I Can Do Hard Things

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For most of my life, I have struggled with my weight. I am not one of those naturally thin, high-metabolism people. I’m built sturdier than that. Pregnancy changed my body both times, and after each baby I fought hard to find my way back to some version of “normal.” And now, after two strokes, menopause, COVID, and simply the wear and tear of aging, staying healthy can sometimes feel like a full-time commitment layered on top of all the other responsibilities of life.

But I haven’t given up.

These days, though, my motivation has changed. I no longer chase some impossible ideal of thinness or youth. I want health. I want strength. I want energy. I want good lab results. I want to walk well into old age. I want to do everything I reasonably can to reduce the chances of another stroke. So I keep trying — eating better more often, walking more, lifting weights when I can, learning to care for this body instead of constantly criticizing it. And I’ll be honest, very often I fail at this and sometimes I just don’t even care.  I’m just exhaustified. But I press on….

And maybe this is one of the gifts that comes with age: perspective.

At some point, you begin to realize that your worth was never tied to the size of your waist or the number on a scale. The culture may worship youth and thinness, but God does not measure human value that way. He looks much deeper than outward appearance. He looks at the heart, the spirit, the character being formed through an entire lifetime of joys and sorrows and endurance.

Do I wish I had always taken better care of the healthy body I was originally given? Of course. But shame is a poor motivator for lasting change. I’m tired of fighting my body as though it were the enemy. This body has carried me through pregnancies and illnesses, grief and celebrations, long workdays and sleepless nights, surgeries and recoveries, mountains and oceans, kitchens and gardens, worship and ordinary Tuesdays. It has survived things I once thought might break me.

And despite its imperfections, it still serves me faithfully every day.

This body lets me walk beneath Alberta skies and see the mountains. It lets me hear the birds sing , music, and the laughter of people I love. It lets me taste warm bread fresh from the oven and smell lilacs in the spring. It allows me to hug my children, care for my mother, quilt at the table, bake in my kitchen, play the piano, dig in the dirt, sing in church, write my thoughts, and pray my prayers.

That is no small thing.

So yes, I still want to become healthier. I want to treat this body as a good steward should — not out of vanity, but out of gratitude. I want to nourish it, strengthen it, and respect it as the temple of the Holy Spirit it was meant to be.

But I no longer want to spend my life obsessing over whether I take up too much space in a photograph or whether someone else’s waist is smaller than my thigh.

In the end, those things simply are not important.

Health matters. Strength matters. Stewardship matters.  And I can do hard things.

 

Finally….spring is in the air

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It feels almost miraculous that spring — or really, summer — has finally arrived. Last weekend it was still snowing, and now suddenly it’s May 24th weekend, the time I usually plant flowers and sow seeds and begin believing again that warm weather might actually stay.

I don’t usually drive in the dark anymore, but the evenings are finally stretching long enough that I can take my mom home after Sunday dinner myself instead of bribing someone else to do it for me.

And driving home tonight, beneath the breathtaking sunset of an early summer evening, I felt nostalgic and deeply grateful.

Grateful that another summer has come around and that I get to be here for it.

Grateful that going outside no longer requires ten layers of clothing. Grateful for dry roads and soft evenings and open windows instead of icy streets and survival mode. Grateful too that summer still lies ahead of me — not already slipping away. There are still five weeks left of school, and because I work in a school café, this particular season always feels sweet. Everything is winding down. There are  teas and barbecues and farewell dinners and little celebrations before everyone disappears into the slower rhythm of summer.

I have lofty plans for these coming months, as I always do.This summer will mostly belong to wedding preparations. My daughter is getting married in September, and suddenly it all feels wonderfully, terrifyingly real. There are things to sew and baking to do and meals to plan. Decorations to gather. A mood to imagine. . And now the RSVPs are beginning to arrive — people coming from overseas and across the border — which means we truly do have to create something lovely for them to arrive to. It’s no longer just an idea floating somewhere in the future. It’s happening.

As I drove along the freeway in the soft twilight, the scent of Mayday trees and spring blossoms drifted through the open windows. And for some reason, the whole evening felt like a scene from Father of the Bride — one of those movies our family has watched over and over through the years because it never fails to put us in a good mood. That warm mixture of chaos and sentimentality and family life unfolding in ordinary moments. That’s exactly what tonight felt like.

