Five Years a Writer

I have pledged to write a new post for this blog every day in May.  Life is good. I enjoy the sunrise every morning. My little family wakes up, we make our individual ways through the day, then gather together to share a meal, do a few chores and enjoy each other’s loving companionship.  Good and easy Life is good, but it’s not the life I had pictured. It’s quieter. The horizon is a bit closer than I had thought it might be as I head towards 60. And the potential for adventure is smaller than it was 25 years ago.  Life is good, and I am grateful for the love and security I have. But it is a different life than I had envisioned it being at this stage.  My partner’s original breast cancer diagnosis more than 20 years ago put us on the road to ‘different’, but it was the recurrence in 2013 that moved us into the fast lane. We are, without question, grateful that surgery, chemo, radiation and follow-up drugs treated the cancer. Being alive is good. But we are alive wit

I have pledged to write a new post for this blog every day in May. Oh god. I had to put on clothes this morning before leaving the house.   And, of course, I did.   And I do, every day. Every. Single. Day. And that is the challenge: Every single day, I have to think   about what I’m going to wear, find something to wear, put it on, wear it. And the next day, it’s the same thing all over again. Sigh.   When I was a little girl, I remember myself as being fond of fashion and kicking up quite a fuss about clothes. My aunt Vivian indulged me at around age 12 or so with a shopping trip especially to buy new clothes — just for me. I must have been lamenting my fate as the younger sister in the family, suffering from terminal hand-me-down-itis. That shopping trip and its treasures are seared into my memory: the red pants, patterned blouse and, above all, the wrap-around skirt and matching quilted vest that I loved.  Amanda, aged about nine or so But any love of clothes shopping

I have pledged to write a new post for this blog every day in May. About five years ago, daily life in my world was a bit challenging. My partner, Val, was coming off chemo for a cancer recurrence, the follow-up drugs were hard on her, the daily requirements of work and chores, and just simply getting through the day were taxing my capacity to live the thread of my own life within the tapestry of our partnership. Many years before, in another life with a different partner, I had managed the demise of the relationship by walking several miles to and from work each weekday. Long before the days of iPods and iPhones, I had nothing to plug into other than my own thoughts. Those twice-daily walks gave me regular time to myself during which I got exercise (important) and time to think (vital). So during that spring about five years ago, I reminded myself of that strategy from way back and I committed to putting daily walking back into my life. It would give me time to myself, to t

I have pledged to write a new post for this blog every day in May.  Regular readers know that I like fitting ideas to words and then the words into a particular form. I have already posted haiku and prose poems during Post a Day in May; today, I'm throwing caution to the wind and sharing a few limericks I've written (some with Val's help).   My friend Nancy suggested I try my hand at this form, which is, I'm here to tell you, not as easy as you might think. The strict rhyming convention (AABBA) is not straightforward to achieve. Nonetheless, it was great fun to stretch my brain to this style of verse.  Read my efforts aloud and maybe cut me some slack when it comes to the rhythm; if you play with it enough, I think it works in every one. But you tell me: *** There was a young woman who worked as the matron She washed dishes wearing an apron. Headmaster aghast, Looked beyond and looked past That she had nothing at all (at all!) more on.  ***

I have pledged to write a new post for this blog every day in May. Several years ago, I was trying to decide if I should fly to Victoria, BC from Winnipeg to attend the 5-year reunion of my master’s cohort from Royal Roads University. It seemed a long way to fly for a mere couple of days and evenings of revelry. I was torn, until I spoke to my good friend Miriam.  She said, “It doesn’t have to be epic for you to make the effort. It’s just important that you take the trip.” And that decided it for me. Miriam was right: I would never again have another 5-year reunion, so this was a trip I should take. I booked the flight and hotel room, and I had a wonderful time reuniting with my classmates on beautiful Vancouver Island for a short weekend.  I now apply that same philosophy to other ventures in my life: from the daily commute to work (a few blocks of walking is  better  than no blocks) to the more exceptional drive to the cottage (one night up there on the lakeshore is bett

I have pledged to write a new post for this blog every day in May The Victoria Day long weekend is how we mark the beginning of the summer season in Canada. Regardless of the weather, it is, traditionally, this weekend that marks our return to time in the great out of doors — camping, the cottage, canoe trips, whatever it is that gets us outside.   For us, this year, we are lucky enough to be back at the cottage on Lake Winnipeg, but we have a project that will bring us indoors for at least some days at this early stage of the summer: the guest room is getting a make-over. When complete, it will still be small, but the walls should be painted, the window properly framed, the floor newly carpeted. Now that we are in the midst of the details of the project, I’m not sure why I was so keen to start it, but there is no turning back now.  In a fit of grand ideas, at Easter I got up on the Sunday and, without much ceremony, ripped out the ancient carpet. The furniture was easy to move,

I have pledged to write a new post for this blog every day in May.  I grew up with cats. Well, actually, with one cat: Tigger, a grey tabby. He moved back and forth across the Atlantic with us, as Dad’s career took us between Canada, Germany and England. My own adult love for cats started with Bountiful, an orange tabby whom I adopted while living in Halifax.  For the record, I’ve tried living with a dog, but I failed miserably at the training stage, and the relationship never developed satisfactorily, for either of us. I’ve stuck with cats ever since.  Bountiful , or Bounty for short, was my first. He lived to 18 years and 4 months, and I thought I would never love another cat as I loved him. He was so small when I got him that he could fit in the palm of my hand. He grew into a handsome fellow who was loving with adults and patient with kids; even people who didn't like cats would realize that they liked Bounty. Cats: They can be persuasive.  Bountiful the Beautiful