive into the eclectic reading feast I’ve
I had hoped to finish the fourth draft of my book-in-progress this week. Instead, I wrestle with the next-to-last chapter for days, fleshing out bones I’ve been tossing around like dice for the past year, and I’m still not ready to move on. It’s good and necessary work. I consider finishing this draft and putting the book
I accompany Gerry to an appointment where the practitioner is personable and good-natured, and she appears to love her work. Her manner is one of the brightest points of my day. In contrast, the flag people on the road they’re tearing up for the second time in as many years are a surly, cranky crew.