Sorry I disappeared for a while

The car died, the furnace died, and the basement renovations were completed all at once, and then I started reading The Ministry for the Future by Kim Stanley Robinson, so I got sucked down the rabbit hole for a bit. But I'm back now, and looking forward to 2022.

I think I'm not going to set any goals for the new year other than to keep my eyes open for ways to help serve and comfort the people around me. It's going to be a bumpy ride ahead, and I think the best thing anyone can do is just be aware of and alert to other people. 

Braiding Sweetgrass by Robin Wall Kimmerer

Now and then you bump into a book that has a powerful impact on your thinking, and the magnitude of the thoughts within it make you want to discuss and discuss them...and yet you don't know where to begin. You almost can't talk about it, because anything you say won't do it justice or encompass everything in it. Robin Wall Kimmerer's book Braiding Sweetgrass is that kind of book. She conveys her sorrow and anguish at what we've done to the planet and she points out our complicity in this warped fuel-based-economy destruction...and yet at heart it is a hopeful, peaceful, lovely book. Part of that is the writing itself, so founded on a deep love and appreciation for the world and a scientist's innate curiosity. Part of it is that she writes like a poet, even when describing industrial waste (which is not easy to do!). But mostly it is because she also discusses ways to combat  consumerist Windigo Thinking and contribute our gifts to the world. There is a way forward that follows the path of gratitude and generosity, whatever the fate of our species.

This is a book I want to share with everyone, and yet want to hang onto so that I can reread it and ponder it frequently. It's a good reminder of our place on the earth and the role we need to play. We need to deepen our awareness of the more-than-humans around us and our impact on them. We need to be accountable for our actions (and inaction). We need to take a hard look at our responsibility, our inequity, and what gifts we can share. We need to question the status quo and refuse to participate when we deem it is harmful. We need to give, not consume so much.

One of the things she points out is that our individual gifts to the earth can include art and writing. I have felt more and more lately that I can't continue to write fluffy fiction while the earth is burning. I have always written to entertain, but lately it seems like just adding to the muffling, the distraction, the stupor that keeps us from being fully awake. Granted, my writing isn't widely known or hugely impactful for anyone, and I doubt it contributes much of anything to anybody...but what if it could? What if it could help people awaken to the gifts the earth has given us and increase gratitude? That would be worth writing. That I could get motivated about. I don't know if my skills could adequately capture all that is in my heart, but it's worth a try. I want to give back to the earth, to thank her for supporting and feeding and loving me, whether I show that through writing books or growing squash or playing the guitar or marching in climate strikes or foraging hickory nuts. It means looking for ways to opt out of our oil-based consumerism. Which might mean having to bite the bullet, scale back other wants, and splash out a year's salary on an electric car. Or better yet, go halvsies and share that car with another family.

Much to think about.

That'll teach me not to judge

I was walking back from the grocery store and passed two young men who were standing on the sidewalk, talking. They were dressed roughly, looked a bit sketchy and possibly gangsterish, and smelled of marijuana, and I gave them a bit of a wide berth as I passed. And overheard them having an earnest discussion about soil degradation and crop rotation (and they weren't referring to weed). I totally felt like turning back around and joining in the conversation. How exciting to find young people talking about those things, and how bad I felt for jumping to conclusions about them because of their appearance.

Rhapsody in Green: A writer, an obsession, a laughably small excuse for a vegetable garden by Charlotte Mendelson

I work for a physician who used to be a farmer, and often our conversations revolve around chicken breeds, electric cars, and squash. He recently sent me this book as a gift, and I devoured it in two days. Such a delight! This author perfectly captures the drama and joy of backyard gardening. I kept laughing aloud, hugging the book to my chest, and punching the air with my fist crying, "Yes! Exactly! She gets me!"

She knows the humiliation of having to buy zucchini from the store, the yearning for self-sufficiency, the danger of drool-inducing seed catalogues, the inordinate pride at harvesting three whole blueberries, the hopeless desire to taste every single variety of apple, the envy of those who have stone walls and ponds and vistas and willow trees and ha-has. I no longer feel so embarrassed about the tablespoon of oats (the entire harvest) carefully put in a jar in the cupboard. Or the green beans currently growing up the walls of my dining room (I've picked four so far. A burst of flavour in winter). This writer has been there before me.

I am going to check out Charlotte's (may I call her Charlotte? I feel like we're friends) other books. I love it when I discover a new, fun author, and finding a book like this is like...well, finding a delicious green bean hiding behind the curtains.

Christmas Baking

Butter tarts, hickory nut tarts, chocolate-oatmeal cookies, egg nog cookies, and a peanut-pecan-date-apple-coconut thing I don't know the name of. These will go to friends and neighbours as fast as possible before they get eaten...

Smash and Grab Thefts

Yesterday I watched some of Dr. Phil's show covering the spate of smash and grab thefts occurring in the U.S. The audience expressed shock and outrage at the scale and brazenness of the thefts, but after a while their sense of non-involvement and non-complicity made me stop watching. It felt like they were sitting in judgment -- Look at what others are doing. Isn't that appalling? We're not like that.

The deeper issue needs more discussion: the thefts are the symptom, not the problem. The problem is we've fed people for decades on the idea that money is king, showcasing the Kardashians as desirable, pasting advertising in every possible space, pushing for a robust economy over the health of the planet, rewarding dishonesty, feeding entitlement, and allowing the distance between the wealthy and the poor to widen. We've let poverty -- and price-gouging on essential medication -- continue, and we haven't addressed people's desperation. Add to that the fact that we've eroded people's trust in authority, in government, in the police, in educators, in sports and celebrity figures, in just about anyone they could hope to look up to. And then we're astounded when people apparently ignore all moral consideration and flaunt their thefts in others' faces. As a society, we've fed this. As a group we are collectively responsible. Because we've bought into that value system too. We have no right to sit back and look down our noses in disapproval at what's going on if we're feeding our own greed and not seeking equity for all.

That leads to the tandem issue: people wouldn't be stealing the merchandise if they couldn't sell it. Someone is buying it. 

I think what we're seeing is just a manifestation of the dichotomy of need and greed. You can't generalize that the thieves have one and the buyers have the other -- you'll find both motivations on each side. Some of the thieves might be desperate fathers trying to feed their children. Grandma may not be dressed in black swarming the malls, but her need for medication she can't afford may force her to buy off the black market, thus giving motivation to someone to essentially steal it for her. That desperation is a deeper problem that needs addressing. 

