angels

I want to believe in angels. Extensions of the hand of God, protecting loved ones from harm and danger. I got a call this afternoon with news of a car accident that, the police officer reported, 'should' have caused the death of a friend of mine. Apparently the circumstances of the acccident dictated that the driver, my friend, would normally have been decapitated. Instead, he walked away from the accident-- seriously shaken up, but unhurt. No one in the accident was badly hurt, in fact.

Tonight I babysat for the J family, watching over my sweet R and E. The tradition with me and R at bedtime is that I sing "my" song, which is the black spiritual, Day is Dying. Her daddy has a full repertoire of songs, but this is my stand-by. The refrain is, "All day, all night, angels watchin' over me, my Lord. All day, all night, angels watchin' over me." She doesn't know that this is my constant prayer for her, that she be kept from every harm and danger. Tonight, for the first time, she started singing along with me.

There are no magic incantations to summon the constant presence of angels. Bad stuff happens. My heart weeps at the truth of that. I might have gotten a call with different news of that morning accident. I deeply dread even the possibility of news that my darling R or E have come to harm. In the meantime, I want to believe in angels.

care

I had to vacate my apartment for several hours today because of the pest control thing. Organizing a work day around that would normally be seriously challenging, but I had the kind offer of a home-away-from-home from long time friends, the B's. It was so great to be able to go to a home where I feel supremely at ease, do a few more loads of laundry while puttering away at this and that, and enjoy the the company of their wonderful cats. I'm so thankful for their open door policy and warm welcome in absentia.

I'm also thankful that today was a gloriously sunny day. I could leave my apartment with the windows open wide all day to allow the pesticides to do their thing without having to come home to fumes and the fear of breathing air infused with chemicals. I've never been so thankful for clear skies in February.

The bug thing has been a real drag, but it has underlined for me the wonderful support I can count on from friends. Sure, I did the work of it alone, but I didn't feel entirely on my own thanks to the concerned calls and emails from friends who care.

spring

A friend called this morning to check in on me, to see how I was coping with all the bedbug craziness. I indulged in a brief session of what my late friend Randy called "speed bitching" (I'd just been informed that the spraying would be delayed a day and it threw me) and then agreed to his wise suggestion to meet for a coffee break in the afternoon. We had a grand visit, talking about bad fiction, retreat destinations, prairie skies and ocean vistas. It took me out of myself.

On the way home after this delightful break, I walked home past the gardens of nearby Bidwell park. In just a couple of blocks, all of spring's glory sang out to me... Purple-veined crocus blossoms about to break open, snowdrops and daffodils in full bloom, and the eager tips of tulips breaking out of the earth, looking every bit like the beaks of baby birds, hungry for spring sunshine and rain.

"Better days ahead, darling" is something I frequently hear inside my head, in the calm and wise voice of my mother. This was the refrain I heard today from Mother Earth.

shelter

Today's frenetic preparations for fumigation would have been far more disagreeable were it not for the kindness of friends. I was on my own prepping everything on the home front, but M called several times to check in on my progress, my parents called (mom wished she could do the laundry for me), W&J fed me supper, M&J agreed to freeze my delicate and dryclean only items in their chest freezer, and S left a sympathetic message about the whole bed bug disaster. Through the day, I was able to approach the task of packing and preparing pretty pragmatically, and I think that's the result of prayer. (I didn't set out to use that many p's in that sentence... Fatigue inspired aliteration, perhaps?)

Right now, I'm so tired I could fall over. In spite of the fact that my apartment is in a serious tip, my bedroom is uninhabitable, and there's an obstacle course of bags and boxes and bits between my desk and my couch, I still have a place to sleep in my own home.

For all this, I'm thankful.

understanding

I had a straw-that-broke-the-camel's-back experience today. I found out that my apartment has to be sprayed for bedbugs. Again. It's a HUGE amount of work to prepare for and recover from spraying, worthwhile only because the alternative is co-habitating with blood-sucking beasties or moving out of the bedbug epidemic zone that is Vancouver. With stress and exhaustion levels already high, I felt utterly overwhelmed in the face of seventeen loads of laundry, packing, and vacating for pest control. I sent out a few pleas for prayer to a few close friends. Since then I've had two phone messages and one email message from three friends who get that this sucks. I still feel overwhelmed and exhausted, but it helps to know that there are people in my corner who can sympathize and even lend a hand. A little understanding goes a long way.

solitude

I work alone, I live alone. I'm on my own a lot. I have wonderful friends and amazing connections with beloved kindred spirits pretty much on a daily basis, but the truth remains that most of the time I'm alone. I'm oblivious to this reality for the most part. It feels normal. It's okay. I feel very blessed to have a contentment around being single. But there are still times when I find myself longing for the companionship of a boyfriend/partner/husband and that's happened a bit more often recently.

