I’m meeting someone and arrive early in a part of the city that’s familiar in the general sense but less so close up. I park and watch pedestrians, wondering about their stories, until it’s precisely ten minutes before our appointed meeting. A short five minute walk, and I’m there. I wait. And wait. And a
I move my morning basket from beside the wing chair in the living room where I have watched the sky in all her splendour declare the glory every morning, to the den. Now, and through the dark months ahead, I’ll greet the day there, on the leather sofa under a Sherpa blanket. Cozy. In solitude
A thought tumbles in the deep place where thoughts toss and turn for a time before they are fully formed—before they transform from intangible to action—and I think it is the whisper of God drawing my attention to something in need of attention. That’s how it works. Sometimes. Other times the divine comes knocking in
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
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
A buzzing sound—what is that buzz, anyway?—is the only distraction in the den where I sit cozy under a Sherpa blanket sipping coffee in the company of words. It’s there every morning, that sound. I’m used to it by now and tune it out most of the time. It’s the light, or the cable box—something
We went to see A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood yesterday afternoon. It was perfect. In a time when the world seems loud and angry it was a respite. Some thoughts as I watched the movie I’ve carried with me into a new day. I wish I was more like Mr. Rogers. He had a
In late-August the leaves on the trees in my neighborhood started to show the first signs of turning color. It was easy to miss the subtle change, and I did for many years. Now I’m in the autumn of my life and sense a kinship in the shift. The intensity of summer and the almost
I spend a good part of the day on the sofa in the den, heating pad on high, surrounded by books. I can’t even muster the strength to go to the garden, so I send Gerry to water and harvest tomatoes and Swiss chard for supper. It feels like a wasted day. Countless things, indoors
I’m coming out of a store when I see my mother standing on the sidewalk. Not really, she’s been dead for thirty-four years, but there’s something about the woman’s frame, her pink cotton blouse, the way she styled her hair, and the softness of her throat that reminds me of my mom. It’s like someone
I’m still thinking about seasons, and the unexpected rewards and challenges that come with change, and something I read in my morning meanderings gives me pause. Contentment. The word seems bolded in the essay but the emphasis is in my mind alone, and I realize I’ve drifted and need to correct course. Trust. That’s another one,