On the other hand, some of the thieves are just looking to make quick money, and as long as it is profitable for them, they'll continue to do it. It's the greed of the buyer, in that instance, that feeds the greed of the thief. If people would stop buying the stolen Vitton handbags on the black market, there would be little incentive for the hordes to steal them. No one seems to be talking about that aspect of it.

Do I think we'll stop need and greed in our society any time soon? No. Meanwhile, there are some short-term solutions stores could consider. 

One Band-aid that stores could apply would be to gate their entrances, and only allow a handful of customers into the store at a time. With a two-gate "airlock" type of set-up, it would be impossible for hordes of thieves to enter at once, and they could lock down (essentially trap) individual shoplifters between the gates until they gave back what they took. I suppose someone would complain that it was unlawful detainment, but do we really care? Even a single metal gate would help, but someone would have to be on duty there. You're still then left to determine what to do with the thief themselves, and it sounds like the law is pretty toothless. You may have to release them, but it would give you some control and at least you'd have a chance of getting your merchandise back.

Malls could also hire people to patrol the parking lots looking for cars without licence plates and immediately putting boots on them and impounding them/towing them away. If you use a car in the commission of a crime, can it be legally impounded? I don't know. But then the thief would come out of the mall laden with merchandise and couldn't drive away with it (plus there'd be the headache and cost of getting their car back out of the pound). No Uber driver would pick them up because they'd be abetting a crime and therefore an accomplice. And in possession of stolen goods, also a chargeable offence. (And yeah, why not charge the person with possession of stolen goods, rather than the crime of shoplifting, if that's the thing that's toothless?)

In the end, we can come up with a myriad of Band-aids and legal solutions, but until we address the dichotomy of poverty and greed, the related issues of racialization and corporate greed, and our own complicity in those, there will be no long-term fixes.

This is why I love Canada

The other day, President Biden released 50 million barrels of oil from the U.S.'s reserve in response to gasoline prices.

Today Quebec announced they'd release half their maple syrup reserve to address global shortages.

This is why I love Canada.

Keeping it Light During Societal Collapse

I have been working doggedly at my next novel, and I've reached that half-way point where the flow trickles to a drip and I have to decide if the manuscript is worth pursuing, or if I should fling it into the filing cabinet and run arms flailing from the house. This is the rough patch where I start to question my abilities as a writer, the purpose behind writing in general, the fate of the publishing industry, and whether I should just stick to knitting. It's all part of my usual writing practice. I always have a great initial burst of creativity followed by a period of drought. I'll take a break, get sidetracked by Christmas preparations and Korean dramas on Netflix, and get back into the swing of things when the dust has settled and thoughts have had time to percolate, to refill the well.

I don't write Great Literature. I have no illusions about making a mark on society or profoundly affecting anyone with my stories. I love to write, I think my books provide some entertainment, and I don't expect to win a Giller with them. That's not their role. But this time around, I've also noticed a new element -- the reluctance to write fluffy entertainment while the world is burning. 

I think we can all agree it's been a rough couple of years. I look at the civil unrest, droughts, floods, hurricanes, war, disease, poverty, famine, political corruption, wildfires, landslides, refugees, smash-and-grab crimewave---and I wonder if there is a place anymore for pure entertainment. Is it socially irresponsible to ignore all that and blabber about romance and adventure? 

People do need a break from everything, I suppose. I don't want to write doom and just add to the gloom, because that doesn't do anyone any good. I really want to write about food security and the fragility of our supply chain, compassion for the earth and each other, resilience. And yet I know deep down that I'm a fiction writer. Is there a way to weave that into my novels without turning them into self-conscious sermons? Can you learn to be more resilient through the medium of fiction? I suppose so. I'm trying to think of the traits of fictional characters that have inspired me---perseverance, faith, ingenuity. But am I a good enough writer that I can deliberately incorporate those things into my stories without being blatant about it? 

Maybe when the earth is in upheaval and industrial civilization is collapsing, being blatant is okay. Subtlety doesn't seem appropriate when you're facing an avalanche. As Roy Scranton says, there is an urge to shout at people Look out! Look up!

There is also the slowly-growing feeling that this next book might be my last novel. Maybe it's time to put aside fiction and focus on reality. Maybe I've distracted myself from it for long enough.

Emergency candle at 2:30 a.m.

I woke up abruptly at 2:30 this morning to hear sleet pelting the windows. I'm staying up at the old church we're renovating, and usually it's a snuggly, cozy thing to listen to storms at night, knowing I'm protected by thick, solid walls. But for some reason, this morning I woke thinking, "If the power goes out, I'll freeze." Because this church, while solid, is also vast, and heat dissipates fast. I've been keeping to one room, with an electric heater, and am not heating the rest of the building in order to conserve propane. But even this one room will grow cold quickly if the heater goes off.

So after mulling this over for a while, I got up and melted half a can of Crisco and poured it into a wide-mouth mason jar. I fashioned a wick out of cotton thread I had in my weaving supply bin and tied it to a pushpin to anchor it and lower it down the centre of the jar. I propped a knife across the top of the jar to keep the wick upright while the Crisco cools and solidifies again. (That won't take long. The kitchen is 11 degrees Celsius right now.)

So now I have a candle that should last me many hours. I can surround it by foil pans to cast light, but it's more useful as a source of heat (and I have several rechargeable lights already that I can use). If the power goes out and the temperature plunges, I can wall myself and Brio into the bathroom, which is the smallest room, set the candle on the tile, and surround it with bricks (I have several of those), leaving a few gaps at the top and bottom for air circulation. I have a ceramic casserole dish I can put upside down over the top to form a heater, though according to Youtube, a terra cotta pot would be better. The bathroom can be ventilated, and would warm up fast.

I also have quite a lot of canned goods, peanut butter, etc. that don't require heating to eat. And I have a non-electric can opener. I'm set.

Meanwhile the power is still on, the electric baseboards are ticking contentedly, I have a Malcolm Gladwell book to curl up with, and I don't have to start work for another hour and a half. Life is good.

Weird Parsley and Bias

Last spring, I bought some little pots of Italian flat-leaf parsley to fill in some gaps in the bed of seed-grown parsley in the garden. But as the plants grew, the leaves seemed too big and light green to me, and they tasted funny. The seed-grown parsley started doing well, so I just sort of ignored the strange variety and focused on the good stuff. 

This week, with frost approaching, I cut down all the plants and prepared to mulch all the beds with straw. But the stems of the weird parsley were very thick and crunchy and hard to cut. And then I tasted it and realized: someone had mislabeled the pots. It wasn't parsley at all. It was celery. Lost in the riot of flat-leaf parsley, it had just quietly become what it was supposed to become and I hadn't noticed.

