Finding fresh ways to write timeless truth.
Overnight, the growth seems exponential. I stand with the the long-handled nozzle on my hose putting water near the base of turnips and beans and kohlrabi and other plants that are, today, more than they were yesterday. Sometimes, change happens when we don’t expect it. We’re surprised when we find ourselves somewhere we haven’t been
I’m at the park, kneeling at my tripod and looking through the viewfinder at some flowers I don’t know the name of. What someone somewhere called them in the past doesn’t matter. They’re growing here today and I’m appreciating their unique beauty and attempting to capture a reasonable digital representation. Sometimes I catch glimmers of
It’s afternoon and I’m on the deck with a book and Maya. I’ve tricked her into settling down and relaxing by putting her bed on a chair next to me and giving her a chew treat. Sometimes having a dog is like having a child. I’m reading The Home for Unwanted Girls by Joanna Goodman.
Gerry leaves early for a hike and I putter in the kitchen making pasta salad and a big batch of granola. It’s 9:00 when everything’s done, cleaned up, and put away: the time I head down to the woman cave to write. But the sun is shining and it is warm outside. The deck looks
It’s hot—almost, but not quite, Kamloops summer hot. The temperature gauge in the car reads 34 Celsius (that’s 93 Fahrenheit) when I’m on the way home. I put the groceries away and water my flowers, then gather a book and my glasses and head out to the deck. A bear in the yard shakes things
I write in the morning, weaving threads and creating tapestry, lost in the process. In the afternoon, I settle into my favourite spot on the deck with a book, and a highlighter, and a Yorkie on my lap. I read slowly—rereading when I realize I’m skimming—setting my book down now and then, when a hummingbird buzzes
The week does not unfold as expected, but it falls in a pleasant way, nonetheless. I spend mornings writing, and after lunch and a chess game, we go out and do something together. One afternoon we pack our camera gear and go on a quest to photograph the Arrowleaf Balsamroot—a bright harbinger of spring in
I spend a silent and solitary day at home: writing, reading, potting flowers, staking tomatoes, and watering plants. But it is that moment when I’m standing barefoot on the grass in the backyard watering the tea garden and breathing in the gentle scent of lilacs that is, perhaps, the sweetest. I drop the hose, walk
It’s here. The spring weather I’ve longed for has arrived like a somewhat-late symphony. It’s settling in, tuning instruments, and preparing to show us something magnificent. I spend an afternoon with my hands in the dirt—the heady aroma, intoxicating, as I top up pots and plant flowers, imagining how they’ll fill in with colour over
We enjoy a light lunch at home after church, and a game of chess. Two games actually. I protest that carrots have distracted me and kept me from concentrating adequately on the game: Maya asking for more, and Gerry chewing on them. I coerce him into a second game and lose that one too. Then
It rains. One of those April rains where the sky suddenly grow dark, and the clouds burst forth. Then, the sun peeks her tentative face through the clouds, a rainbow appears in the sky, and, before you know it, it the sky is blue and the rain and the rainbow are fleeting memories. I spot