Songs of the Month

I've been trying to write this post for two days, but the words just wouldn't come. This was supposed to be a soundtrack, like those lists people create on Spotify, but there were no songs. At least, not in the way I first imagined.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized July did have a soundtrack. It just wasn't made of music. It was made of birds singing outside my window, cicadas serenading us on the hottest days, conversations that didn't really matter but somehow did, pages turning in my journal, footsteps on my walk to Aquafit, and more than one night when my brain absolutely refused to shut up.

Maybe those are the songs we carry with us anyway.

 
Looking back on a month always makes it seem much neater than it felt while I was living it. July wasn't neat at all. It kept changing direction. Just when I thought I knew what I was doing, something else would catch my attention and carry me somewhere I hadn't expected to go.

Sometimes it was creativity, or what I usually call getting side-tracked. I could lose hours moving things around on a journal page or trying one more idea for the blog simply because I wanted to see if it would work. Other days it was memories. Buckhorn, my hometown, kept calling me back this month and, once I started opening those doors, I found myself remembering things I hadn't thought about in years.

I needed those memories because for a long time I've thought of my childhood as one long sad story. This month reminded me it never was. The difficult memories are still there and always will be, but they no longer stand alone. Somewhere between remembering the bad stuff were blueberry fields, corn roasts, horses on lead reins, finding treasures at the dump, and watching bears from the safety of the car. I'd forgotten there was joy living beside the sorrow.

It was also a month that challenged me both physically and mentally. I spent time in the emergency room with a urinary tract infection, worried more than once about the way fatigue seemed to settle into my bones, and found myself wondering whether depression was quietly trying to make its way back into my life. None of those things were part of the plan, but then again, life rarely asks permission before rewriting the schedule.

Looking back now, those aren't the moments that stayed with me the most.

I remember writing Good Neighbours after witnessing a stranger being treated with cruelty. I remember finally settling into a new look for the blog after trying more templates than I care to admit. I remember giving myself Permission to Play and discovering that curiosity still has a way of leading me somewhere worthwhile.

Without meaning to, July kept circling around the same ideas. Curiosity. Kindness. Memory. Permission. I never set out to write about those things, but they kept appearing until I stopped fighting them and started paying attention.

Maybe that's all any of us are really doing—learning to notice the things that quietly make up a life. The birds outside the window become part of the morning, the walk to the Y becomes time to think, conversations stay with us longer than we expect, and old memories return when they're finally ready to be heard. Even the difficult days have something to say if we're willing to listen.

Now July is coming to an end, and August is waiting just around the corner.

I've already given August its own theme: Rest & Reset. It feels like exactly what I need because my year doesn't begin in January. It begins in October, around my birthday, and that makes August and September something different. They're not really the end of one year or the beginning of another. They're the quiet space in between, where I can catch my breath before I start dreaming about what comes next.

The planner in me knows September will be filled with ideas for the year ahead, and the creative part of me is already peeking around the corner to see what's waiting. But August doesn't have to carry any of that. It can simply be what it needs to be: a chance to rest, to notice, to restore, and to begin again a little more gently than before.

Before I can start planning another year, I need to rest and review. I want to think about what is working and what isn't, what I need instead of what I simply want, and allow things to settle into whatever new shape they are meant to take. Most of all, I want to look honestly at who I was last October and who I have become along the way.

Not every season of life needs to be filled with big moments. Sometimes the quieter seasons are the ones that help us hear ourselves again.

I think that's reason enough to slow down for a while.

Permission to Play

Lately I've been thinking a lot about permission.

Not the kind someone else gives us. The kind we give ourselves.

Somewhere along the way many of us seem to decide that play belongs to children. We tell ourselves that if we're going to spend time creating something it should have a purpose. It should be useful or productive. We quietly stop doing things simply because they make us happy.

I think that's a shame.

 This month my journal theme is Freedom and Play, but somewhere during the past couple of weeks I realized those words weren't really about playing at all. They were about permission. Permission to follow my curiosity. Permission to try something without knowing where it might lead. Permission to spend an afternoon looking through old photographs simply because one memory led to another.

As it turns out, that permission led me somewhere I never expected.

Like most adults, I have a day planner. Over the years though, mine has become much more than that. It's part planner, part scrapbook, part commonplace book and part memory keeper. It still keeps my appointments, but it also holds drawings, photographs, quotes and little pieces of everyday life. Somewhere along the way it stopped being just a planner and became a record of how I live.