Now, I've tried to grow celery before, and it turned out woody and slim because I didn't water it enough. This year, I missed out on a bumper crop of celery I could have enjoyed, because it was just, you know, weird parsley. 

A sorry lesson in judging and dismissing out of hand because something doesn't meet our expectations. I was so wrapped up in wanting it to be parsley that I didn't appreciate what it really was. My loss.

You know your child is growing up when...

...he gets all dressed up to go to his university class, taking care that every detail is perfect, so that he strikes just the right sophisticated look...and then takes his Nintendo Switch controllers and Magic: The Gathering cards out of his bag so he can pack his textbooks. 

Dr. Seuss's The Lorax is more relevant than ever

I have this awful habit of suddenly popping awake at 3 a.m. with the craziest thoughts in my head. Yesterday it was names I could use for restaurants in the current manuscript. Sometimes it's songs I remember from the 70s (that double negative in "I can't see me lovin' nobody but you" still bugs me).

This morning it was The Lorax. And I know just fine why it's in my head today -- it's because I watched news snippits last night about the climate discussion going on in Glasgow. I once heard someone say they weren't an activist; they were an advocate. And there's a big difference. The Lorax was an advocate, giving voice to those who couldn't speak for themselves. In The Lorax, the story ends with a glimmer of hope. The whole book really echoes what we've done to our planet. Dr. Seuss wrote it in 1971. If we had listened to him at the time, we might have been able to end our story with hope as well. But I think the time for that has passed, and now we're reaping the rewards of our own self-centeredness. 

I keep returning to that achingly poignant phrase in the Book of Enoch: When will the earth rest?

Not until we've learned, at last, to be kind to it. Or until we're no longer here to torture it.

Flu Shot Fiasco

The other day, I was at the pharmacy and saw a sign talking about the seasonal flu shot. I asked the pharmacist if they were offering it and he said yes but to come back after two o'clock because they were busy.

That afternoon, I dutifully returned and filled out the form to get my shot. The assistant asked me if I were a senior (which took my ego down a few notches), and I said no, I'm 54, and made a lighthearted remark about my hair being grayer than my mother's, so she wouldn't feel bad about thinking I was older than I am. She took my form (on which I'd written my birthdate, I might add) and directed me to the waiting area.

A few minutes later, the pharmacist called me in and gave me my shot, and I went on my way.

The next day, my husband and son went to the pharmacy to get their flu shots. I was working on the computer, and when they got home, they behaved very strangely. My son wordless took a blanket and tucked it around my shoulders like a shawl, snugging it around my neck. My husband bent to speak loudly, as if I were deaf, and asked, "Shall I make you a cup of tea, dear?"

"Okay, what's up? Why are you treating me like a little old lady?"

Because---as it turns out---the flu shot is only being given out to those over age 65. Why the pharmacy assistant didn't explain that to me and send me on my way, I don't know. The sign certainly didn't say it was for seniors only. And the pharmacist didn't say anything either, even though he had the form with my birth year on it. But they told my husband I shouldn't have received it yet.

My apologies to whatever senior doesn't get their shot because I inadvertently jumped the queue! And now I feel better that she asked if I was a senior because of that and not because I look it.

Writing in the Margins

You may know I've been struggling with writer's block the last few years. Well, not really writer's block. A feeling I have to write what sells instead of what's important. The publisher has turned down my four latest manuscripts, which tells me my heart isn't in it. But I find it difficult to focus on regency romances or fluffy entertainment when I see the imminent collapse of society thundering toward me.

I should explain that comment, I suppose. I am deeply aware of the impact of climate change, particularly as it affects food security. Food shortages are coming our way, and higher prices, and contention about the distribution of resources. And it's not just food, it's also fuel, and vaccines, and a number of other things. One country has a glut and other countries can't beg, borrow, or steal what they need. All of this is tied to potential civil unrest and economic meltdown. We've seen how quickly things can degenerate and how widespread the effects can be -- just look at Arab Spring. Look at how the disparity between the Haves and the Have Nots can trigger racism and violence. I'm not the only one who feels it coming -- there are actually online support groups to help those who are already grieving the environmental degradation and the beginning of loss of life as we know it.

I would like to hope that we can avoid chaos, but I'm growing less and less confident in the common sense of the common man. I've been quietly working on building up my food storage and looking at things like alternative energy and potential sources of drinking water. I'm looking at ways to collaborate with my immediate community to strengthen our food and water security. I want to inventory my neighbours to see what skills, expertise, and tools we collectively possess that could help each other in difficult times. I'm looking at my own children and assessing their resilience.

I was a little hesitant to discuss my thoughts with my hubby, who is imminently calm and rational in any situation. Would he think I was over-anticipating or being doom-and-gloomy? But on our drive home yesterday, he brought it up. He's been thinking about it too, and we agree on every point. So we're going to start focusing on some practical preparations that, if they won't avoid the crash, might help at least to soften it.

But there's another element of it that I need to think about, and probably write about. Some themes have been jumping out at me lately: Our recent two-day church General Conference seemed to have an overarching theme of "God loves you. Now go love others" that really struck a note with me. I've been doing Jack Kornfield's guided meditation on "steady heart and quiet mind." I've been pondering the scripture that says "Men are that they might have joy," meaning our whole purpose in life is to be joyful. Sometimes we get so caught up in the behaviours or obedience that lead to joy that we forget to arrive at the joy itself. And I keep thinking about that saying "When falling down a well, keep your eyes open."

I have taken all of this, rolled it into a ball, and come up with my own personal Approach to Life, which is this: Live each moment with compassionate awareness, because Now is all we have. Love others, because relationships are the only thing you can take with you. Find joy in each small moment, even the hard times, because that's where  joy lives, where life is distilled down to its essentials. We may not be able to avoid difficulty, or even annihilation, but we can be each other's witness and be compassionate in any circumstances. Life comes down to the first two commandments. Love God, love your neighbour. That's all we're here on earth to do. And if that's all we do, it's enough. Everything else hangs on those two commandments. It really is that simple. 

This next while, I am going to focus on just being present, soaking up the beauty of the world around me, and trying to look at everything with love. And if/when it becomes necessary, I want to be able to let it go and look on whatever comes next--be it good or bad--with the same compassion. And from that lens, I want to write -- about things of the soul, about that awareness, about the grief of what we're doing to our beautiful planet, about what we're losing, and about how we need to reach out to each other. As my husband said, in the end, it may be that the only thing we can do as the plane goes down is hold the hand of the person next to us. And that will be enough.