When I pulled into the driveway after dropping Mom off, my husband and daughter were in the garage sorting and organizing flowers for her flower business. The dog was racing around the yard in the warm evening air, simply delighted to be included in whatever was happening.

And standing there in the fading light, with summer just beginning and all of us together in the middle of our ordinary, messy, beautiful life, I felt incredibly blessed.

Let it Go, Let it Go

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Well, today turned into one of those “face the chaos” family days. All five of us were out in the garage sorting through years of accumulated life. I laid down one rule right from the start: if you’re not out here making decisions about your stuff, don’t be surprised if you never see it again. Miraculously, everybody showed up.

And honestly? The amount of stuff we own is almost embarrassing.

To be fair, not all of it is junk. A lot of it is perfectly good things we simply haven’t used in years. Which then raises the question… why exactly are we keeping it?

We’ve already hauled one full truckload to a mission thrift store, and we’ll probably have another by the time we’re done. There’s a mountain of cardboard recycling, overflowing garbage bins, and still endless Rubbermaids waiting to be opened, sorted, debated over, and reluctantly surrendered.

But it does feel good.

Part of what we’re doing is less “cleaning” and more archaeological excavation of five adult lives under one roof. We’re creating zones now: all of Lexie and RED’s stuff together so they know where it is when it’s time to move, Andrew’s things together, Lexie’s business inventory together. My immediate mission was simply to fit Lexie’s six bins of Christmas business décor into the garage so she wouldn’t have to store them at a friend’s house.  And we will accomplish that

Because I have a personal philosophy about storage lockers: if we can’t store what we own on our own property, we probably own too much stuff.

I know there are legitimate reasons for storage units. If you’re moving overseas temporarily, renovating, downsizing, running a business, sure — that makes sense. But I suspect a shocking number of people are paying monthly fees to store things they don’t even remember they own anymore. Entire buildings full of forgotten treadmills, broken lamps, university dishes, mystery cords, and emotional attachments disguised as belongings.

What does that say about us?

Somewhere along the line, “having enough” quietly became “having more than we can manage.”

Mike turns 70 this year, and I’m right behind him. We can’t take any of this with us, and neither of us wants to leave our kids with a giant mountain of sorting and guilt one day. At some point you start realizing that simplifying isn’t deprivation — it’s relief.

Now, in my own defense, I am a creative person. Creative people do come with supplies. Fabric, paint, baskets, jars, ribbons, unfinished ideas, and oddly specific tools for projects we fully intend to do someday. And I do believe there’s a difference between decluttering and throwing away something you’ll just have to repurchase later.

But still.

Why do we own fifteen knapsacks and fifteen duffle bags?

Why is there luggage with broken wheels that nobody would willingly take through an airport?

Why does Mike need approximately half a million used golf balls?

Why do we own three artificial Christmas trees when we buy a real tree every single year?

Why do we still have two entire bins of Andrew’s university kitchenware untouched since 2012 — especially considering most of it originally came from Value Village in the first place?

And perhaps the biggest question of all:

Why am I emotionally attached to rollerblades I haven’t used in years, especially after two strokes and with balance that now occasionally argues with gravity?

This is the strange thing about possessions. They’re rarely just objects. They’re evidence of who we were, what we hoped for, what stage of life we were in, or who we thought we might become someday.

But eventually there comes a point where the stuff starts owning you more than you own it.

And maybe part of getting older is learning how to loosen your grip a little.

 