Each month I choose a theme to guide the pages I create and, if I'm paying attention, those themes usually end up teaching me something. This month has been no different.

One of the projects I've been working on is what I've been calling a memory reclamation project. With the help of ChatGPT I've been slowly recreating my parents' home from memory. They bought the house in September of 1976 and lived there for thirty years. It was the centre of birthdays, Christmases, ordinary Tuesday afternoons and countless family memories. I wanted to preserve those memories for my children, my grandchildren and maybe one day my great-grandchildren.

To do that I had to begin looking through old photographs again. Some were digital files I'd forgotten I even had, while others were old paper prints tucked away for years. At first I was looking for details of the house. Was the porch there yet? Where exactly was the ramp? What did the front yard really look like?

Somewhere along the way I realized I wasn't looking at the house anymore. I was looking at the people who made it home. Every photograph seemed to remind me of another story, another family gathering, another ordinary day that at the time didn't seem important. Funny how twenty-five years later those ordinary moments are often the ones that matter the most.

 It also made me realize just how much my parents shaped the person I became. They were very different people, but somehow both of them still live in the choices I make today.

My dad was warm, generous and always willing to lend a hand. If someone needed help, he simply helped. I remember one day after our neighbours had organized a benefit dance to help my parents build a wheelchair ramp. Dad looked around the room and quietly said, "These are good neighbours." I don't think he realized it at the time, but he had just given me one of the principles I've tried to live by ever since. Being a good neighbour isn't something you talk about. It's something you do.

Mom was very different. She came from a much harder life, one no child should ever have to experience. She carried those experiences with her for the rest of her life, but she also taught me determination. She just kept going because there wasn't another choice.

Looking back now, I can see pieces of both of them in me. I inherited Dad's open heart and Mom's stubborn streak. Dad taught me to look outward when someone needed help. Mom taught me to keep going when life became difficult. Between the two of them they shaped far more of my life than I ever realized.

There were moments this week that reminded me just how deeply those lessons still guide my life. I found myself stepping into situations because I couldn't stand by while someone else was being hurt, whether physically or emotionally. I didn't stop to think about it. I simply acted, and it wasn't until later that I understood where that instinct had come from.

If I hadn't had these creative projects to occupy my hands and my mind this week, I suspect my depression would have overwhelmed me.

From the outside it probably looked like I was collecting pieces of an old house. What I was really collecting were pieces of my own story. I wasn't just rebuilding a house. I was remembering what it felt like to live there: the laughter, the ordinary days, the people coming and going, and all the little moments I'd almost forgotten. More importantly, I was beginning to understand why some of the values I hold so tightly matter so much to me.

I started this month thinking Freedom and Play meant giving myself permission to be creative. I think I was wrong. It wasn't really about play at all. It was about giving myself permission. Permission to follow my curiosity, permission to spend time on something that didn't have to accomplish anything, permission to remember and, maybe most importantly, permission to understand myself a little better.

Maybe that's what play has become for me. Not something children eventually outgrow, but a way of giving myself permission to follow my curiosity wherever it leads. This time it led me back to my parents, back to my own story and back to a better understanding of the person I've become.

If you keep a journal, sketchbook, scrapbook or even a notebook filled with random thoughts, don't worry about whether it is artistic enough or useful enough.

Give yourself permission.

You never know where it might lead.

Good Neighbours

There are moments in our lives that don't seem especially important at the time. They happen, we move on, and years later we suddenly realize they helped shape the adults we became.

One of those moments happened to me when I was sixteen.

It began with something my dad said. At the time I didn't understand what he meant, but his words sank deep into my unconscious and quietly became part of the person I am today.

My mother had recently become confined to a wheelchair for the rest of her life. Overnight everything changed for our family. There were extra expenses, uncertainty, and no clear idea of what the future would look like. Our little village decided to hold a benefit dance to help Mom and Dad get through those first difficult months while they figured things out.

I don't remember much about the dance itself. I couldn't tell you what music was playing or even who was there. What I do remember is something my dad said. He looked around the hall and quietly said, "These are good neighbours."

At the time I didn't understand what he meant. I knew people had come to help us, but I didn't really see anything beyond that. They were just people from our village.

