Finding fresh ways to write timeless truth.
It’s been one of those weeks where the days all run together. New restrictions mean Gerry is at home unable to hike with his buddies and that’s hard for him. Me, I’m used to staying at home—it’s kind of my super power. But we’ve been intentional about going out for a short while every day
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 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
Time has seemed to run in fits and starts this week as Gerry and I have been busy making plans and decisions and getting things done. As I sit here early on Friday morning and cast my mind back over the week that was, it is a blur. Trusting that as I put some thought
I’m meeting someone and arrive early in a part of the city that’s familiar in the general sense but less so close up. I park and watch pedestrians, wondering about their stories, until it’s precisely ten minutes before our appointed meeting. A short five minute walk, and I’m there. I wait. And wait. And a
Well, we slogged our way through another week (That’s how if feels. Just keeping it real.). Friday arrives fat with promise and intention to spend a day puttering at home. Seems like another good opportunity to look back at the week that was, because despite the weight that feels so heavy it was rich with
It’s not uncommon to see deer where we live. They meander in the field behind our house, sometimes standing on their two rear legs as they reach for tasty morsels on high branches. They make salad of tulips in my front garden in the spring, to the extent that I’ve given up trying to grow
I'm going to the community garden to water and pick blushing tomatoes. I pick early, allowing the fruit to ripen in the safety of my laundry room, to foil destructive garden thieves who are apt to pluck growing things from garden plots at this time of year. My laundry room is a party of ripening
There’s nothing especially remarkable about the sky right now. I’ve been watching it gradually grow light, and for a while I thought it might be spectacular. Not so. Not yet. There are more days like this than there are extraordinary ones—in terms of sunrises and experiences. We must learn to appreciate the ordinary, and see through it
Gerry brings home two flats of plump, sweet raspberries. I wash and crush some; cook and stir and sweeten them; fill jars with jam and set them in the water bath canner to process. It’s ridiculously cool outside for late June but in the kitchen where I work you’d never know it. While the jam
We’re driving home from the garden, where we put up netting for the sweet peas, when Gerry says something about going fishing tomorrow—on Saturday—and my head spins. He tries to make me believe that it’s Friday, not Thursday. I think he’s messing with me. “What day did I talk to Kristi?” I ask, seeking an