The Pits and Pieces

“ A human being would certainly not grow to be 70 or 80 years old if this longevity had no meaning for the species to which he belongs. The afternoon of human life must also have a significance of its own and cannot be merely a pitiful appendage to life’s morning.”  ~Carl Jung Yesterday afternoon I went for a long winter walk with four other women. We cannot pretend we’re in middle-age because the likelihood of any of us living past 116 or so is nil. We were all sensibly dressed for the cold and snow with layers, toques, mitts, and cleats on boots. The conversation turned from aging parents with advancing dementia to aging itself. One woman lamented the thickening of the waist and how difficult it is now to lose a couple of inches. As I drove home I pondered this conversation, but also how hard it is for women, at any age, to look at themselves as beautiful. I don't generally post pics of others, but they would now all be women around my age and I don't think they'd mind an...

Yesterday was a double-header writing group day: one at lunchtime (three of us -  in person !!  - over coffee, wine and croissants) and then my second group (two other women and me) over zoom in the evening. Before we got down to the nitty-gritty of discussing writing pieces, the lunchtime talk turned to…of course…words.  And the words being discussed were ‘nice’ and ‘ladies’.  None of us wanted to be called ‘nice’. And there were also objections to being called ‘ladies’.  ‘Nice’ was deemed too much of a, well, nice word. “It’s weak.” “It’s not interesting enough.” “What does it mean when you say someone is a ‘nice’ person?” Does that mean he/she/they is a public kind of nice, doing things that are expected of them? But maybe all the while, wearing a social mask and seething inside at having to do or say the right thing? Are they tucking away their own feelings and disappointments? Are they being nice because they want you to think well of them? Are they just be...

  While reaching for the almond milk in my fridge today, my mind skipped back a few decades to my childhood growing up in Bahrain. A lot of our food came in cans: evaporated milk, Kraft cheddar cheese (in round blue cans), corned beef, sardines.  My mother said that around the age of two, I refused to drink any more milk. Stubborn and obstinate even at that young age. Nothing she could say or do would entice me to drink any more of that vile stuff (I mean really? Evaporated milk in tiny cans? What the heck was that?) I thought I would look up what evaporated milk is, because I don’t really know. So, in case you also don’t know: it is milk that is heated to reduce 60% of the water. Condensed milk also has its water reduced but is sweetened with thick syrupy stuff. My mother used condensed milk in some of her sweet-making. My siblings would eat spoonfuls of it straight from the can. There’s no accounting for taste. To this day I cannot abide the taste of milk. I do however love ...

  A first post in a new year calls for deep thoughts and reflections. Alas, I feel I have very little to offer. There’s enough that’s been written about you-know-what and I have nothing to add. I read recently on a blog, and I can’t remember which one because I read so many good blogs that a medley of them seep into my mind, that we should remember we have an appointment with life. (I’m sorry I can’t provide the link here but some of the blogs I follow are on the left). I’m so glad that there are all these women out there (and maybe some men too?) who take the time to ponder deeply and share their thoughts, emotions and ideas with us. Like some of you, I have grown a tad weary of the quick hits, scrolling and superficiality of social media. It’s much too easy to be sucked into the algorithm. I prefer the wordier, slower, more thoughtful form of communication that goes beneath the surface. I haven’t given up entirely on social media because of course there are gems out there. I’...