I've thought about those words off and on over the years, and it took me a long time to understand what Dad was trying to tell me.

I think he meant that being a good neighbour has very little to do with living next door to someone. It's about seeing that someone needs help and doing what you can. You don't stop to ask what's in it for you. You don't keep score. You don't expect to be paid back. You simply do what you can because someone needs a hand.

The only thing you hope is that if life ever turns against you, someone else will help you the same way. Not because they owe you anything, but because that's what good neighbours do.

Looking back now, I think that's why those words became tied to the Golden Rule in my mind: Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. Not because you expect them to do it, but because if you ever find yourself in need, you hope someone else has learned the same lesson.

That simple idea has stayed with me all my life. The two thoughts became almost inseparable in my mind, and together they became one of the guiding principles of my life.

I haven't always been able to help in big ways. Sometimes my health gets in the way. Sometimes all I can offer is a listening ear, a kind word, or something as simple as a drink of water on a hot day. I don't think the size of the kindness matters nearly as much as the willingness to give it without expecting anything in return.

Maybe the world has changed since then, or maybe I've simply noticed it more as I've gotten older, but sometimes it feels like we've forgotten what it means to be neighbours. We seem quicker to judge than to help, quicker to argue than to understand, and quicker to persecute than to offer a helping hand. I hope I'm wrong.

I hope there are still far more good neighbours than we hear about. After all, kindness has never been very good at making headlines. It usually happens quietly, when no one is watching. That's the point of kindness, isn't it? You do what's right because it's the right thing to do, not because anyone is watching or because you expect something in return.

Looking back now, I realize Dad wasn't just talking about the people who came to that dance. Without knowing it, he was showing me the kind of person he hoped I would become, and I've carried that lesson with me ever since.

I still believe being a good neighbour is one of the best things a person can be.

A good neighbour helps because someone needs help. If that kindness comes back one day, that's a blessing. If it doesn't, it was still the right thing to do. 

 

The Principle I Learned

A good neighbour helps because someone needs help.

• Be kind.

• Be honest.

• Listen before judging.

• Help when you can.

• Expect nothing in return.

• Appreciate the people around you.

• Forgive whenever possible.

• Respect our differences.

• Share what you have.

• Leave the world a little better than you found it.

 

Following Curiosity

Most of my walks naturally fit this month's theme without me trying to make them fit. I don't set out thinking, "I need material for the blog." I simply go for a wander or two, and the story appears.

When I looked back over the week, I realized the story wasn't really about the places I visited. I think it's about what an adventure has become for me. It isn't going to BC or Ottawa. Those were the kinds of experiences I thought of as adventures.

 These days, adventure has taken on a different meaning. It might be following my curiosity down an unfamiliar street, noticing something I'd probably walked past for years, checking on a photography project, or realizing that morning glories are appearing all over the city.

Morning glories became part of a project I hadn't expected to begin. At first they were simply beautiful flowers climbing the trees and covering the raspberry bed in the back corner of the garden. I watched them slowly smother the raspberry canes in one corner until nothing else could grow there. That's when I learned that, although beautiful, they can also overwhelm everything around them. While out on one of my walks, I came across a hedge completely covered in morning glory vines and couldn't help wondering if the same thing would happen there. I've started photographing that hedge every couple of weeks to see how the story unfolds.

 Those photographs are becoming a pictorial essay I'm calling Deadly Beauty. I never planned that project. It grew out of simply paying attention.

The same thing happened with a couple of robins. I didn't go looking for them; they found me. Anyone who has ever tried photographing robins knows they rarely stay in one place for more than a few seconds. These two seemed perfectly content to let me stand there taking photographs until I had several I was genuinely happy with. Those photographs have already become more than pictures. They've inspired a journal page and even a writing prompt. Once again, curiosity quietly opened another creative door.

 That's a very different definition of adventure, and I think many of you will recognize yourselves in it. There are so many things to see if we simply spend the time looking. I don't think these discoveries were hidden. They had probably been there all along. I just wasn't paying enough attention to notice them.

As I looked back over the week, it occurred to me that my adventures naturally fell into two groups. There were the larger adventures, like turning down an unfamiliar street just to see where it led. Then there were the smaller adventures—the discoveries that only happened because I'd made that choice in the first place.