It hit me yesterday that part of what I've been longing for lately is an excuse to take a break from the crazy pace of my work life. Now a date with a great guy would be a fantastic way to take a night off, but clearly, waiting for Mr. Great Guy to show up to force a change is a ridiculous approach to bringing sanity to my work life. So, tonight, I shut down my email and PhotoShop and iViewMediaPro and set aside to-do lists and business strategizing and follow-up files. I fixed myself homemade pizza, poured myself an English Bay Pale Ale and watched a movie on my laptop. Overall, it was a pretty good date. I think I'll see me again.

moaike

I surprised two of my dearest babies today by showing up at the park unexpectedly. E was on the top of the slide, trying to figure out how to get herself seated for the descent (she's just one and a half years old) and R (who is three) came running as soon as her mother announced my arrival. "Moaike!" Eyes alight and with the brightest smile, she ran into my arms. It is supremely gratifying to have that effect on another human being, to inspire that kind of enthusiasm and affection.

We have a special connection, R and I, a mutual adoration. She is a bright light in my life and, by the looks of her smile and the warmth of her hugs, I think it's fair to say I mean a lot to her, too. Today she was the highlight of my day by virtue of the time we shared, but she's the highlight of most days-- I have only to think of her to lighten my step.

E follows close on the heels of her big sister for a place in my heart. The highlight in that relationship today was hearing her say my name, Moaike, clearly for the first time.

inspiration

Today, as part of my artist-in-residence gig, I got to do one-on-one consults with twenty Grade Six and Seven students. We brainstormed around how they might incorporate visual arts elements in their upcoming "Who I am" presentations. They've been working on the theme of identity and formative relationships for six weeks and have to bring it all together in a creative presentation next week. Some had ideas to discuss when they came to me and our consult time just expanded and solidified those ideas, but many plunked themselves down in the chair next to me with defeat written on their faces, with no idea how to present anything, let alone something that included art work. We'd talk, I'd ask questions, we'd throw around a few concepts, and I could see the wheels turning, the cogwheels of their brains zipping into action and sending off sparks. It is nothing short of thrilling to see an eleven year old who began the consult looking like an world-weary senior citizen gradually turn into a bright, bouncing ball of creative energy. It was like watching something bloom in time-lapse photography, observing the rapid transformation of a bored and indifferent adolescent into a confident pre-teen artistic genius. It was beautiful to behold.

The classroom teacher-on-call told me after class that it was great to see the kids leave their consult sessions so inspired. She only saw half of it. I came away from the experience not just inspired, but blown out of the water by the ideas of these young minds. What a privilege it is to be part of the mutually gratifying process of inspiration.

fresh air

When things are getting me down, I need to work a bit (or a lot) harder at getting out of my head. In one of her reflective essays, writer Anne Lamott refers to her mind as a scary neighbourhood where she shouldn't be allowed to wander alone. I understand that all too well. I find it easier to get out of my own inner scary neighbourhood if I just get outside.

I love that I live less than two blocks from the shores of English Bay. I love that within a few minutes I can be soaking in the sound of the sea tripping over itself on the beach, feeling the damp sea air against my skin, admiring the exuberance of neighbourhood dogs as they play in the surf. And I can breathe, body and soul. We all need air to breathe, of course, but sometimes I need air for more than just a basic biological input. I need to feel it wrap itself around me, fill me, and pull my soul into a bigger, brighter, fresher place.

"We are mere clay, but for the breath of God," says the poet. Maybe my craving for a breath of fresh air is really a craving for the breath of God. And maybe, when I drag this fragile, crumbling, muddy version of myself down to the shore to stand on the sand and consciously inhale, it's the breath of God that fills my lungs. Maybe.

play

It was a rough day. I called a friend to see if she was feeling the same way about her very grey and rainy Monday. She was. We decided to combine resources and hope for better, together. I came over with groceries and she prepared lunch while I played with her children. Getting the basics of grocery shopping and lunch taken care of was a good start, but the clincher for me, in turning things around, was playing with the children.

