Reading

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.

Important, Not Urgent

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

The Heat is On

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

Rich

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

Balsamroot

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

Transported

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

A Little Late

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