Maybe that's the real lesson. Adventure doesn't always ask us to go farther. Sometimes it simply asks us to look more closely.

Today's adventure can be solitary and unplanned, like wandering down an unfamiliar street. Tomorrow's adventure could be shared and planned—a family meal, a movie, laughter, and time together. It is becoming clear to me that adventure isn't one thing. Sometimes it's wandering without a destination. Sometimes it's making time for the people you love. Sometimes it's both.

As I was writing about my week, I found myself thinking that my July theme of Freedom & Play has quietly been present all along. Freedom isn't just choosing a different street to walk down. It's also giving yourself permission to be curious, to linger, to photograph an empty storefront because it means something to you, and to let an ordinary Friday afternoon become part of your story.

Maybe that's the biggest change of all. I used to measure adventure by how far I travelled. Now I measure it by how closely I pay attention.

 So, dear reader, here's an invitation. You don't need to book a holiday or climb a mountain. Your next adventure might begin by taking the long way home, noticing the flowers growing on a neighbour's porch, or turning down a street you've always meant to explore. You may discover, as I have, that the farther you let your curiosity wander, the richer your ordinary days become.

Freedom Has Changed Its Shape

When I think about July, I remember lake water, smoky campfires, and children running until the light began to fade. Back then, freedom meant long summer days with nothing planned except swimming, playing, and being outside. Those memories still make me smile, but I've realized something over the years. Freedom hasn't disappeared. It has simply changed its shape.

At sixty-five, freedom feels different than it once did. It isn't about having endless choices or escaping responsibility anymore. Instead, it's found in small moments that remind me this life is still very much my own. This week alone I can count a few moments of freedom that quietly shaped my days.

These days I rarely need to ask anyone for a ride. If I want to visit one of my favourite places, I simply head out the door. I may not move as quickly as I once did, and some days my body argues with me every step of the way, but I can still get where I want to go. As long as I'm willing to lace up my shoes, the city is mine to explore.

Since the beginning of the month I've done exactly that a couple of times, and I plan to do it again and again throughout the summer. If you're local, you'll understand when I say the railroad paths make getting almost anywhere in Peterborough easy. They're wonderful when I want to get somewhere quickly, but I've discovered the sidewalks are where the surprises live.

A flower covered hedge. A beautifully tended garden. A front porch decorated with someone's personality. Little details I'd never notice if I hurried past. The sidewalks invite me to pay attention instead of simply arriving. There is a quiet freedom in choosing the longer route simply because it looks interesting. No timetable. No destination that can't wait another ten minutes. Just curiosity leading the way.

Another moment of freedom came during Aquafit, though not because of the exercise, enjoyable as that is. What makes those mornings special is sharing the pool with Dean, Ness, Sara, and now Sara's father, Len. We laugh our way through the class.

Not every favourite memory can be captured with a camera.

I am shy and quiet on my own, but when I'm with my family I am anything but. As the matriarch of this family, I settle into a role that feels completely natural. We tease each other, encourage each other, and laugh more than we probably should. In those moments, I don't worry about what anyone else thinks. I simply enjoy being myself.

The final freedom may sound like a small thing, but to me it makes all the difference. Every morning, whether it's raining, sunny, or even snowing, the first thing I do is open my window. Fresh air is the first thing I invite into my day. There was a time when something that simple wasn't possible, so I never take it for granted. A cup of coffee, an open window, and a few quiet minutes have become one of the freedoms I treasure most.

As a child, freedom was a lake on a hot July afternoon. Today it is fresh air through an open window, choosing the long way home, and three generations laughing together in a public pool. None of those moments lasted very long, but each one reminded me that freedom doesn't always arrive with grand gestures. Sometimes it quietly slips into an ordinary afternoon. We only have to leave room for it.

A Month of Memories

June has been such a strange month, full of routines and surprises. Strangely enough, until I sat down to look through everything that happened and everything I accomplished, I hadn't realized just how busy it had been. June felt almost ordinary. Looking back, though, I can see that it was anything but.

Some months announce themselves with big milestones. June didn't do that. Instead, it quietly filled itself with moments that mattered. Looking over my notes, these are the things that stand out most.

One of the happiest moments was having my daughter and son-in-law join GD#1 and me at Aquafit. I've been going since January, and it has become an important part of my routine. The fact that they wanted to be there with me made it even more special.