Somehow I don't think my publisher is going to like this next book either...

Archery Tournament and Thoughts about Family Traditions

One of my neighbours has set up her horse pasture with several targets and benches and is having a family archery tournament. I don't know if this is an annual Thanksgiving tradition, but it should be. What fun! How cool is that? 

It got me to thinking about family traditions. I don't know that I've been very good at establishing them with my own kids. There are some I wish I had implemented earlier. For example, on New Years Eve, I want to gather everyone together in the backyard, have everyone write down on paper all the disappointments and failures and challenges of the past year, and then burn the papers in a glorious campfire. I've done it myself and it's quite therapeutic, but I've never involved my kids in it, and I'm not sure why not.

On the other hand, sometimes we may catch ourselves mindlessly carrying on traditions and habits that brought joy to our ancestors or parents but only cause stress to try to pull off with our own family and its unique circumstances. We might try to live someone else's life, or impose our childhoods on our own children. Sometimes traditions need to be rethought and adapted to feel more authentic to our own situation. The pandemic has been good at teaching us to rethink our usual get-togethers and find creative ways to commemorate life events outside of our usual practices.

I have a friend who is fantastically successful at establishing family traditions with her kids and grandkids. They have family sports days, observances, and holiday events -- even something as simple as a girls' night out together turns into something memorable and amazing. She has a real talent for playing with her family. Sometimes I start to feel down about not keeping up. But I remind myself that her family all lives fairly close by, and she didn't work full time outside the home as her children were growing up. I can't compare my situation with hers and I shouldn't try to imitate her traditions or recreate her circumstances. I can only develop my own and be authentic to who my family is, taking into account their likes and dislikes and natural inclinations. Not one of my sons would enjoy a family sports day...but if we instituted a regular family Warhammer Painting Day, they'd be thrilled. We need to honour what makes our family unique.

But yeah, an archery tournament would be epic!

Sacred Demise by Carolyn Baker

I'm reading an intriguing and thought-provoking book right now by Carolyn Baker. I've read it before, but this time new things are jumping out at me. For example, she talks about coming pandemics (the book was published in 2009). But of all the concepts she's discussed so far, the one that rings the most true to me is that we have learned to say no, but we haven't learned to be told no.

A two-year-old is supposed to be taught boundaries. They can say no (hopefully within limits), but sometimes they also have to learn the finality of being told no. And when I look around at many of the adults today, they never seem to have learned that concept. They act entitled, as if they are somehow exceptional and have the right to do whatever they want, when they want, on the scale they want, even if it hurts others.

Even more important than having boundaries put upon us, though, we need to learn to tell ourselves no. Just because we want to do something doesn't mean we need to or get to do it. And sometimes we just shouldn't do it. As adults, it's our role to tell our two-year-olds and ourselves no when we need to. And that includes saying no to things we probably do have a right to, but for the good of everyone, we should decline them anyway. 

Boundaries can be useful things. People can say yes to shelter but no to 7,000-square-foot air-conditioned homes, for example. And for those who assert that the 7,000-square-foot home is their right, how do they then turn around and explain why everyone in American doesn't have that kind of home? If it's a right, everyone should have equal access to it. And to take it further, why doesn't every person in the world have equal access to it? What justifies saying I have a right to something that others don't? I'm not saying that as succinctly as Carolyn Baker does in her book, but you see the point of the argument, anyway.

It's a ridiculously simple concept, but I think we've lost track of it in the last couple of generations, and it would solve so many world problems if we could all get a handle on it now. I think instead of "Just say no!", Nancy Reagan's campaign would have done better to say "Just tell yourself no!"

Such a Let-Down

Walking with Brio, and the black walnut trees are dropping their walnuts everywhere, which happen to be the same size and colour as tennis balls. Brio got quite a frenzied look in his eye -- "What! Overnight, someone has just left all these tennis balls everywhere, all over the ground?!" But of course, they turned out to be a nasty-tasting disappointment. Poor puppy. He now disdainfully refuses to look at or sniff them.

Hickory Nut Cookie Bars

I ended up making cookie bars instead and freezing the rest of the nuts. Here's the recipe in case you want it, and remember you can substitute pecans if you aren't lucky enough to have access to a hickory tree. Because you smash them open with a hammer, you can't avoid getting tiny fragments of shell in with the nut meat, no matter how careful you are, so don't chew too vigorously until you're sure there aren't shell bits in there. They could crack a tooth.

Cookie Bars

1 c. quick oats

1 c. white flour

2/3 c. sugar

1/4 c. brown sugar

1 t. baking soda

2 t. baking powder

1 cup minced nuts

Mix together. Pour in 1 c. butter, melted. Press into 8x10 pan and bake at 325 for 25-30 minutes until golden. Let cool a few minutes, cut into bars, and then let cool completely before removing from pan. And remember you've been warned about the shells.

Curl up to eat with a good dose of Pride and Prejudice and a glass of milk.

Score!

While I was walking the dog this morning, I discovered a shagbark hickory tree at the side of the road. I took Brio home, grabbed a bag, and went back to gather nuts. I only took the ones on the edge of the road, but when the homeowners are home, I'll go back and ask if I can clean off their lawn too.

Hickory nuts are almost like pecans, but with a hint of maple flavour. They smell wonderfully like maple too. The only way to open them is to hit them hard with a hammer, which smashes the meat inside, unfortunately. But you can use them for pies and tarts or in pancakes or cookies, you can boil them down with a little sugar to make a pancake syrup, or you can skim off the oil to make hickory butter. They are very calorie-dense so you shouldn't eat a ton of them. I'm going to dry mine, freeze most of them, and make some shortbread with the rest (think pecan sandies). It may take a week to open all of them, though. I don't have a nut pick, but I have the dental tools I use on the stained glass windows, which I can wash really well before using.

I carried my loot home with a grin on my face. What a treasure! And they were just left lying there.

The most aggressive campaign sign I've seen in Canada

 

This was the year for squash

With all the heat and rain we've gotten, the squash has been awesome. I've got 11 spaghetti squash and 16 butternut. Freezing most of it for the winter. I figure I've saved myself over $100 on the grocery bill in squash alone.

My Edible Neighbourhood

I went walking around my neighbourhood today and came across a school class of teenagers walking through the local forest. They were taking notes and talking about plants in a general sort of way. I was tempted to stop and tell them that 26 of the plants they were looking at were edible. 