I know my place in the world of play-- make 'em laugh, listen, enthuse, let the imagination soar. It gets me totally outside myself. In the same way I believe that the best way to learn anything is to try to teach it, the best way to have fun is to try to make it for others. I sat on the floor and we giggled and spider-walked and hopped and trotted and told silly stories. It was lovely. Play, I think, is right up there with napping as a path to world peace. I came home with a handful of princess pictures, two angels, a fabulous drawing of fireworks, and a heart in a far more hopeful state.

naps

With Häagen-Dazs banana-nut icecream with added banana, caramelized walnuts, frangelico liqueur and a side serving of conversation about the perfect base upon which to recalcluate age (base 10 is overrated-- I'm only 25 years old in base 18) coming in a close second, today's moment of truth and beauty is: the Sunday afternoon nap.

It's the perfect pause. A nap on any day is grand, but there's something special about the Sunday afternoon nap. It's a guilt-free nap. It's supposed to be a day of rest, after all. Today's nap was particularly luscious because I slept in the warm sunlight of an early spring day. Cotton sheets, a bright white duvet, bedroom all golden with sunlight, a slight breeze drifting in from the waters of English Bay... Delicious.

If everyone could take a nap like this, every day, it would be a kinder, gentler world. I think I should make t-shirts with the slogan, "Nap for World Peace."

synchronicity

It happened again today. Within moments of thinking, "I feel like talking to mom and dad," but before I got to picking up the phone, they called. The number of times my parents have called within minutes of me thinking of calling them is freakishly high. The number of times I call and am greeted with, "I was just thinking of you" is also freakishly high.

There are over five thousand kilometers between us, but, thankfully, it seems that love travels at something akin to the speed of light.

in praise of parenting peers

Parenting is hard. I don't know a single parent who thinks they've got the job nailed. They tell me, all of them, in their more vulnerable moments, that they think they're bad parents, making mistakes left right and centre, as if they're the only ones who struggle. I feel like Moaike Confessor sometimes. They don't know that every parent thinks that. (There. Now you know. Perfection is a myth. Let it go.)

The truth and beauty of parenting is that parents have the privilege of seeing people grow from scratch. Parents get to see their children change from cells joining cells in utero into walking, talking, shocking human beings. But there are days they bring out your worst. They test your patience, trample on your feelings, and break your heart. And, if that weren't enough, it often seems like the world and all its uglies are out to get them and you hate that parenting doesn't come with superpowers that can protect them from that ugliness. God gave you Mama Bear protective instincts, but didn't make you omniscient or omnipotent or wise beyond all knowing. How is that fair?

Maybe the power is in the simple things. Memories of moments that make it all worthwhile. Maybe?

Today I held a babe not yet four days old. She fidgetted for a while then started to cry. I walked and rocked and made soothing sounds and she not only stopped crying, she fell asleep. I find there is little more calming and reassuring than the feel of a content baby, heavy with sleep, warm against my body. My own breathing slows. I feel like I know my place in the world-- for the moment the only thing that matters is the tender trust of this little one in my arms. I wonder if every parent could plug themselves into that kind of calm reassurance, a memory of their own offspring in that state, if it would take all that parenting tension down a notch or two.

That still leaves the world and all its ugliness. What can you do about that? Is there enough reassurance in the thought that, in spite of the mean kids at school and the name-calling and the myriad miseries of childhood and adolescence, you made it through? A little the worse for wear, but you made it.

There are no easy answers in parenting. I do recommend one thing though: share. It's not all up to you.

And to all my friends who share their children and their parenting triumphs and miseries, thank you. Thank you for the privilege of watching your babies come into the world, for the privilege of holding them, caring for them, and sharing in the exhuberance of play with them. When I am Moaike to your children, I feel like I'm at my best. When you trust me with your hopes and fears as parents, I feel like I'm a part of something extraordinary-- the fearful and joyful mystery of nurturing human beings.

And, by the way, you're doing an amazing job.

ideas

This morning, my longtime friend and houseguest for a week, Jane, shared some of the many ideas she has for crafting a career for herself. Beautiful ideas. She's a renaissance soul, like me, and has a vision for a career that is vibrant, textured, multi-directional, challenging and fullfilling. She's the kind of woman who takes her ideas and runs with them, bravely. She's an artist, a designer, a historian, a theologian, a teacher, a preacher, a pastor, a wordsmith. Her ideas take her places.

This afternoon, I went to a business networking lunch to support an entrepreneur friend of mine, Nancy, who was giving a talk about her business, Your Money By Design. In her talk she made note of the great satisfaction she finds in knowing her work can make a difference in the lives of her clients. She offers information, support, and practical products that help people make sense of their often complicated relationships with money. I reminded her of the coffee date we had several years ago when she first started talking about the idea that has become Your Money By Design. Her ideas have taken her places, too.