August to Autumn

August to Autumn

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Summer has slipped quietly into memory. The air still hums with warmth, but the season of freedom—the weeks of long mornings, of wandering and lollygagging—has drawn to a close. I knew it would. It always does. That’s the way of things.
This summer did not fly by in a blur; it stretched, slow and generous, like a deep breath I didn’t know I needed. I woke to mornings without obligations, with no destination waiting. I lingered in the garden—small but abundant—watering when I wished, clipping blooms, photographing their brief perfection as reminders of what thrived and what faltered.
From the comfort of my deck, I listened to the familiar symphony of summer: the laughter of children splashing in plastic pools, the whir of lawn mowers, motorcycles humming faintly on distant roads, aspens whispering secrets to the breeze. This year the storms spared my little patch of green, and with the rains it grew lush, like a pocket of jungle in the city.
I walked miles, not every day, but enough to feel my body lengthen into the years ahead. I began books and paintings, though few found their endings. I prayed often, as my grown children scattered into adventures—motorbikes on open roads, camping trips under wet skies, transatlantic flights for work. They lived widely; I lived quietly, and still, through them, I lived.
It feels almost like I am writing one of those old school essays: What I Did on My Summer Vacation. Perhaps teachers still assign them. My list is modest, and maybe that is why summer stretched so long. There was space. And space is its own kind of abundance.
Tomorrow, I return. To work. To closed-in shoes and cafeteria routines. To beef burgers, pizza, chicken fingers. To the steady rhythm of service.
And yet, as autumn opens before me, I feel anticipation more than loss. This has always been my favourite season. The nostalgia of new notebooks and sharpened pencils. The comfort of sweaters—my truest companions. The farmer’s markets brimming with promise, baskets filled for canning and pies. A season that insists on gratitude, on gathering, on giving thanks. Though gratitude should not be seasonal, autumn reminds me to practice it more deeply.
I think of the girl I once was, walking home from school, scattering leaves with each step, delighting in the sound of their crisp surrender underfoot. That memory lives in me still, bright as the turning trees.
And so I move forward, season into season. Not with sadness, but with thankfulness for the gifts of what has been, and with a heart open to what is yet to come.

The Blessing of Doing…well…Nothing

The Blessing of Doing…well…Nothing

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The last day of July.  I don’t want it to end.  I mean….I LOVE August…but I don’t want August to end so I don’t want it to begin.  I want to stay right here in July relishing the anticipation of August.  June 30. The summer was so full of promise and expectation.  The excitement of slower days and slower living. the opportunity to lollygag my way through a couple of months. And lollygag, I’ve done.  Well except for the two bakery days I held in my front yard. July 1 and July 31.   When I hatched this idea in the spring I thought I would do it every week.  HA.  Jokes on me.  It’s a lot more work than I thought.  Maybe I’m doing it the wrong way?  or maybe I just realized I didn’t want to spend my entire summer vacation working.  Once again I am blessed to be working at a school and have the summer off.  Of course all my friends joke (even my colleagues) about my pretend job.  13 hours a week. But hey,  it really takes up 3 days of my week.  So I have a super long weekend every week but the days I do work I consider work days and usually don’t get much else done on those days due to exhaustion.   And I certainly don’t want to spend the summer working more than I do during the year.   All that to say…..I’m as light headed as a school kid when summer vacation rolls around.
I was anticipating a stay-cation but serendipity had me on a plane East to visit, bond and discuss health issues with my siblings and that was good use of 11 days of July.  My garden has turned into a tropical rain forest aka jungle and I love it.  With the added initiative of adult children living at home it was set in motion and now I nurture it.  Adult kids don’t have time to water plants.  But I do.  I can’t wait to get up in the morning and take a little meander in my secret garden. See what has sprouted overnight.  Deadhead things to keep them fresh looking.  ooh and awe over the variety and the colors.  I can see clearly in my mind the stark emptiness of winter in the backyard and am totally astounded at the evolution to green that takes place. A tropical paradise.  So some afternoons I just sit out there with a cool beverage and slide off my sandals so my toes can commune with the grass (I think it’s called grounding these days). The sound of the aspen leaves swaying in the breeze is a pleasant lullaby to fall asleep to.  It’s all fun and games until a wasp starts hovering. Back in the house for me. I have plenty to do inside  Paint.  Read.  Write. Stitch. Knit. Bake. Cook. or lazy in my favorite comfy chair and play with my phone (which happens more often than not).  I’m not apologizing.  I’m on summer vacation.
July has not disappointed.  And now comes ‘even slower living’ August.  I have plans.  Plans to do as much of nothing as I can.  Since I am considered a senior now….I can slow down and get away with it.  No one expects too much of me (except myself).  If I could just get her off my back, I’d be free as a bird.  Sometimes I feel guilty lounging in bed while my husband is getting ready for work …but not too often.  Why spoil a good summer feeling guilty?  I still keep the house clean (sort of) and do the laundry and buy the food and sometimes I even cook it. Water the plants.  Walk the dog. And find things for people.  I have four other adults living here and no one can find anything. Am I right?
Often I look around and wonder….what am I doing with all this stuff but now is not the time to figure out what I am going to do about it. No siree. I am not planning on spending August purging and organizing.  There will be plenty of time in the fall for that.  And maybe I’ll still think of a way to get out of it.  The great thing about procrastination is that you never have anything to do today and you always have something to do tomorrow.  So I’m going now to spend my last evening of July lapping up the spirit of relaxation and vacation so that I am fully prepared for doing nothing in August.