• sumac
• walnuts
• acorns
• chestnuts
• crabapples
• wood sorrell
• dandelion
• plantain
• purslane
• lamb's quarters
• burdock
• stinging nettle
• thistle
• chicory
• various maple trees (syrup)
• birch (syrup)
• Japanese maple (leaves)
• sedum
• rose hips
• goldenrod
• mint
• echinacea
• garlic mustard
• wild lettuce
• wild strawberry
• clover

And that list doesn't cover the vegetables spilling over fences from people's yards. Forget packing your sack lunch -- just bring a fork and go outside...

Decapitation Time

 Beheaded the catalpa trees at the end of the driveway, as we do every fall.

Why do we say beheaded but decapitated? Why not deheaded? Or even unheaded?

Such things make me lie awake at night. As Tom Stoppard says, "Consistency is all I ask!"

The impact of social media

I was walking the dog through the little park by our house, and I saw a young boy, maybe ten years old, sitting at the top of the slide on the playground. He wasn't sliding or just chilling, though -- he was hunched over sobbing audibly. Of course I stopped and asked him if he was okay.

Embarrassed, he told me he was fine and he didn't want attention drawn to himself, so I let him know I was available to talk if he wanted to, and I continued my walk. Another circumlocution around the park and I returned to the slide, where he continued to weep. So I stopped and asked him again if there was anything I could do for him. I told him I didn't feel I could just walk away and leave him like that.

He wiped his eyes and then wobbled his phone at me and said, "Just some minor drama." Ah. I talked to him for a moment and acknowledged that sometimes the drama didn't feel minor, and that I was there for him if he needed me, and that things could get better. He thanked me and said he'd be okay, and he seemed a bit steadier by then. So I gave him a lame and useless "Hang in there" and continued home. But the words I really wanted to say to him were "Hang up your phone! Those aren't your true friends. Stay off the social media for a while and let it fade. You don't have to read hurtful things. You can hang up on it and get it out of your life with the click of a button." 

Poor kid. When I walked back again a bit later, he had gone. I hope he can talk to his parents about what's upsetting him. How much damage a thoughtless or cutting remark can make! We have to work to keep such things out of our lives, and teach our children they are worth so much more than a "like" on facebook!

Harvesting Beets

Today I'm bringing in the 4 x 4' bed of beets, steaming, peeling, and freezing them. My hands and kitchen look like murder's been done.

Harvesting Carrots

I dug out my carrots today and sliced, blanched, and froze them. For some reason a lot of them turned out forked, like little orange people, which made peeling them interesting. I had planted half a bed, so roughly 4 x 4', which yielded about 26 cups of frozen carrot slices. One for every other week...so if I wanted a year supply (at one cup a week), I'd need to plant a full bed of 4 x 8'. Good to know.

Thoughts about success

Yesterday I watched an episode of Queer Eye featuring a young man, about 27, who had a loving wife, darling children, a beautiful home, and meaningful work he cared passionately about, but who still felt like a failure because he had been injured and discharged from the military at 21. He had wanted to make the military his career, but he had to find something else instead. And even though he loved what he was doing, he saw his injury and discharge as a failure.

It astounded me that he couldn't see the success he had made of his life, the contribution he made to society, and the value his family and friends placed on him. I wondered how many times I also focus on the failures and don't see the achievements. I'm reading a book right now by Bill Heavey who says that most people experience failure more than success in life, which is why his writing (about bumblings and misadventures) strikes a chord with his readers. 

It's a refreshing thought, to think of failure as just a part of your success instead of a deterrent to it. But often people try to cheer you up or motivate you by saying things like "Failures can be the stepping stones that lead you to greatness." But to my way of thinking, failures can just be failures, with no meaning or benefit attached. They just are what they are. They don't need to be anything else. And everyone has them. Here is something I tried and didn't do well at. Here's something I regret. This is where I fell on my face in front of everybody. Those moments remain stacked in a corner somewhere or strewn about the place like spare bricks left over from a project. The trick is not to let them trip you up as you move along (or to throw them at other people). And yes, maybe one day they'll be useful, just as leftover bricks can be useful for a different project. Oops, dropped another one. Why didn't that work? Okay, learn from that and try again. Or they might just stay there in a pile, unused and possibly unlearned-from. 

The key, for me, is not to let them make you feel like a failure yourself. Look at those messed-up bricks and remind yourself that their very existence indicates that you tried. I don't know that you can look back at every endeavour and comfort yourself with that quote about failing while daring greatly; sometimes what we fail at wasn't great or noble in the first place and maybe wasn't worth doing anyway. But we grasped something by the horns and went for it anyhow. And ultimately, that's better than sitting quietly doing nothing for fear of spilling more bricks. 

Will I be able to look at my discarded tap shoes, my rejection letters from publishers, my unfinished sewing project, my botched paint job, my incomplete Masters Degree differently? Maybe. Maybe not. But hopefully I'll learn not to pick up one of those bricks and bash myself in the head with it quite so often!

I didn't realize hostas had a strong scent

 These smell wonderful! 

The heat wave has been hard on the ferns, though.

Sobering thoughts and Gurdeep Pandher

There's only so much evening news I can watch, and then I need to turn it off. Covid, wildfires, earthquakes, tsunami warnings, floods, mudslides, building collapses, missing children, civil unrest, residential school graves, shootings, crop failures, wars, refugees. There's a bright spot amongst it all on social media -- a Sikh man impossibly landed in the Yukon, who dances bhangra to share hope, joy, and positivity around the globe. Gurdeep Pandher, in sweat pants, beside his humble cabin against breathtaking scenery, can't fix all the problems in the world, but he's doing what he can, what he does best, in his small sphere, to remind us that there's still light in a dark world. He does it with his whole heart, drawing others in, providing an astonishing touch of healing and comfort.

For a while, I watch him and feel my breath slow and calm, my face and shoulders relax. I needed that brief moment of respite.

But then this week...Afghanistan. 

I've never been there. I've only ever known one person from there. But I'm female, and because of where I live I'm free to choose how to live my life, and that alone is enough to scar my heart when I see what's happening. That heart-wrench isn't just for the women and girls, though; it's also for the young men and boys who are being drawn into the pattern of thinking. 

Religious belief is something that's important to me too. My faith shapes what I do, how I dress, who I married, what I eat and drink. But most importantly, it shapes how I think of and treat others. At least, that's its key function that I try to keep at front of mind in my daily walk. But faith cannot turn into unkindness or intolerance or inequity or force, or it loses its whole point. No loving god would approve of religious devotion being used as a weapon, especially against the most vulnerable of his children. You can believe what you want, but there's a boundary to your personal faith that ends where another's health, safety, happiness, and agency begins. And even if you really believe your way is what's best for them, necessary for their own good, you cannot coerce. Even God forces no one to heaven.

