The Pits and Pieces

Thirty years ago I was awaiting a baby being born. I’d baked some peanut butter cookies that evening (the nesting urge kicking in). Later, I called my OB-GYN about spotting. “How much?” she asked. “About a tablespoon,” I said, perhaps my mind still attuned to baking measurements. “That’s a good description,” she said. “Nothing to panic about, but I think you should go to the hospital.” And so on a snowy February night, we drove the short distance to the nearby hospital. Over 18 hours later, on February 29th, our daughter was born. I was a nervous, anxious, new mother, worried the baby wasn’t latching on, wasn’t peeing enough, sleeping enough, all the common anxieties of new motherhood. I learned, I grew into it, my baby and I absorbed the ways of each other. Our minds may forget those early days, the birthing, the angst, the sleepless nights, the countless small moments of wonder and joy. But I think our bodies remember.  We carry our memories in the cells of our bodies. They say we al

  “ Writing is easy. All you have to do is cross out the wrong words.” Mark Twain. The world will soon open up and things will begin to return to normal complicated. Or what we once considered normal. But surely that has changed? Are we ready for life to speed up? Are you?   Am I? Surely that is the question we are all asking ourselves. What happens when life returns to the routines of before and do we want to go back to that? I’m not sure I want I don’t want to get back to long commutes on crowded trains jostling for space, working in a dull cubicle, getting dressed in pants that have fitted waistbands instead of stretchy ones. Yes we all have COVID fatigue. Some of us are just plain weary and exhausted and fed-up disgusted with the divisiveness, belligerent anti-vaxxers, menacing convoys. We want it to all go away and return to being nice, ordinary, polite Canadians. More compassionate, more informed, more liberal-minded , Better than our neighbors to the south, although if

About two and a half years ago, pre-COVID (and will we always think of our lives now as pre-COVID and post-COVID?), I wrote an essay for my writing group on things I considered essential to my life.  The essay was triggered by an opening line I’d read in a book: " Make a list of every possession you consider essential to your life" . It was one of those psychological thrillers along the lines of Gone Girl and Girl on the Train. The request was from a questionnaire given to applicants wanting to rent a unique house built by an eccentric architect. I pulled out the essay recently, wondering if my list would have changed in the past couple of years. And if it hadn’t changed, what would that say about me? That I have not grown, stretched myself? Or, that I am pretty grounded in my life and what is important to me? I found out that the list hasn’t really altered, except for one important addition. Now of course, the list does not include people. It’s a given that your loved ones a

In the fall of 2016, I downsized, moving from my 3-bedroom, 3-level, townhouse to a one level, two bedroom+den condo that is much more manageable. Although my townhouse was modest, it was spread over three levels including a finished basement where the washer/dryer and television were. Lugging vacuum cleaner and laundry up and down those flights of stairs grew tedious. Cutting grass, shovelling snow, tending to the myriad demands of a house (furnace replacement, peeling window frames, crumbling front steps, driveway sealing, and the straw that broke me – raccoon in the attic) took its toll. I decluttered ruthlessly. I moved. I downsized. Now I’ve been reading about the term ‘rightsizing’. And although it is usually applied to companies (a benign term, less offensive than ‘downsize’, but which also includes reducing the workforce to create more efficiencies and profits), I’m learning that the word can also be applied to our lives. Rightsizing doesn’t mean downsizing your living space or