The Beginning and The End and all the in Between

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This week, I found myself attending both a baby shower and a funeral—two events that could not be more different, yet each deeply sacred in its own right. One welcomed a brand-new life, full of promise and possibility. The other honored a life unexpectedly cut short, but beautifully and fully lived. The circle of life, laid out plainly before me.

At the shower, the mother-to-be was wrapped in joy and generosity, love given in bundles, hopes whispered in every gift and every embrace. At the funeral, the room overflowed with people who had been touched by the woman we lost—testimonies of her strength, her laughter, her steady care. Both gatherings were celebrations. One of beginnings. One of endings. Both, unmistakably, about love.

I almost didn’t attend either event. Life’s demands made it difficult. But I’m so glad I went. It is always worth showing up for the moments that mark our lives and the lives of those we love. To bear witness. To offer presence. To be part of the blessing. What a gift it was to hold both joy and sorrow in the same breath. To feel the weight of our shared humanity. To hug people—not in passing, but with intention. To say, “You matter.”

Both rooms were full. Full of people who showed up. A reminder that we are not meant to do life alone. We need each other in the celebration and in the grief. In the beginning and at the end.

At the baby shower, I was taken back to the days I carried my own children—those long months of wonder and worry. What would they be like? How could I keep them safe? How would I prepare them for this wild and beautiful life? Children are a gift from God, His reward, and what a magnificent reward they are. Raising my two was the greatest joy I’ve known. It still is, even though the raising is done. The parenting never really ends.

At the funeral, I listened to the daughters of my husband’s beloved relative speak with such love, respect, and admiration. Their mother had clearly loved them well. She lived with faith, compassion, and courage. Her life was not perfect, but it was impactful. Her legacy was evident in their tears, in their words, in their strength.

And as I sat there, in both places, I couldn’t help but ask myself: Am I living the life I want to be remembered for? Will those I love feel the impact of my love when I’m no longer here to give it? Will they have words of gratitude or simply silence? What kind of legacy am I leaving in the in-between?

Because that’s what it all comes down to—the in-between. The space between our first breath and our last. That’s where the meaning is. That’s where we love and forgive and try and fail and get back up again. That’s where we build a life that speaks for itself long after we’re gone.

And we don’t get to know how much time we have. So we must choose now. Choose to live with intention. Choose to love well. Choose to show up—for the joy and the sorrow. For the baby showers and the funerals. For each other.

Because in the end, that’s what matters most. That we loved. That we were loved. And that we didn’t walk through it all alone.

