Finding fresh ways to write timeless truth.
Friday morning, and it's a gray one. The light is on in the kitchen where I'm working in silence, chopping hard-boiled eggs into a bowl, adding them to diced green onions. When I'm finished, I'll add a dash of salt and pepper and Miracle Whip salad dressing, and spread the mixture on buttered slices of
We wake to snow. Just a dusting on the hills and the rooftops, but snow, nonetheless. We were warned by the evening weather forecast so it’s not a complete surprise, and it won’t stick around so there’s nothing to grumble about. It’s amusing, more than anything. I look up at the pale blue sky that’s dotted with
It feels like Friday, but it’s Wednesday (I almost said Tuesday. That’s how out of sync I feel.) I finished reading another good book last night (Cilka’s Journey by Heather Morris) and now I’m on the prowl for my next read.) The more I stay at home, the less desire I have to go out.
In my laundry room, in tiny pots fashioned into greenhouses by way of plastic wrap and a heat mat, the first spindly tendrils of tomato plants reach up from the soil. If I were to gently pull one from the soil, I’d find the start of whisper-thin roots. Buds on the lilac bush in our
My girls return home, a freak snowstorm blows through, and it’s Monday again—the last one in March and the start of Holy Week. This morning I’m pondering taxes (ugh) and watercolour and words and books and dogs and the general topsy-turvyness that is 2021. Those, and a week like none other. And, in the midst
My girls are here this week! We haven’t been together since last summer and, let me tell you, the reunion is so, so sweet. It’s tough to pick just five favourites but I’ll give it a whirl. Hugs. From those first hugs when they arrived, to hugs in random moments throughout the day, holding my
I wake, for the first time in a long time, with a spark of hope in my spirit. Not a lot, but a glimmer, and a sense of new beginning. Spring arrives next week, maybe that’s part of it. Or maybe the time change caused something to shift in a Back-To-The-Future-ish manner. I don’t know,
I want to spend an hour or so, virtually, in the company of women, playing with watercolour and conversing, but I have things on the go and a little dog who demands my attention so I steal delicious snippets in which I can be present. It has to be enough. I work on a painting where
I’m joining in with a group of writers for Five Minute Friday where we’re given a prompt (this week it’s POSSIBILE) and write for five minutes about it. We did it. We survived something we never dreamed possible: lived through a year like none other in our lifetime, one fraught with deep potholes and crazy
I hit “publish” on my previous post and stand up. With an empty coffee mug in one hand and a sleepy Yorkie in the other, I turn toward the window. Then my jaw drops. Literally. “Are you kidding?” I mumble to no one. Fat white feather-like snowflakes are falling. The roofs of the houses in
Barbara Brown Taylor (author of many books, including one of my favourites, Leaving Church), in a conversation on the Encountering Silence podcast, refers to silence as “God’s love language”. I sit with that thought for a time. I can’t claim to understand exactly what she meant, but believe silence is, to some extent, everyone’s love