I’m working on a project I started at this time last year but had to set aside for the sake of my mental health. It’s a long work looking back at 2020 from the perspective of a retired grandmother (aka: moi). I’m revisiting blog posts, journal entries, and the like. It’s heavy work. I’m struck
“Here, hold this for a sec,” I hand the watering wand to Gerry and step into the garden toward the spot where I planted radishes a few weeks ago. ”You’re dreaming,” he says as I bend and move leaves aside to get a better look. The bright red radish I pull from the ground may
I wake, for the first time in a long time, with a spark of hope in my spirit. Not a lot, but a glimmer, and a sense of new beginning. Spring arrives next week, maybe that’s part of it. Or maybe the time change caused something to shift in a Back-To-The-Future-ish manner. I don’t know,
Hope. It’s been a year of hope deferred. If I’m honest, it’s been longer, but this year has been something else. The world, caught up in uncertainty and a host of other things there’s no need to name, is weary. We all feel it to some degree and it’s getting heavy. Really heavy. You tell