I sit on my couch watching the news and feel completely useless. Yes, I can give money. Yes, I can feel bad about it or fling prayers at it. But what I really want to do is get in a private plane, go pick up a woman and her family who are feeling trapped, whisk them to my home, and care for them. I know it isn't possible or practical, and it's like that adage about rescuing starfish on the beach -- you can't save them all. But I want to. I want to drain the entire country of Afghanistan of its women and bring them here. Give them a soft place to land. Let them know there are people who see and care. And then maybe the men whose women have fled will object and stand up and stop the Taliban. 

Yes, I know, but a writer of fiction can't help but fantasize. 

It's easy sometimes to get weighed down by all the darkness in the world. To become paralyzed. Some days it's difficult seeing the way ahead. To not wish the world would just end already.

Meanwhile, Gurdeep is still dancing.

3 a.m. seems to be a theme

Looking back at past posts, I see that 3:00 in the morning seems to be busy time at the McKendrys. And it gives me a plot idea for another book... A group of menopausal women who can't sleep and so go on line, where they meet and form a chat group called the "Three O'Clock Club." And there are several plots woven together, each woman's story and challenges and triumphs told through their posts. Like Maeve Binchy but on Facebook.

Excitement at 3 a.m.

 At 3:00 in the morning, I heard a bang outside and instantly knew what it was. That hollow boom could only come from the garbage bin tipping over. It wasn't windy out, and the bin was up against the hedge, so I suspected what I'd find. Put on the robe and padded outside barefoot, and found the green compost bin tipped over. And yep, a raccoon was sitting on the  black garbage bin beside it, looking at me with an expression like "Who, me?"

I turned on the front light and the raccoon skedaddled into the hedge. But when I bent to pick up the green bin, it was heavy and made scrabbly noises... Gingerly I lifted the lid, and out shot two more raccoons. One fled to the right, the other fled to the left and realized too late that he was about to collide with my legs. We both did a little hop-jump dance to avoid crashing, and he disappeared into the hedge, where he turned and hissed at me like a snake.

The two were all quite small and compact bundles of fur, probably juveniles. Isn't that just like a teenager, going around getting into mischief and waking people up. I imagine the telling-off they'll give their mother: "You lifted the lid and told us to go in! He made it tip over, not me! What kind of mom are you, leaving your children behind while you run for cover?" Ah, the joy and squabbles of family life.

Of course all the commotion woke Brio, so I let him out in the backyard but on a leash. Glad I didn't let him just run loose, because he picked up the scent of the raccoons and started strutting around, huffing and fizzing, acting tough and scrappy, pretending he was half bloodhound instead of half poodle. "Yeah, run away, boys! Just be glad she found you and not me!"

Food Security

I am watching the droughts, heat waves, and wildfires around the globe right now. It was 48.9 celsius in Sicily yesterday. With the humidex, it was 41 here this week. Absolutely crazy. It looks like half of California is on fire. I was reading the recent world report on climate change, and even in the best-case scenario, things are going to continue to worsen well into this century. Looking at human history, I'm not betting on the best-case scenario playing out, though.

All of this wild weather is going to impact crops, I would imagine. Food prices will rise, and there may be scarcity. My husband and I were talking about it last night, and thinking that the garden is going to become a necessity more than just a hobby. I want to raise hens for eggs for protein (Wyandottes and Rhode Island Reds, probably). I've looked up the more nutrient-dense vegetables that I should be planting and thinking about the best ways to provide carbs/bulk to our diet with what I can grow. I'm brainstorming ideas for providing partial shade cover for the plants so they don't burn in the intense sun, without blocking the welcome rain. I'm toying with ideas for a climate-controlled greenhouse. I'm wondering how to convince all my kids to come live with me on a small farm.

Some of the best things I can plant would be: kale, broccoli, spinach, bok choy, swiss chard, collards and other greens, brussels sprouts (if I can convince people to eat them!), tomatoes, onions, carrots, sweet potatoes, bell peppers, zucchini, green beans (for my cholesterol), garlic, cabbage, beets, chia (high in calcium), raspberries, blueberries, potatoes, squashes, oats, dry beans, and quinoa. And cover crops like clover for the hens to eat, though they'll eat vegetable remnants as well. I've grown kamut (Polish wheat) before, but it's a pain to thresh, whereas oats are easy, and apparently good for cholesterol too.

Now...I just need to figure out how to do that with the resources and space I have. And hope that seeds are available, because I don't have all of those right now.

Garden success this year!

 I've never seen so many blooms on a butternut squash plant before. And they are absolutely huge.

The cucumbers are also gigantic, with leaves larger than my foot:

And this is what happens when you plant a seed from a grocery-store pomegranate:

Thoughts on Perfectionism at 3 a.m.

My newest book is out, and I got the box of author copies this week. As is my usual practice, I instantly plopped down to read my own book the minute it arrived, eager to see if any typos managed to get through and how the paging worked out. Seeing your own words on your computer screen is one thing; seeing them in print with page dividers and headings is another.

I read until late last night, but at 2:30 I woke up and couldn't get back to sleep (thank you, menopause), so I came downstairs to finish reading All My Loved Ones. And well...how do I say this? I'm not sure I like my own book. I mean, it was fun to write, I fell in love with the Finn character (that's his name, not his nationality), and I supposed it was a worthy effort. But I can see places where I could have used better wording, I think some of the plot elements should have been handled differently, it turned out with a stronger religious flavour than my other books -- perhaps more than I intended -- and...yeah. It isn't my best work. I kinda wish I could retract it.

The thing is, NONE of my books are my best work. Every time the box arrives and I read one of my own stories, I find flaws in it. Things I wish I could add or change. New ideas I wish I could go back and incorporate. I'm never satisfied with the final product. Some are better than others. But none are perfect.

I'm the same way with conversations I have -- I find myself later rehashing them and wishing I'd said things differently, approached people differently. Honing the words in my mind even though it's too late to say them. They're never quite perfect.

It isn't just about words and the role they play in my life. It's other things too -- the cabbages that don't grow as big in my garden as I'd envisioned, the slight waver in the coloured thread in the towel I'm weaving, the not-quite-right flavour of the stew. The strayed-from diet, the dog that still hasn't learned not to jump up on people, the weeds in the flowerbed, the unevenness in the stained glass leading. Just never quite what I was aiming for. Do you know, I still remember the one wrong answer that kept me from getting 100% on a hairy English test in 1986?