My ideas have taken me from a degree in French Literature and Economics to work as a political assistant to theological studies to bookstore management to doula care and breastfeeding counselling to photography and writing and artist-in-residence work. Some might say that's a bit of a crazy path, but I call it my "career mosaic" and I love how it all fits together, how one thing led to another. I'd like to think that if you could watch it unfold in time-lapse photography, it would look like a beautiful, spontaneous chain reaction. I wonder what's next...

culinary therapy

Yes, I'm back to food again. But on the cooking side of it this time. This evening I took great pleasure in preparing a Thai feast for a few friends. Noteworthy moments of loveliness:

- tipping the snap peas and watching delicate green curls create a baroque pattern against the white of my ceramic sink
- taking in the fragrance of lemon grass and garlic sauteeing in olive oil
- inhaling deeply over the chopped fresh basil-- exquisite aroma!
- tasting the golden sweetness of fresh pineapple, with juice dripping down my chin
- opening the lid on the pot of lemongrass-basil-pineapple jasmine rice, cooked to perfection
- watching the play of colour on plates of curry, with curves of red and green pepper and ribbons of zucchini
- hearing The Chorus of Yum rise from the table (you know, the appreciative silence of dinner guests loving their meal)

I savoured the quiet and fragrant preparations and then the company of good friends. We raised glasses of Sauvignon Blanc to toast eachother and over fourteen years of shared friendship. Truly, everything anyone could want for a beautiful evening.

Right up until I spotted the baroque curls of green in the sink, I was going to post something about the great satisfaction I got from teaching today. My challenging and lovely group of eleven and twelve year olds learned how to communicate cross-culturally with colour. They created the most amazing abstract expressionist self-portraits using colour symbolism from seven different cultural traditions (Maasi, Chinese, Japanese, Navaho, Ukrainian, etc). Even the most art-resistent students dove right in. Their portraits were beautiful and they were so proud of their work. Identity, communication, colour, cultural awareness... What a privilege it is to be part of the development of skills around such important themes. I love my Wednesday gig.

birth

For February 12th:

I saw another human being come into the world last night. I've seen it well over a hundred times and every time I am amazed. The scene of a birth is charged with strength and vulnerability. It is miraculous and ordinary. Mysterious. Powerful. Holy.

A tribute to Joanna, A welcome for Eleanor:

A woman in labour is a rock opera and a delicate tune hummed under your breath. She is warrior, samuri, superhero, and she is still, still, still. She is quietly dancing in the timeless rhythm of birth, dancing in the face of fear and pain. She dances with her arms wide, outstretched at her sides-- welcoming the force of the contraction, reaching for strength, cradling space in her arms, thinking only of holding her child. Soon.

The waves wash in, nearly overwhelming, and the waters break, and then two truly overwhelming surges bring the baby down and out. The baby arrives wide-eyed in wonder at the noise and lights of this bright world although the attic bedroom is, in fact, dim and dark and quiet. Soon she's tucked in next to her mother, close again to the heartbeat called home, nursing, and making content noises, chattering in her newborn way about how good it is to be here.

How good indeed.

Jake's Gift

Julia Mackey has written a most extraordinary play. It's theatre that takes you places-- to Juno Beach, specifically, at the time of the 60th anniversary of D-Day. It takes you to the remarkable meeting of two remarkable people-- one at the end of life and one at its beginning, one having suffered war and one having reaped the benefit of costly liberty. More importantly, however, it takes you to places in your heart that don't get much traffic-- the places where love and loss, regret and pride, and fear and hope live not just side by side but right on top of eachother, vividly and painfully melded. Julia puts the complex emotions that surround any contemplation of war on display in a play rich with both comedy and tragedy, a play tenderly written and beautifully performed. See it if you can. It is gift indeed.

For more about Jake's Gift, go to http://web.mac.com/juliamackey/iWeb/Jakesgift/home.html

horizontality

I didn't think "horizontality" was a real word when I decided on it for today's truth and beauty entry. It is though, and I love both the word and what it describes, "the quality of being parallel to the horizon." How lovely is that? To be parallel to something as grand as the horizon, the site of every sunrise and sunset, infinite and vast.

