It’s hot. Kamloops summer hot. Oh, how we love it!
I head to the garden early to harvest beautiful tri-colour beans. Back home I wash, snap, blanch, and tuck them in freezer bags.
I sit on the deck and read what was once my favourite book (The Velvet Room by Zilpha Keatley Snyder). I lost myself in it countless times when I was a child; I do the same now and it’s just as sweet. I’m going to give it to my granddaughter. I hope she enjoys it.
I write. Tapping out words for an article and scribbling more words in my journal to sort some things out.
We drive to a viewpoint, sit on a bench, and look out over the city. I fiddle with my phone to take a photo and miss the whole point. I’m still learning.
I water flowers in pots and tender young plants in my backyard garden. The new growth is a picture of what’s happening inside me. I see some things in a fresh way. Shifting sands, yes, but that’s not necessarily bad . There’s peace in putting some things down and turning toward others.
It’s been a tough year for everyone everywhere. I’ve said here and elsewhere how 2020 is kicking my mental health butt, and it has. And it is. But suddenly it’s different.
The summer heat helps, but it goes far deeper than that. I’m working things out. Going deeper. Hearing and seeing clearer. These are the gifts that can come when we go through a dark night.
Gerry’s going on an easy hike with friends today, the first in months since he injured himself in a fall. He’s kept himself occupied with a backyard project but his heart is in the hills. He’ll be happy to return—at a slower pace for now.
I’m leaning into listening. And stillness. Solitude and silence. Intention. Grace.
This day is a gift. I won’t squander it.