At the Stroke of Midday

At the Stroke of Midday

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It’s been a week. I’m not talking about time frame.  I mean….Its…been…a week!!!
We brought mother home from the hospital today almost to the hour of the ambulance picking her up and pulling away 7 days ago.  One just never knows what life is going to throw at you:  my sister, Natalie ,here for a visit from Toronto. Me trying to have a rejuvenating spring break before going back to school for the final stretch before summer. And mom just minding her own 93 year old business and visit with her second favorite daughter.  All of a sudden she’s slurring her speech and talking like a drunken sailor.. Actually aside from the seriousness of a stroke,  listening to her talk was quite comical. Mostly because there is no way on earth my mother would ever drink too much let alone drink hard liquor.
Anyways, we called an ambulance  and that’s how mom ended up at the Foothills hospital for a week. She wasn’t in the stroke ward but Foothills IS the stroke hospital. I joined Natalie in emergency Monday night since she rode in the ambulance with mom and I had to find my own way there. Later that evening they moved mom up to a bed in a ward after her CT scan. Mom had just turned 93 the day before. Happy birthday.! Finally they came and got  her for an MRI so we kissed her goodnight with the promise of being back in the morning
.
True to our promise we arrived every morning at around 10 with books, magazine’s, flowers, snacks (for us)…. phone chargers.  We took a lot of FaceTime calls over the week much to the chagrin of her roommates. Sorry.
We brought tea every day and baking that I kept pulling out of my freezer.  Banana bread, date squares, birthday cake…we had a tea party complete with lace tablecloth, real tea cups, homemade macarons, Madeline’s, and salmon sandwiches, crackers, pickles and cheese on Natalie’s birthday which happened mid week. I made fresh scones for our final tea party. I mean we had to have something to do. To keep mom’s spirits up. Every day she asked if she was going home today….and we shook our weary heads side to side like broken bobble heads.  .Why am I in here, she kept asking. What happened to me?  Am I going to be stupid now?  Will I recover?  We had no answers so we just poured  her another cup of tea. Read to her. Instigated FaceTime calls.
Let me say at this point how eternally grateful I was that my sister was here. My sister… so gracious. So compassionate. So calm.  So thoughtful. So ‘in charge’. She was a pillar for both mom and I…. As I kept having flashbacks of my own experiences in the stroke ward.  And she added two weeks to her departure date to be with mom at home.
I, regrettably, do not have those characteristics.  I’m working on them.  Philippians 3:12. While Natalie was adjusting mom’s blankets and putting more sweaters on her shivering body, escorting her to the loo, and combing her hair and extracting her food from the sealed containers…. I was drawing pictures on the hospital’s whiteboard,  pouring us tea and reading magazines. Monday night we all find ourselves exhaustified and relieved to be out of the hospital.
I actually felt bad leaving Shirley behind. Shirley was one of mom’s roommates that had been there all week and is still there.  She was in the bed across from mom’s feet. She watched us with fascination and astonishment that we were there everyday  with a party.  She talked to us and lent us her extra chair,  queried about how Natalie’s hair was a different color and length each day.  She was usually in a lot of pain. Lying in her bed with pain killers. Natalie and I took Saturday off from coming to the hospital because, frankly, we were too tired to drive again. We arranged for one of moms friends to come instead. And Shirley told mom she missed us!  She only had  two visitors Friday afternoon the rest of the time she was alone.
Mom’s first kitty corner roommate was a very old Asian man that tried to escape more than once.  He put all his clothes on and headed down the hall dragging his colostomy back behind him on the floor.  When they brought him back to his room… he started yelling. Is this a prison?  I thought it was a hospital. The nurse tried to explain to him it was for his own safety and then he yelled… you mean I’m not safe here.  Hard not to Laugh out loud.
The doctor told us to go home and get mom’s apartment ready for her return home.  So naturally…. We redecorated. I’m not sure that’s what the doctor had in mind but what’s done is done. We DID buy a bathtub assist chair, a bar to pull herself out of bed and a cane.  And now she’s home with very few deficiencies.  But a high risk factor. That’s why we have siblings lined up to fly in to be with her for the next 6 weeks.  While we figure out how mom needs to proceed in the future.  Of course mom thinks we are overreacting but we have decided to proceed with an abundance of caution.  Did I mention she’s 93 and has outlived most of our relatives?  She’s very feisty (a substitute word for stubborn.. lol). If she doesn’t want to be sick… she’s not gonna be.
We’ll not soon forget this weird, scary, memorable week.
Don’t Shrink Back!

Don’t Shrink Back!

