The rain. The rain. I wake again to cool morning air in the room and the sound of rain falling. Gerry throws open the curtains and there is gray outside. There is a pouch of something just under my solar plexus. Panic maybe. So keenly do I feel the passing of time and the absence.
It’s the wettest start to summer I can remember. Gloomy, but the garden seems to be enjoying it. The gardener, less so. According to the weather forecast, I’ll spend the day with words—writing, reading, with maybe a trip to the bookstore thrown in somewhere. Not a bad way to spend a day. # # #
I’m coming out of a store when I see my mother standing on the sidewalk. Not really, she’s been dead for thirty-four years, but there’s something about the woman’s frame, her pink cotton blouse, the way she styled her hair, and the softness of her throat that reminds me of my mom. It’s like someone
I’m still thinking about seasons, and the unexpected rewards and challenges that come with change, and something I read in my morning meanderings gives me pause. Contentment. The word seems bolded in the essay but the emphasis is in my mind alone, and I realize I’ve drifted and need to correct course. Trust. That’s another one,
The small flower bed near my front door is a wild mess. It doesn’t look like much and I don’t fuss with it. I’m more of a vegetable gardener than a flower gardener. It’s the harbinger of spring when the first purple crocus pokes up its brave head. In the fall I pull frost-killed plants and
Canada is celebrating her 152nd birthday today. Save for seven years, she has been my home and native land. I’ve always been proud to call myself Canadian. We’re honoured to fly our flag today. We’ll skip the crowds in the park though. Chances are good we’ll miss the fireworks display tonight too. Summer has returned
I surface from slumber in prayer and a still, small whisper tells me something I’m prone to forget. You’re carrying a burden that isn’t yours to carry. I know, but . . . I do that so often. I try to justify my worries as if my particular circumstance is beyond the scope of the