It turns out there's also a Principle of Horizontality, one of Steno's Laws, referring to geological science and the idea that all sedimentary layers are deposited purely horizontally. Of course, Steno was wrong and even sediment can get creative from time to time. Consider, for example, sand dunes where coarser grained sediments may be deposited at angles of up to 15 degrees. Geologists get to use terms like "angle of repose" when talking about sand dunes. Lucky them.

My prefered Principle of Horizontality is: When you're tired and your body hurts, go to bed. As a prelude to such sweet horizontality, I like to take a bath. Horizontality doesn't work so well there-- the tub isn't big enough and even if it were, I don't like getting water in my ears. In the tub, I think mimicking a sand dune is the better option, with a 15 degree angle of repose.

And now, in the immortal words of Gretl von Trapp, "The sun has gone to bed and so must I."

[The makers of Tylenol3™ are partly responsible for the random nature of this entry. I could have started with, "In praise of pain killers...." but the horizontality thing seemed more interesting.]

"Hi, honey. I'm home!"

I'm sure I'm not the only single person who calls out, "Hi, honey. I'm home!" to an empty apartment from time to time. I'm the most content single person I know, but there are still days when I wish there were someone home to greet me, someone waiting with dinner and a listening ear. Today, I came home to the smell of roast potatoes and lamb. My, "Hi, honey. I'm home!" was met with a laugh and, "I'm making my special lamb-feta meatballs." My friend J is here for a week-long visit and had prepared a beautiful meal for us. The comfort of lasting friendship shared over a meal lovingly prepared is a lovely thing indeed.

I'm aware that this is, I think, the third meal-related entry this week. I've been pretty stressed these days and the provision of home-cooked meals is greatly appreciated. Nothing says lovin' like home cooking! I'm thankful for the simple and essential pleasure of good food and for the kindness of friends who open their hearts and hearths to share with me.

blossoms

Last Sunday afternoon, I walked by a huge branch that had been torn off a budding fruit tree, lying on the grass between the sidewalk and the street. Whether the branch ended up there by the action of wind or vandals I couldn't say, but it struck me as an unnecessary violence against a lovely bit of creation. I was about ten steps beyond the branch when I suddenly remembered the Easter branch.

When I was a child, in the weeks before Easter, my mother would bring in a slim branch from the frozen woods beside our home. On the mornings that we had eggs for breakfast, or on baking days, mom would carefully blow out the eggs, preserving their shells intact. After school or whenever I had a moment to spare, I'd decorate these hollow eggs-- tenderly, carefully, with coloured markers, in patterns and designs only a child could come up with. The decorated eggs were threaded with string, the string looped, and the egg hung on the dry branch. By the time Easter rolled around, the branch had transformed from a dead-looking, dry bit of a twig to a budding wonder, to a showy symbol of the power of life, all leafed out in the freshest green imaginable. It felt like magic.

So, walking last Sunday, I decided to walk backwards to the fallen branch, and pluck a few twigs to bring inside. I didn't know how long the branch had lain there or what hope there was in waiting for the dry buds to swell and burst. Monday, nothing. Tuesday, nothing. Wednesday, nothing. This morning at breakfast, I noticed that there was a single blossom on one little twig. One blossom. It was lovely and I thought that might be all the vandalized twig could come up with. When I paused in my work for lunch, there were over thirty blossoms out. I stopped counting in the late afternoon. Lovely beyond words. And fast! And to think I could have sat before those twigs and watched each blossom unfold. Amazing.

beatersicles

Abundance: When you've just eaten an amazing roast beef dinner and you know that chocolate cream pie is coming and you're offered a beatersicle of whipped cream to lick in the meantime. The beatersicle: extravagant, unpretentious, playful, delicious; lickable abundance.

Abundance: When you've been looking forward to seeing a group of friends and all at once the moment you've been waiting for has arrived and there you are, with everyone seated around a candlelit table, wine glasses full, and the conversation is rich with passion and humour and dreams and connection, and every single one present is bright and creative and witty and generous and humble and lovely. Mmmm.

breaks

[I'm writing at 12:30 a.m. I didn't make the midnight deadline. I did finally finish my lesson plan & PowerPoint™ for class, though!]

In praise of breaks...

I took one hour out of my marathon fourteen-hour working day today to eat supper with a friend. The burger was good. The company was better. A meal with a kindred spirit is food indeed.

Tomorrow I get to dine with four friends I don't get to see much. They're lively, lovely, vibrant souls-- artists one and all. I've been looking forward to the get-together for weeks. Sweet anticipation! Never mind the to-do lists, tomorrow night I'm taking a break.