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I told a few people, just this week, that I think that life is just getting too much for me. I was actually unloading finally and admitting defeat.  I’ve been  keeping a low profile and staying away from stress because I just can’t deal with it these days.  So many things just seem too overwhelming.  I am sure I have PTSD over a few happenings.  And just felt like, at 67…I’m done.  I guess that’s it for me. I am still going to my 13 hour a week job but that seems to be my outer limit.  Nothing else.  I mean what happened to 65 being the new 50?
Driving takes it all out of me.  I can drive.  I know how to drive.  I know my way around the city and I’ve never shied away from freeways or long distances but lately….it all seems too much,.  Especially with the winter weather.  I am terrified of snow and ice on the roads.  I’ve made detours through residential areas where I can drive 30 klicks because I am in school and playground zones….just to get to work.  And that’s in daylight.  Forget about under the cover of darkness.  I get disoriented. And then there[‘s the boogie man….
I’ve said no to all extracurricular side hustles involving baking and sewing and anything.  I don’t want the responsibility.  I don’t want people counting on me for anything in case I have to let them down.  I want to be able to come home from work and do nothing if I want and not feel guilty because I should be baking so and so’s cake or fixing so and so’s dress or recovering someone’s couch etc. I just can’t deal.
Even walking around the neighborhood this summer freaked me out sometimes.  I got my steps in close to home.  If it was too windy I started feeling dizzy and unbalanced.  If it was too bright it seemed to affect my vision.  I didn’t even want to be responsible for the dog but I couldn’t get anyone to understand that so I took the pooch with me but I always had my phone handy.
I feel safest when I am lying in my bed at night. Barring a sink hole underneath the house….. I am usually trying to make up a reason to go to bed at 6:30pm because I am done with the day.  But of course, I can’t or I’d be up at 3 a.m. ready to start the next day. When I’m all warm and snug in my bed at night I breathe a sigh of relief and thanksgiving that I made it through the day without incident and then pray I wake up in the morning.
Pathetic.  I know.  The point of this dismal disclosure is this.  I was doing my One minute pause  this morning (John Eldredge app) and I actually do the 17 minute pause because there’s no talking in the background.  It’s a meditation practice to make it easier to spend time in His presence.  I have found it to be very comforting and helpful.  I desperately need to spend time in His presence  just giving everything and everyone to Him.  This morning I decided to not say anything and not pray anything…there seems to always be something going on in my head but I tried to just not think about anything and instead I asked God to speak to me.  I just said…I am just going to sit here and listen and I hope you will speak to me about something.  A few seconds later I started remembering the  ‘crisis’ in my life that I have made it through…victoriously.  Experiences that I thought would literally do me in…but here I still am.  Then I started to remember crazy, fun  occasions that I had planned for my family members and friends.  I remembered the showers I hosted.  I remembered family reunions I had planned.  I remembered trips I had made happen. I remembered Christmases I had organized.  I remembered my successful baking business I ran  for 7 years.  I remembered the dessert buffets I had set up for fundraisers and friends.  I remembered the 35 dozen butter tarts and 70 pies I had been commissioned to make for someone’s celebration of life. I remembered some of the vacations I had been on in tropical settings. The Bible studies and prayer groups I had set in motion during my post Bible college years. The craft sales I hosted in my home.  The clothes I had sewn for people  The cards I had made and posted to encourage friends and family. The many crazy ideas I’ve had that my friends said…you’re insane that will never work but ….usually did. Then I was reminded how bold I have been in fashion and decor.  Breaking all the rules and just doing my own thing.  Having fun.  Not that that helped anyone but it was just a statement that I used to be bold and crazy and up for almost anything. I used to invite people over for teas and dinner and parties….and go all out to make people feel blessed because I loved doing it.  It was a lot of work but I thrived on it.  These are the things that fed my soul.  The jobs I’ve held and faked my way through.  Being an office manager and executive assistant with no formal training.
I mean I have always been a more cautious person in many ways.  not wanting to break rules.  Being compliant to authority.  Being responsible.  I’ve always considered the consequences of my own actions. And I have always had an element of fear sitting on the back burner.  Usually just enough to keep me out of trouble.  But lately it seems to have turned into a fire breathing dragon.  And has paralyzed me.
Then I heard the words, this morning….clear as day…after I asked God to say something to me and He reminded me of all the above…..  DON’T SHRINK BACK.  Don’t Shrink Back Now.  Then the verse from Isaiah 43  “Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine.  When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you;  when you walk through the fire you shall not be burned, and the flame shall not consume you….Then Isaiah 40:31 “They that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength.  They shall rise up on wings as eagles.  They shall run and not get weary, they shall walk and not faint….
Don’t Shrink Back Now.
Our pastor used to always say at the end of his sermons.  What is God saying to you?  and What are you going to do about it?  Two very important questions.
I know what God is saying to me….now I just have to figure out what I am going to do about it.  Joshua 1:9  Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid, and do not be dismayed, for the Lord your God is with you wherever you go”. 

