One year ago today I posted this photo on social media with these words: “I’ve been at this pretty much all day and haven't made it past the second page. Whose idea was it for me to write another book anyway?” I was buried in revisions of The Presence of Absence: A Story About Busyness, Brokenness, and
It snows again. The white is startling and pretty. It’s not as lovely as it was a couple of months ago because we’re kind of sick of it by now, but it makes for a good day to hunker down. I’m grateful for the opportunity. Gerry has a man cold, so he’s been hunkering for
I have a few questions. How . . . ? Is it . . . ? What . . . ? I scratch them on a page in my journal. One after another; they keep coming. Through writing comes understanding. Not answers but illumination. I scribble prayer. (I wonder: is it okay to use such
We’re out and about on a sunshiny mid-February afternoon, going about our business and enjoying one another’s company, when we encounter a man who has fallen on the ice. He’s injured—not seriously—but an ambulance has been called. We’re shaken and choose not to go for a walk in this icy area. Subdued. Each sitting with our
I meet a young man who mentions he took vacation last month. “Where did you go?” It’s a natural question. ”I visited my family in the Kootenays for a week and spent another week at home.” He mentions how rested he felt when he returned to work. Like he had really been on vacation. I think about
What if the thing I carry with me today is the delight I took in seeing slivers of moonlight reach through the blinds and come to rest on the grey vinyl plank floor in my den? Or the sound my pen makes as it glides across a page in my notebook? Or the comfort of
I pull the KitchenAid from the cupboard where it languishes lonely most of the time, and rummage around looking for the dough hook. Then I dump flour, yeast, kosher salt, and water in the bowl and, after it’s kneaded the dough for eight minutes while I putter around doing other things, wonder why I don’t