Now, a rational person would say "Nothing is perfect." And I know that intellectually. I'm familiar with the "a man's reach should exceed his grasp" yada yada. But if I know that, why do I feel so grumpy when I don't attain perfection? I am convinced I would be a much happier person if I could just lower my expectations. I know I'm not alone in this. Why do we do this to ourselves? Why do we expect more from ourselves than we do of other people? What is it engrained within us that keeps us aiming high even when we know we'll miss the mark?

On the other hand, I think I'd rather aim high and miss than aim low and hit the target every time. How boring would that be? But still, it would be fun to hit the target at least some of the time!

I do think I was worse about it when I was younger, and as I've grown older I've become a little less hard on myself. A little more understanding, tolerant, and practical. (On occasion, perhaps even overly self-indulgent.) I do know that I'm still a valuable person even if I drop a stitch while knitting. My self-worth isn't entirely wrapped up in turning out the perfect result, and I do have small moments of temporary triumph. 

The process of becoming a polished and presentable human being takes a lifetime, and meanwhile, if we're running the track too intently, we'll miss the lovely view on the way. There needs to be a balanced way to strive for improvement without being anxious about it. A way to use our failures and flops as impetus to move upward.

It's now 4:00 and I'm going to stop typing and go read some Susanna Kearsley, because her books are perfect!

Inter-generational Trauma

I went to the dentist today with a cracked molar. My dentist is Armenian, so I mentioned I was currently writing a mystery that has an Armenian detective in it. This led to a discussion of the most recent attacks on Armenia and the horrible economic and political situation over there. None of the superpowers will stand up for Armenia, because of Turkey's political pull and money and strategic location.

And then he paused working on my tooth and just talked, telling me about his family's history. His grandmother, great-aunt, and great-grandmother were the only three out of their family of 150 to survive the genocide. His grandmother, only about four years old at the time, saw her family decapitated and mutilated before her eyes. As he spoke, I could hear the emotion in his voice, the passion he feels for his homeland, and his frustration at not being able to do anything about what his people are enduring. The genocide happened many years ago, but President Biden only recently finally acknowledged that it was, indeed, a genocide. And the attacks continue. The distress and pain behind this ordinarily mild man's words were tangible.

At one point, he said, "How would you feel if someone came in and killed all your family and took your home?" And I thought, well, they did, and we had to flee the country and head for Mexican Territory (now Utah). But we didn't suffer anything on the scale of what the Armenians went through.

This got me to thinking about inter-generational trauma, and how the suffering of one's ancestors is still alive and felt by their descendants. I grew up with folk songs, sung in my family, about the burning of our homes and fields, the betrayal by the state governor, about how God saved his people. Songs about burying our dead on the plains, hidden beneath campfire ashes to hide the bodies from the wolves. I was told bedtime stories about great-great-great-grandpa who escaped from jail by outwitting the guard's dog, about another grandfather who had to keep a horse saddled all the time in the barn in case the U.S. marshals came for him. Those stories and songs are valuable to me as part of my heritage, and even though the personal persecution I've experienced has been small, I still feel (and in some ways treasure) that tremor of memory handed down through my family.

Right now the indigenous people of Canada are going through their own fallout from the residential school system, and the earlier generation's memories can't help but filter down to their children and grandchildren. The recent discovery of over two thousand graves has brought that trauma to the fore in new ways. The reverberation of history continues down through the generations, to both those whose families suffered and those whose families caused the suffering. None of us escape that history.

I wish at some point the earth and its peoples could just rest. Until then, we need to be very, very kind to each other, because--in ways we may not easily see--each of us is feeling pain from something.

Happy Vegetables

The garden is loving the high heat and rainfall we've gotten lately. The squash and cucumbers are going crazy, the carrots, beans, cabbage, and beets are looking really healthy, and the lettuce and onions have gone to seed.

spaghetti squash

Ireland Creek Annie dry beans

cucumbers

cabbage

butternut squash

carrots & beets

spaghetti squash

gone to seed - herbs, onions, lettuce, kale

spaghetti squash baby

Finally, Family!

The Covid restrictions have eased enough now that we were able to get together as a family in the backyard for my son's birthday celebration yesterday. It's the first time we've all been together in about a year and a half (minus one daughter-in-law, who had to work). The eight of us sat safely distanced on chairs in the shade on the lawn and ate grilled burgers and potato salad and root beer floats, and it was just...normal. Grandkids splashing in the pool. Sons laughing together. I sat there listening and just thinking I've missed this.

I may not be ready psychologically to go out into public yet, but this small step in the backyard felt good, and momentous.

Kindness everywhere

A lovely thing happened to me the other day. I went out to trim my front hedge just after the yard-waste truck came by to make its pick-up, so I missed it. It would be two weeks before the next pick-up. Ah well. Still needed to be done before the rain came. I finished mine and then trimmed my neighbour's hedge too. 

As I was finishing, the other garbage truck came by to empty the compost bins (two separate trucks make the rounds). The truck stopped beside where I was working, idled a moment, and then the driver got out. He asked if I had a bag. I pointed to the one in my driveway. And without any fuss, he simply helped me rake and bag the hedge trimmings. I remarked that I'd missed the yard-waste pick-up, but he said he'd take it with the compost, put the bag in his truck, told me I'd done an excellent job, and drove away. Wasn't that the sweetest thing? Now I don't have to store a rain-soaked bag for two weeks.

There are kindnesses everywhere if you look for them.

My publisher, Cedar Fort, is having a giveaway for books being published in August, which includes mine, All My Loved Ones.

All you have to do is sign up for their newsletter and you are automatically entered in this giveaway. If you are already receiving their newsletter, you still need to fill out this form to enter. After you submit, you will receive a 20% off coupon.

Instructions: Select ONE book that you are most interested in. Cedar Fort will pick giveaway winners for each title and notify them on August 3rd in the newsletter. It would be great if you'd pick mine! Many thanks, and I hope you win!

https://forms.gle/om99QKhfEkxNisAP9

Canada Day feels different this year

Ordinarily Canada Day is commemorated with parades and picnics and fireworks. I enjoy celebrating with gratitude the country I have chosen to call home. But lately I've begun to realize that not everyone sees this holiday in the same way. My view has opened up more to others' perspectives. And especially this year, in light of the recent discoveries -- and more to come, I'm sure -- of children's unmarked graves associated with the residential schools, I think Canada Day should be observed differently. And I think it should be a permanent change, to observe the day, not with fireworks, but with prayer. May we learn from this. May we never allow atrocity in this land. May we reach out to those who are hurting. May we stand as a shield against racism and persecution and speak up when something is wrong. May we have the courage to face our roles in the pain others are experiencing. May we heal as a community and draw from the best in each other. May we vow to be better.