Not every memorable moment was a pleasant one. I had two adrenaline-filled experiences this month. The first was when someone started a fire outside my apartment window that could easily have become much worse. The second was witnessing someone suffer a full-body seizure in the parking lot. I realized just how long it had been since I had seen a seizure that close, and I didn't handle it as well as I would have liked.

Physically, June was a month of highs and lows. The high came during my appointment with my doctor when my A1C results and the rest of my blood work came back normal. I also managed to stay under 200 pounds, reaching 196 pounds and holding there for two weeks. The low came after a fall following Aquafit that sent me to the hospital. Fortunately, I escaped with bruises and no damage to my spine, which had been my greatest concern. Before heading home, my family suggested we stop at Crumbl to celebrate the fact that things could have been so much worse. It was my first visit there, and somehow sharing cookies together became a quiet reminder that even difficult days can still end with gratitude.

Mentally, June has given me plenty to think about. I've spent time reflecting on both my past and my present while also dealing with periods of fatigue and some unsettling memory lapses. Dementia runs through the women in my family, so those moments naturally catch my attention. For now, I am choosing to notice them without jumping to conclusions, while continuing to pay attention to how I'm doing.

Creatively, June may have been one of my most productive months. I began reconstructing memories from my past, piecing together photographs and documents to preserve stories before they fade. I also started building something entirely new: my Creative Reference Library. As a visual learner, I wanted a place to collect colour palettes, design notes, templates, reminders, and creative tools that I can return to whenever I need them. It already feels like something that will grow alongside everything else I create.

June also marked a change in direction for my writing. I renamed my blog and began shaping the larger idea that has been quietly growing for months: Everyday Threads. More and more, I find myself drawn to the ordinary moments that are easy to overlook but deserve to be remembered. Watching my autistic grandson graduate from high school, seeing my daughter, son-in-law, and GS#2 receiving awards
for what they contribute to special needs hockey in Peterborough, quiet moments with family over cookies, small personal victories—these are the threads I want to keep.

Looking back, I realize June became a month of collecting. Collecting memories. Collecting ordinary moments. Collecting evidence that life is often richer than it feels while we're living it.

That feels like the perfect place to begin July.

This month's theme is Freedom and Play. I've created another set of personal challenges built around four ideas: Capture, Savour, Wander, and Create. I've also added a fifth challenge called Feel Free, celebrating freedom, joy, curiosity, and independence.

Since today is Canada Day, it seems like the perfect beginning. Not because every day will be exciting, but because I want to spend this month looking for small adventures, making room for play, and reminding myself that freedom isn't always found in big events. Sometimes it's found in simply saying yes to an ordinary day.

Through The Senses - One More Thing

I originally intended to write about summer through the senses. June has been full of birdsong, green leaves, warm breezes, and the smell of rain on hot pavement. There has been plenty to notice. Yet when I sat down to think about this week, another theme kept pushing its way to the front.

My plan

One more thing.

It seemed to follow me through the entire second half of June.

The week began with a phone call from E, who had received a message from GD#2 about GD#3. The details were vague but alarming. She had been found in a room with three boys and was incoherent. Her mother wasn't taking her to the hospital.

My mind immediately went back to my daughter and the night I found her in a similar condition. Getting her to the hospital had been the first thing I did, so hearing that GD#3 wasn't being taken immediately upset me. I also assumed she had been roofied and taken advantage of, even though nothing E told me actually suggested that. As a survivor of sexual abuse, that is where my mind went.

With so little information, I sent BM#2 a message accusing her of being a bad mother because she wasn't doing what I believed she should. The truth was that most of what I was reacting to came from my own experiences, not the situation in front of me.

The real story was different. A combination of edibles and alcohol had simply been too much for a fourteen-year-old body to handle. She lost her senses and became incoherent. Once I learned what had actually happened, I immediately sent an apology.

After the immediate crisis had passed, I found myself sorting through my own reactions and realizing how easily past experiences can shape our view of the present. There was an apology to send, feelings to untangle, and the uncomfortable recognition that sometimes we see old wounds before we see current reality. Even while dealing with that, I found myself filling my collection envelope with bits and pieces from previous weeks after being convinced I had nothing worth saving.

Then came the fall.

What should have been an ordinary day involving Aquafit and a stop at the hot tub turned into a much bigger ordeal. At first I dismissed it. It was a fall, nothing more—or so I thought. I'd had several over the last few years, but this was the first time my daughter had witnessed one.

