my lately

Spring softens winter’s melancholy days, signaling endings and with them, the promise of renewal. The shifts in nature causing a groundswell of change in the heart, the self. New direction and unmapped beginnings.

The café closed its doors Friday until next fall and another university term. An ending for me, and at the same time, a new catering season has begun. We’ve recently ushered away snow flurries and welcomed tiny first blooms emerging from beds of weathered leaves and brittle twigs: daffodils, crocuses, snowdrops and budding magnolias. The sky is dappled blue and grey with the occasional slant of sun reminding me that its full glow lies in wait.

This past week brought unexpected treats in the mail. I can’t recall the last time anything arrived in the post that was made by a friend, handwritten, and so very worthy of savouring. And twice in one week! Amber bottles of healing tinctures—Balm of Gilead, Juniper, St. John’s Wort and Comfrey—wrapped in brown paper and golden thread. A handmade card and the simple sweetness of crimson ribbons and lace edging. This weekend there was time to linger over tea and take a good, meandering walk with a friend.  We stood in a favourite new shop amidst the quiet beauty of aged wood and collectibles, the richness of history filling the room, steeped in the feeling that we might be somewhere other than the sameness of this old town. There was time to slow down and enjoy the ritual of weekend breakfast without rushing anywhere or for anything. A chance to notice the sun pouring in the kitchen window, bathing vegies in golden light as they lay ready for dinner prep. And then time to climb into a bed of dreams with a book and a cat, light a candle and slowly, gently lay the day to rest.

There was time to meander downtown, and in so doing, to unexpectedly reunite with a friend recently returned from twelve rugged, east coast winters. Time to visit my youngest’s tree house where his dad once lived. And where many years earlier, in a neighbouring house, his older sister was born. My son inherited the tree house from a carpenter friend who had built it for his own children, taking care not to disturb the tree’s growth by constructing it around the trunk, allowing the tree to soar through the house. It does my heart some great amount of goodness to check on the tree nest now and then, relieved to discover it still standing, the tree ever-growing. For these are the sacred places of childhood.

What did your weekend bring? I hope you’re anticipating the change of seasons, the transformation of self, with something akin to  fierce love.























photos by: bliss {in images}