Finding fresh ways to write timeless truth.
One morning I am captivated by the view outside our bedroom window, and grab my phone to take a photo. The next day I’m struck by the contrast, because snow has fallen and the sky says more is coming. I do it again. On the third day, clouds are low and snow falls soft and
It’s Friday again—or is it already—and I consider pulling together another Friday’s Fave Five post but can’t muster the effort. It’s been a week. One of those weeks. A week that included a meltdown precipitated by lack of sleep, lack of routine, and no lack of overthinking. Throw in a dash of the news cycle,
I wake to snow. It’s not unexpected, but as I stand at the window in the wee hours and look out over it I am struck by the magic. And reminded of an excerpt from The Presence of Absence that rungs as true today as when I wrote it. # # # It’s not yet
“Thank goodness this didn’t happen in the winter,” we said back in March and April when this thing began. “At least we can go outside.” Even when we were in lockdown, we could go outside and turn our faces to the sun and feel the warming and the promise of more. Our provincial health minister
It’s Sunday. We have turned our clocks back and are in the dark months. A few days ago we were out early—leaving home at 6:30 am—for an appointment and I remarked how the quiet streets reminded me of my morning commute when I was still working. Gerry reminded me of what I used to say
I grew up in a little house my dad built that was next door to a church. It wasn’t our church—we went to the larger United Church across the street. I crossed the street every Thursday evening for choir practice and gathered with other members of the children’s and adult choir in the basement on
I think there’s a skiff of white outside but I’m not sure. It’s still dark. When I came into the den with a Yorkie tucked under my left arm and a mug of soy milky frothy coffee in my right hand, before I bent to pick up dog toys scattered on the floor leftover from