In honour of the special occasion, Gerry takes an early morning trip to Costco during senior hour (the first Costco run since early March) to buy feta, and a handful of other things we’ve been missing (And yes. Toilet paper. The first package to come into our home since the madness began.) Now I snip
I carry baby tomato plants in a small box on my lap while Gerry drives to the community garden. My hands brush across their leaves. The scent of hope wafts from them. The plants have been growing in my laundry room since I dropped tiny seeds into pots in early April, unmotivated, with barely enough
I climb out of the car, and walk toward my community garden plot with my eyes are trained on the plot next to mine. A young man, hair pulled back in a ponytail, and a little girl—maybe two-years-old—are in it. I get closer and see they’re both barefoot, and I’m thrilled by the ordinary extraordinariness
Today I’m going to give myself the gift of doing “want to do” things rather than “have to do” things. An antidote to a funky afternoon and evening when it seemed the weight was too heavy. I’ll toss seeds in the ground in my garden, dig in flower pots at home, and make a loose plan.
Maybe it’s easier to allow my attention to get caught up in a whirlwind of anxiety about things over which I have little or no control than it is to love well. Not maybe. It is. I wish it wasn’t so but it is. The news cycle is tough right now. We’ve been on this
We’re at the walking track one morning and I see a young man I went to high school with on the exercise equipment. It’s not, of course, but it takes a couple of laps before I realize that it can’t possibly be him. The mind plays tricks when it comes to age. It does the
Piles of snow from the big storm that blew in while we were on vacation grow smaller every day. Rivers of snowmelt flow down the streets. A few days ago, I spotted a hyacinth poking up in my front flower bed. A hyacinth. In January. What a delight. We walk through the doors at the