“Thank goodness this didn’t happen in the winter,” we said back in March and April when this thing began. “At least we can go outside.” Even when we were in lockdown, we could go outside and turn our faces to the sun and feel the warming and the promise of more. Our provincial health minister
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
The predawn sky is relatively clear. Rippled with clouds that glow in the moonlight and allow stars to peek through openings, it’s the most light I’ve seen up there for days. We’ve been under a blanket of oppressive fog and cloud. A week ago it was cold and white. Then we were graced with a warming
Gerry rises and takes Maya outside to tend to some early morning business, and sees it. I’ve been up for a couple of dark hours so couldn’t tell that the tops of the hills were white as if dusted with confectioners sugar, but now I can. I’m delighted as we watch white fall from the sky.
The sprinklers have been blown out. Lawn furniture, outdoor mats, and flower pots all stowed for the winter. The garden is cleaned out and garlic is planted. Now we wait. One morning, there’s a dusting of white on the hills down the east valley. I pull on long pants instead of Capris, socks and shoes
I wake from a dream in which I had returned to work in a similar role as one I was once very proficient in. I was, shall we say, less so in the dream and in my early wakefulness ponder what I remember and what’s lost to me about the technical aspect of my former
A smartly dressed young man climbs out of the polished black car, walks around to the passenger side, and opens the door for the young woman sitting there. She steps out, and off they go hand-in-hand toward the park. I’m kind of agog because that kind of respect is not something you see every day anymore. And,
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
As I’ve been pondering blogging, what it once was, and what I imagine it returning to now, I remembered The Simple Woman’s Daybook. Months ago, when I was really struggling, I began listing things in my journal that I saw, smelled, tasted, heard, and felt as a grounding practice. It sounds simple, but it helped.
A woman, with an awkward gait that makes me think every step she takes is wrought with pain, carries a long rectangular canvas bag across the grass. She stops when she gets to the edge, wrestles a contraption our of the bag, and transforms it into a chair which she turns away from the park
Gerry and I took a short trip this weekend and some of the gifts were conversation en route, hope resurrected, and releasing the weight of “is this all there is?”. I’ve been wrestling with depression—there, I’ve written it. I spoke it aloud a few days ago and now I’ve written it so it’s official. I’ve been in