Beware the Oodie

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Beware the Oodie.  No it’s not a sea monster. Not the  Sasquatch. Not a zombie.  Not a ghost. The Oodie is basically a blanket you wear.  It has sleeves and a hood and a kangaroo pocket.  Made of fleece. Lined with fleece. Comes in very many cute motives.  Coffee,. Avocados. Sweettarts.  Pizza. Space.  Harry Potter etc.  But….I think it is made for people that have absolutely no life. Because that’s what happens when you put it on.  You become the laziest person on the planet.  It’s too bulky to do anything in.  You can’t cook in it.  You can’t vacuum in it.  You can’t iron clothes in it. You can’t sew in it.  You’d never paint in it.  You definitely cannot garden in it.  It’s the quintessential outfit for being sick.  You put it on and then find a comfortable chair to flake out in and that is where you’ll stay.  You won’t even want to move.  I sat there in my oodie thirsty for hours because I couldn’t bear to move.  I pulled that fleecy hood up around my phlegm-filled head and stuffed the kangaroo pockets with tissues and lay there in a coma for days.  LOL.  I did have to take it off to go to bed because it’s too warm and bulky to sleep in comfortably…laying down.  Easy to sleep while sitting in a chair.  It is very dangerous to put it on when you come home from work.  It feels SO good but forget about accomplishing anything that evening.  Maybe you need to do some of your todo list first and then put on the oodie. It’s like a superhero outfit.  Well actually it’s the opposite of a superhero outfit.  First off there is no room in a phone booth to change into it.  But in reality you turn into someone with very lame powers or virtually no power at all.  Once on,  the fleece consumes you and you give into it. You’re helpless against its lazy power. Its comfy power.  Its procrastination power.  Once again you are inside the womb.  It does give a sense of false security.  It feels safe.  But is it really?  All that fleece is probably highly inflammable. But, I digress….Don’t get me wrong.  I love this thing.  This hoodie. This sack of warmth and joy and comfort. It’s just very dangerous for anyone with any ambitions at all. I’m not putting it on tonight because I have things to do.  But maybe this weekend when the temperature plummets and the fireplace is lit and there’s a good stack of books and magazines within arms reach. And the remote control…  And maybe a drink and a snack….
—

JANUARY

JANUARY

geriraedean

For so many of us living in the Northern hemisphere – the far northern hemisphere –  January is a month that most wish didn’t exist.  That it wasn’t even on the calendar.  Some folks flee the country for warmer places to live out the winter.  Those cold dark months of overdressing and treacherous driving and snow shovelling behind them.  Yes, the days are short which actually creates a mindset of not getting much done because we don’t have much daylight but….there are still 24 hours in the day.  Don’t be fooled by illusions.  Some just want to hibernate…let’s just endure until it’s over. But we are wasting valuable time people.  Life is short, let’s not just wish certain months away.   What if we had a paradigm shift and started seeing and using January as a month of opportunity.  There are so many months that are too busy to do the things we dream of and love.  We are just go go going and we feel jipped that we don’t get to do things we want to do.  Let’s use January for that.  I mean, if your dream is to visit  the Caribbean then I guess January is your month.  But for those of us that don’t have that option…better to change our mindset than whine and complain.   It is what it is.  January can be a month for enjoying slow living.  Catching up on our reading.  Engaging in our indoor hobbies.  For someone like me…I can knit and paint and write and sew.  I can cook my way through a new cookbook and discover some cozy new recipes.  I can send out New Years cards (that were originally supposed to be Christmas cards).  Actually it would be great if Christmas was at the end of January.  We’d have all that extra time to get ready and to enjoy the season.  And the bleak midwinter would pass by quicker.  Who says we can’t just enjoy the season anyway?  I’m taking my real Christmas tree down to avoid a  fire hazard but I am just going to enjoy the seasonal decor a while longer.  The garlands and the mini lights.  The reds and the greens.  The hygge.  There are no Christmas police.  But if you really want to get it down,  then this is a great month for cleaning, purging and organizing.  A great month for construction or renovating.   A great month to rearrange the furniture or redecorate with what you already have.  Get creative. If you’re an outdoor enthusiast then go skating and skiing and cross country skiing and come home to enjoy a nice warm stew, a hot bath, a nap by the fire. January, as we all know, is a great month for reflection and implementing change. To spend time deep thinking and planning and goal setting. It’s not a month to endure.  It’s valuable time and lets make the most of it.  And while you’re at it….do the same in February.  Before you know it will be spring and time to start thinking about the garden and the cottage and longer days and warmer weather. I actually love that I live in a place that has seasons but that’s a blog for another day.