Outside my kitchen window, the surprise brightness of a crescent moon high in the east gives me pause in my morning coffee making routine, and I whisper an involuntary “oh!”. Later, with my hands wrapped around a warm mug, I stand at the living room window and look to the east to see what kind
For a time I watched the moon. Rising, as is my practice, in the wee hours, I stood at the window on a succession of days when the night sky was clear, and grounded myself in its movement and crescent shape that was thinner every day. The cacophony of the world at large, silent. The
The little electric stove in the corner of the room hums (and makes a disconcerting noise that has me wondering if it’s nearing the end of its lifespan) and Murphy, my constant companion, is tucked in his crate watching every move I make. A fading bunch of grocery store flowers is on the table next
In the sweet stillness of early morning I light a candle. There’s nothing special about a bit of white wax and a wick in a small glass container but as the flame flickers it casts a glow where I need one. Come . . . There’s nothing magical about it; it is the hope candle because
My favourite coffee shop is closed. It’s a small shop attached to a bookstore—both, part of large chains. I’ve spent hours over the years there visiting with friends or buying coffee and browsing in the adjoining bookstore. A lifetime ago, I used to stop and get coffee early in the morning on my way to
I wake to snow. It’s not unexpected, but as I stand at the window in the wee hours and look out over it I am struck by the magic. And reminded of an excerpt from The Presence of Absence that rungs as true today as when I wrote it. # # # It’s not yet
It feels a little like I stumbled. I’m in the midst of one of those slow motion things where almost comical gyrations have taken over my body as I struggle to regain my balance. Only it’s not so comical. Know what I mean? In the morning I return to the peace of familiar words and
Now it is November and with the turning of the figurative calendar page comes the temptation to project. What will tomorrow hold? The rest of this month? This year? Anxiety rises with each what if? that bubbles to the surface. Yes, we are heading toward the short and darkest days of the year. Yes, there
We have a new family member and are remembering how three pounds of Yorkshire terrier creates a very large ripple. Meet our boy, Murphy! He measures six inches to the top of his shoulders and at ten months, he’s not going to get much larger. (The camera angle in this photo makes him look much
The yips and yowls of coyotes wake me again. Their cries so loud it seems they’re right outside the bedroom window. Likely not, but they’re near. It’s haunting, this chorus of—what? Celebration? Mating? Aggression? Just checking in with other coyotes in the area? Are there two or ten of them? Who knows. I hope all the neighbourhood
It’s dark when I rise these days. Still night, really. Certainly too dark to step out on the deck and greet the morning (I stopped doing that a few weeks ago when I encountered a black, hard-shelled creature the size of a Volkswagen). I sit in a wing chair near the window where, eventually, I’ll