It’s late April and hills across the valley are dusted white as if with confectioners sugar. I spend the morning in the woman cave dabbling with this and that and not thinking about gardening at all. Odd for this time of year. By late afternoon the sun is shining, and the white is gone, but
The sun rises in the eastern sky on this morning that anchors my faith. I remember the terrible things—and there are many. I hold them up to the light and they are washed in Love. Love and light; my risen Lord. Indeed. Indeed.
April is an in-between month tucked in the middle of anticipatory March when the first blush of spring sparks a fever, and May when gardens centres are awash with colour and promise. April is a gray and wet month. It’s a month of fits and starts, of disappointment and melancholy. Now we’re past the halfway
I grow impatient for flowers in the garden in the parks and I think I might buy some at the grocery store to tide me over. I go into my archives where there are flashes of delight recalling springs past attention paid and I remember wisdom in the waiting.
Work every day. No matter what has happened the day or night before, get up and bite on the nail. Ernest Hemingway The cool, wet days that have come with April are a blessing. I feel no tug to be outside digging in the dirt instead of writing in the silence and solitude of my
I wake to rain, and gray, and a text from a friend who lives a short distance outside of town reporting snow at her house. It’s a perfect morning to hunker down in the woman cave and continue slogging my way through a challenging and pivotal chapter in the new book. # # # On another
I sequester myself in the woman cave and write every morning. I’m in the zone, words flow, it’s wonderful. One afternoon we run errands and it’s sunny and warm. We’re on the way to the green grocer and I say that it’s almost time for iced capps. Gerry abruptly turns left into the Tim Hortons