Thunderstorms

Whenever there is lightning and thunder, Brio turns into a quivering jelly and crawls into bed with me. It's difficult to imagine him as a descendant of intrepid wolves when he's moaning with anxiety, head under the covers. 

As for me, I adore thunderstorms. I remember, as a child, listening to the thunder trapped up in the canyon, booming and echoing like cannon fire. I love the ozone smell that comes with rain, the sight of dry cracked earth soaking up water. I remember playing in the gushing gutters and splashing barefoot through wet grass and counting "one-Mississippi" after each flash of lightning until the thunder clap, to calculate how far away it struck. 

What happened to that kid who dashed outside to play in the rain? I caught myself the other day climbing out of the swimming pool and hurrying to the house as it started to drizzle, thinking "I might get wet." Um... yeah. That made sense.

I stepped outside at 5:00 this morning to find the sidewalk still damp. It must have rained in the night. The day is already warm and muggy, the mosquitoes in full battle cry, and the new "old" me is already planning to retreat indoors to the air conditioning. They are predicting a thunderstorm this evening, though. Maybe instead of hiding inside, curled up with a book as usual, I should wake up my childhood self and go play.

Madness in Mississauga

About three years ago, we had trouble with the cable box up the street, so Rogers rigged up a temporary line for us from a different box around the corner. They had to string it half a block, through the trees, across the back yard, across the back door, and around to the side of the house. It worked fine, but when -- months later -- they got around to fixing it and putting in the permanent cable, we once more experienced problems because of that original box. A few visits and a new modem later, all was fine. 

The next summer, the city came through to fix the water mains, removing a chunk of our hedge and inadvertently cutting the Rogers cable. Back to the temporary line through the tree tops. We had it all winter, through hail and high winds, and Rogers finally installed the permanent cable again in the spring.

And then about a month after that, a construction crew working for Alectra dug up our boulevard to update the electrical grid and cut our cable again. Luckily I was working up at the church, because Rogers took a week and a half to respond that time, and people at home had no internet, phone, or TV that whole time. Back to the temporary line through the tree tops.

There followed months of constant construction, with roads and driveways and boulevards destroyed, fixed, and destroyed again when more work had to be done. The road on our corner was dug up and repaved at least three times in the same spot. Obviously someone was not communicating well. Our boulevard became the parking spot for the heavy equipment over the winter, though Alectra assured us they would fix all the damage in the spring. There was a constant roar of trucks and jackhammers and bulldozers and that annoying beeping of vehicles backing up. Finally, in about February, the construction ceased, the bulldozers were hauled away, and we were left with the remains of a battlefield. 

Spring came. No sign of Alectra. The boulevards were left in such a state that I couldn't mow without bottoming out in craters or hitting plastic zip ties, chunks of wood, pooled asphalt, strips of metal, or broken pieces of cement. 

Last week, after months and months of the temporary line, Rogers finally came and buried the new permanent cable for the third time. And two days later, Alectra sent a crew to rototill the boulevard to prepare it for re-sodding and -- you guessed it -- they cut the cable again. We ran out to show them where the cord was buried, but they basically shrugged, said it wasn't their problem, and rototilled that spot anyway. This time only my neighbour lost her internet and phone, but our cord -- still intact -- was left sprawled on the sidewalk, exposed, a tripping hazard, just asking to be snapped. My husband called Rogers and was told because the cable hadn't actually been cut, they would not send a worker out.

The next day a worker came out anyway. He tested our cable and said it was fine. We explained it was our neighbour whose line was cut, and we showed him the exposed cable lying on the sidewalk and boulevard. He went away again. An hour later a second, different Rogers worker showed up to fix my neighbour's line. And left again, leaving the cable still exposed. (He was just a technician, not a work crew.)

This morning another construction crew showed up and jackhammered out the exact same spot in the road that has already been dug up and repaved three or four times. They've been out there all day, putting down new asphalt over the hole they created.

I expect Alectra's crew will return shortly, I'm sure, to put down the new sod, and then Rogers will come a week or two after that to tear up the new sod and bury the cable again, and at some point I'm going to go berzerk, rip up the remaining sod, plant corn on the boulevard, throw my computer and phone and TV out the window, and become Amish.

The hubby got creative again

A while ago, my husband saw a flawless light shade that someone was throwing out, and he brought it home, thinking maybe we'd find a use for it at the church. It's been in the garage for months.

Then yesterday he saw a neighbour throwing out the pedestal of a small table.

Now we have a birdbath!

As the Stay-at-Home order lifts...

It has been almost a year since I wore make-up. I have worn the same five shirts and three pairs of pants for the past 15 months until the fabric is practically see-through. I have had one professional haircut since March 2020.  I have gained about ten pounds. I have been waiting for over a year for an appointment with an orthopaedic surgeon. I break into a sweat at the thought of attending the dentist or going to church in person. I have watched every enticing thing on Netflix, much of it in other languages. I have re-done all my puzzles and re-read most of my books. I may never go to a restaurant or movie theatre again. I have missed 15 months' worth of family birthday and holiday get-togethers.

On the other hand, I have established a very satisfactory morning routine, without the former soul-draining 1.5-2 hour commute. I haven't spent $240 a month on transit. I have a comfortable couch. I've turned in four manuscripts. I've invested in an excellent internet service. I'm wishing I had invested in shares in Zoom. I've learned to groom my own dog (sort of). I've practised my Italian and taken a course on doing podcasts. I have started a new hobby of restoring stained glass. I have walked through the countryside so much -- in utter peace and contentment -- that my shoes have worn completely through. I've bravely ordered a new pair of slip-ons online, hoping that they fit. (It feels like gambling, but stores are still closed to in-person shopping.) The constant chatter in my brain has grown more still and quiet. I have finally accepted my inner introvert and given her permission to thrive. I've learned to say no when necessary without guilt.

Life is not going to return to normal. Not if I have any say about it.

The yard's in bloom and I'm missing it!

My yard doesn't tend to have colour in all seasons, primarily just in spring. But this year I'm up at the church for 8-9 weeks, so I haven't been able to be there to enjoy all the blooms.

Lovely Son #2 posted pictures for me today so I could see what's happening back home. Wasn't that sweet?

Ferns and Hostas

Up at the church, the front beds have suddenly burst into life. I've never seen such healthy ferns! I didn't know they were there, since we bought this place in the fall when things had died back. I am rethinking my plan to put a bench there. I'm also glad that I haven't planted the vegetable garden at home yet -- it's going down to 3 degrees tomorrow.