Garden Magic

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

Glory

The sun rises and kisses the trees with light so golden it makes me believe in magic. And the hills across the valley are spring-green. And purple lilac buds grow plump. And yesterday morning I saw, too many to count, mountain bluebirds flit back and forth from the budding Virginia creeper to the lawn and back

Weary

Honestly, we’re growing weary. Some days the weight feels heavier than others. It’s challenging to see delights which, of course, makes finding them even more important. But some days the effort takes more energy than we can summon. Or maybe that’s just me. Lilacs buds in the backyard are fat with promise. Or so I’m

First Day of Spring

The sun shines through the east facing window kissing the bunch of tulips on the dining table. The light is magical. I’d like to put the macro lens on my camera and play but there are other more pressing things to do. I grab my phone and take a quick shot to mark the moment.

Maybe

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

Welcome March

We take a walk in my favourite park—the one where ghosts of boys playing baseball and girls wrapped in pink toddle in and out of a building that’s no longer there. Gerry’s been sick and to combat cabin fever we drive across town to the park rather than down the hill to church. Worship looks

Summer

Spring goes out like a petulant teenager. It’s cold. I pull on a hoodie, long pants, and socks (socks!) to stay warm, and close the doors and windows. When I pass by the den on the way downstairs to the woman cave to write, I spy Maya curled up on a blanket on the sofa wearing