Now for the sweet oblivion of sleep...

the gift of time

Two notes today, one for time given and one for time shared.

With the hectic pace of my life these days, I was overwhelmed in the face of a mandatory trip to IKEA for supplies for a work project. When would I find the time?! My loving friend M assessed my needs and thoughtfully fetched exactly what I needed without my asking. Her unsolicited generosity amounts to a gift of at least three hours. That most of that time would be spent in suburban traffic makes the gift all the richer.

This evening I took my weary bones and hungry soul to the home of dear friends, the M family. All three children greeted me at the door with hugs and then the girls announced that they'd prepared a surprise for me. I was led upstairs, and directed to sit on the couch. "Come on in and make yourself comfortable here," said S, who is four. Out came the bucket with sudsy water and the lotion. These two little angels washed my feet, dried them gently & lovingly, and then massaged them with lotion. All the while, their little brother entertained us with antics involving chairs and cushions and climbing and lots of "Ah ha! Me!" It was delightful in every way and set the tone for the rest of our evening together. I'm so thankful for the family's welcome, for the simple and rich gifts of foot rubs and roast beef and apple pie, for the cascade of hugs, for hide-and-seek, for little ones climbing on my lap, for bedtime stories, teeth brushing (it's an honour for me to brush their teeth, really!) and good night kisses.

completion

You know the feeling. When you've busted your butt, burnt the midnight oil, burned the candle at both ends, run around like a chicken with its head cut off, and exhausted both yourself and a veritable host of clichés to finish a project. And then it's done. And it's done well. And people pat you on the back and tell you how great you are-- and you kind of believe them even though you felt like an imposter through most of the back-breaking process. And you get to go home and drink a celebratory beer and watch one episode of Sex and the City on your computer before running a bath and tucking yourself into bed. It's a good feeling. (I'm up to the beer and S&TC part. The dishes can wait.)

a million shades of grey

Today I took the time to do one of my favourite things: walking on the seawall in the pouring rain. It's delightful. Really! Gone are the imposters who pretend to love the seawall, those fair weather flocks full of false affection. On rainy days, the seawall belongs to the hardcore few. Oh sure, there may still be a few delicate types out there with umbrellas, locals who decided to stick to their walking plans in spite of the inclement weather and tourists with newly purchased umbrellas "making the best of it", but they're a bit fringe. Nods of recognition and smiles of understanding pass between those of us who know that on a rainy day the seawall belongs to us. (It's a bit like the wave & smile that drivers of VW camper vans exchange when driving in the mountains-- it's a brotherhood.) There's nothing quite like the feel of rain running down your face, streaming through your hair, soaking your socks. Or maybe the pleasure is in letting that all happen willingly, not even trying to resist the natural effects of blessed wetness. You've got to walk with verve-- you might cool down too much if you don't keep up a good pace-- but there's still time to savour the smell of wet cedar and the sea, and to linger a bit with the bobbing wood ducks, with whom I feel a certain kinship on days like this. English Bay shimmers with a million shades of grey and everything feels so still. It's quiet and lovely and and it feels perfectly right and good to be walking, thinking, and soaking in watery abundance.

I should add that it's not lost on me that the pleasure I take from walking in the rain is predicated on the fact that when I'm fully drenched, I get to go to my warm, dry home, peel off my wet layers, take a warm shower and carry on with clean, dry clothes. Again... such abundance.

clean laundry

Need I say more? When it's all folded and fresh and... ready. I think that's the part I like best, the sense of being ready. There's something reassuring about clean laundry. When I feel like I'm going in a dozen directions at once and I have no idea what tomorrow might bring, there's a small but definite peace in the knowledge that, at the very least, I'm heading out to meet the world in clean underwear. It's the little things that make a difference.

fog

When I drove home late this afternoon, I found my West End home shrouded in thick, thick fog. I couldn't see more than a block away from my apartment window. It started to settle just before sunset. I think of fog as weightless, but it was clearly dropping, collapsing in on itself, victim of gravity like anything else. It lingered long and lusciously over the waters of English Bay, softly reflecting the pinks and oranges of the sunset and then undergirding the bluest of blue twilight skies. When the waters of the Bay became visible again, they were still, still, still. It was as if the fog had hushed the waters and lulled them into a quiet slumber, without a single ripple. The lights of Kitsilano reflected in long lines of light all the way across to the beaches of the West End. I've never seen the lights reach that far, that true. And all of this I witnessed from the humble vantage of my little West End nest. Tonight I hope to dream of fog.