I tripped over a changing-room bench, struck my neck on something, and landed hard on my backside. The YMCA staff were notified and their first aid attendant insisted I go to the hospital. They offered to call an ambulance, but I refused. Ness and Dean were there and could drive me themselves.

My daughter then suggested I use a wheelchair. I vetoed that idea too.

I was hurt, but I didn't think I was hurt that badly.

Several hours of waiting, x-rays, and a new prescription proved that perhaps I wasn't the best judge of that.

I earned this treat

Afterward we stopped at the pharmacy. While waiting for the prescription to be filled, I mailed the Disability Tax Credit paperwork that had been sitting on my desk. As a thank-you for all their help, I treated the family to Crumbl cookies and somehow still found enough energy to work on July graphics.

It felt like an entire week's worth of activity compressed into a single day.

Yet that was only one day.

The next morning began with another loud argument outside my window. The same outsiders who seem determined to provide the soundtrack for my summer were at it again. Between bursts of shouting, I watched the black squirrel making his daily rounds. I could hear pigeons cooing, chickadees calling, and starlings chattering. Rain came down in sheets.

I, meanwhile, woke sore and stiff from the fall.

Blog work still needed doing. Pinterest pins still needed creating. There were lessons to learn in GIMP and projects that turned out to be far more complicated than they first appeared. What looked like a simple editing exercise became a reminder that the smallest details often require the most effort.

That was Tuesday.

By midweek I found myself confronting a different kind of exhaustion. Everyday Threads was beginning to feel like more than a Pinterest board. It was becoming a way of organizing memories, interests, stories, and experiences. I could feel the project growing beyond its original purpose.

For perhaps the first time, I recognized I had reached my limit and chose to stop rather than push through. A younger version of me might not have made the same choice.

my home @ the golden hour

 Then came what I privately think of as One More Thing Day.

The motivation I had been relying on simply vanished. My neck was swollen enough to require ice. My backside was still tender. I went to do laundry and the key to the front door snapped off in the lock. Thankfully my son was able to remove it, but I was suddenly locked out of both the building and the laundry room.

Then the ATM refused a cash deposit from Myles. When I tried again myself, it refused me too, forcing a trip to the teller. After that, I discovered my online payee list had completely vanished.

I'd already had to replace my bank card twice in one week because a questionable website had attempted to withdraw money from my account without permission. Somehow, replacing the card had wiped out the payee list I needed.

One trip to the bank became two.

During the second visit, the teller discovered a second card number attached to my account. It was inactive but still sitting there. After she restored my payee list, I asked her to remove it.

Laundry still waited.

GS#1's graduation was approaching.

Aquafit was on the schedule.

Every time I dealt with one problem, another appeared. Even my creative projects seemed determined to resist me.

None of the individual issues were particularly serious. Together, however, they became exhausting. Every problem required a little more attention, a little more energy, and a little more patience. By the end of the week I felt as though I had spent more time responding to life than actually living it.

What struck me most was how physical the experience felt. I could hear the constant noise behind the building that has become such a source of frustration. I could feel the soreness in my neck, hips, and back. Fatigue settled into my body and stayed there. Even my thoughts seemed to move more slowly than usual.

This was not simply a busy week.

It was a week I experienced through every part of myself.

And yet, life continued to offer reminders of why persistence matters.

Watching GS#1 reach high school graduation with autism led me to think about perseverance and the quiet determination it takes to keep moving forward. Not everyone reaches their goals in a straight line. Not everyone does it gracefully. Most of us stumble, become discouraged, get distracted, encounter obstacles, and have days when we would rather quit.

Then we get up and continue anyway.

As I looked back over the week through ChatGPT and my journal, I realized that the story was never really about the fall, the paperwork, the broken key, the bank problems, the noise, or any of the other interruptions.

The story was that progress was still happening underneath all of it.

Summer Threads continued to take shape. Everyday Threads continued to grow. Goals were reviewed. Projects moved forward. Important conversations happened. Family milestones were celebrated.

Still flowing, still going.

 
The week felt messy while I was living it. Looking back now, I can see a different picture.

Life kept adding one more thing.

And somehow, despite the fatigue, frustration, and unexpected detours, I kept adding one more step.