The Gift of Ordinary

I am sitting at the desk in my office. It faces the window and I see Gerry going back and forth from the garage to the backyard where he is fixing the gate leading from our backyard to the alley.

I love that we have a back alley. We had one when I was a child here in Moose Jaw, and all manner of childhood adventures took place there. Not much happens in this alley. Apart from a city grader that went down in the spring and a rare car from somewhere up the street, it’s mostly empty.

I keep thinking I hear the tap-tap of Maya’s nails on the floor. I turn, expecting to see her standing in the doorway with that look, telling me she wants a dehydrated banana treat. But no. There are no dogs in residence today.

Today is the first day of summer, and I have been mulling over loose intentions for this season involving a leather notebook and a Moleskine; Uni-ball Signo 407 gel pens that I just placed an order for more of; and my Kindle that I’ve loaded up with samples—suggested reads from a newsletter I received in my email this morning.

I am wondering what it would be like to let go of something and, conversely, to lean into something else. I am looking at my calendar and thinking about this time next week when Makiya and Laurinda will be on the way to Kamloops and this season of full-time grandparenting will be over. I am wondering what to make for dinner.

I am embracing the ordinariness of this morning.

Earlier, I took my coffee out into the yard and tended my garden. Tended. That was the word I thought of as I visited each raised bed, noted fresh growth, tucked a few more seeds into the soil, and pinched off leaves that seemed unhappy. It was the word that came to mind as I waited for water from the rain barrel to fill a green plastic watering can, carrying it from bed to bed, and back again. There is something rich and wise about using water saved from the recent storm to nourish the plants that will, in turn, nourish us.

There’s Gerry again. He’s pushing a wheelbarrow full of tools and a shovel back into the garage. The work on the gate must be complete. I glance at the clock on my desk and see it’s nearing time for lunch. Soon, I’ll pull a few things from the refrigerator and he will set up the chessboard. Game on.

Oh, wait. He’s heading to the other side of the driveway, where there’s another small project he wants to tend to today. We love this home where our yard is our own and we can putter and tend the place we’re planted in our own time and at our own pace. It’s a good life and I’m thankful for it.