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.

Collected Moments

When we talk about our summer, we talk about big things. The first beach day. The family barbecue. The vacation everyone remembers years later. But that is not summer at all.

Summer is built from moments. Trying on a new bathing suit, discovering a new café, or returning to an old haunt. We remember fireflies and the sounds of a summer night with crickets and June bugs and, if you live in the right place, the bullfrogs' nightly song. That is what the last two weeks reminded me of: moments from my childhood remembered today.

The walk to the local beach, swimming, always swimming. I loved the water. The first ice cream cone from the local ice cream shop. As I grew older, it began to include the taste of new strawberries fresh from the plant and the vanilla iced coffee that became a fixture in my summer life. The first road trip to anywhere was also a treat. I've relived those moments every year, this year included.

Those moments may not seem important when they happen, but they are often the things we remember long after the larger events have faded. This has been my focus this week: Seeing, with a capital S, all the little things that make up summer.

Some of those moments have come through my camera lens. A rain-covered oak leaf caught my attention after a morning shower. The water droplets transformed something ordinary into something worth stopping for. It was only a leaf, but for a few minutes it became the entire focus of my attention. The many shades of green crowd around, asking to be noticed. The world is bursting with life if you take a moment to look beyond yourself and into the natural world around you.

Don't get me wrong, bad things happen too: careless fires, spoiled food, and sometimes something that sours the mood. But if you look up and out, you can always find something that brings you joy.

Other moments arrived through routine.

Aquafit has become one of the rhythms of my week. The class itself matters, but so do the pieces around it. The walk to the YMCA. The familiar faces. The relief of moving in water rather than fighting gravity on land. The few quiet minutes in the hot tub afterward.

 None of these moments would make a headline. Together, however, they tell the story of a summer that is unfolding one ordinary day at a time.

This week also included errands, appointments, and unexpected frustrations. A damaged birth certificate meant another round of paperwork. Appointments brought waiting rooms and uncertainty. There were moments when I felt tired, discouraged, or simply overwhelmed by the number of things demanding attention. Yet even within those days, there were small things worth keeping.

A successful photograph. I managed quite a collection of those, from the oak leaf to a dress I found at a yard sale to all the green of the world as it exists in summer. The purples and yellows of late spring flowers followed, or mingled with, the pinks and reds of summer blooms. The blue sky and drifting clouds are there too. They are all things I've collected with my camera.

Summer lives in our senses.

The sounds and songs of summer are there too. A shared laugh with my daughter. Crickets and June bugs. Children at play. Music blasting in the air. They are all sounds that surround me day and night. The rain on the windowpane is in there too, and everywhere the laughter of people simply enjoying the sun.

The taste of strawberries I savour. The iced coffee that is my everyday order from Tims and the ones I make myself. That is summer. Ice cream, all kinds of ice cream, and recently a place called Crumbl with the most delicious cookies I've ever tasted. Salads of all sorts blend flavours beyond compare. They too are part of summer.

The smell of newly cut grass and lilacs perfumes the air. Other flowers too; their scents mingle and linger, transformed and strengthened by the summer sun. Suntan oil and OFF are in there as well, but I prefer the perfumes from the flowers.

The velvety feel of peony petals. The tickle as I allow my hands to float through the leaves as I walk. The softness of grass beneath my feet is a favourite, but so too is the slight burning sensation of walking on hot pavement. Soft dresses comfort me, and the elasticity of my swimsuit always makes me smile because it means that soon I'll be in the water. Nothing compares to that feeling except maybe a cool shower after a long walk.

The older I get, the more I realize that collecting moments is a practice of attention. The moments are always there. The challenge is noticing them.

When I began this month's Summer Threads theme, I imagined gathering small signs of the season. What I am discovering instead is that I am gathering evidence of a life being lived, of days that are full of sensation and pleasure, and of moments spent with family too long ignored.

A life filled with appointments and errands, family worries and household chores, cups of coffee and photographs, pool visits and quiet evenings. A life that is made meaningful not by its grand achievements but by its accumulation of ordinary days.

 It is not a perfect life. It is not always an exciting life. There are difficult moments, like filling out forms that require me to put my mental pain on display, or days when worry and uncertainty take up more space than I would like. Yet it is also a life rich with small pleasures, familiar comforts, and the people I love. My gratitude knows no bounds for the bounty Mother Nature shares at this time of year and for the reminder that even ordinary days can hold moments worth collecting.

That is what my journal pages have been reflecting this month. Envelopes filled with scraps, photographs tucked between pages, notes written quickly before they are forgotten. None of it seems particularly significant on its own.

Together, however, they become a record. Proof that these days happened. Proof that I was here. Proof that even the quietest seasons leave traces behind, and proof that I am alive and living my best life within this season.

As summer continues, I hope to keep collecting these moments. Not because they are extraordinary, but because they are not. The small things matter. The ordinary things matter. Perhaps that is what a season really becomes in the end—not a collection of major events, but a gathering of moments we cared enough to notice.

First Signs of Summer

I am pondering the first signs of summer today.

June, for me, is all about the senses: sight, sound, smell, touch, and taste. Summer never arrives all at once. It arrives in pieces and threads, in bright colours and beautiful scents, in small moments that quietly announce a change of season.

The sights are the things that tend to catch my attention first.

One of the earliest signs of summer is the appearance of dandelions. After them come the lilacs, and then the strawberries. Sadly, there will be no strawberries in the garden this year. They were choked out by a vine last season, and no one has reseeded them. Even so, there is no shortage of colour.

The tulips and daffodils of spring have faded, replaced by apple blossoms, peonies, catmint, and the soft purple of lilacs. Everywhere I look, something seems to be blooming. The greens are deepening too. There are shades of green I don't notice at any other time of year.

The sounds of summer arriving are just as familiar.

I hear children playing outside. I hear the soft buzz of neighbours' voices as they gather on back porches to enjoy the evening warmth. I hear the rush of the river at its fullest and the gentle patter of rain against the window.

Some sounds have not arrived yet. I haven't heard the crickets or the June bugs, but I know they are coming.

The scents of early summer are everywhere.

Lilacs are the first thing I notice, followed by the smell of wet earth and fresh growth after rain. Sometimes there is the scent of someone barbecuing supper nearby. Even the air seems greener somehow, carrying the smell of leaves, grass, and gardens waking up.

Touch is perhaps the easiest sense to overlook, yet it is woven through many of my favourite moments.

There is the warmth of the sun on my skin and the cool softness of leaves as I run my hand through them while walking past. There is the comfort of a hug from family while spending time together outdoors.

And then there are the tastes that belong to summer.

The first vanilla iced coffee of the season is always a treat. So are strawberries and apples fresh from the orchard. Some foods seem tied to a particular season, and they never taste quite the same at any other time of year.

All of these things tell me that summer has arrived as much as the heat or the longer days. There are a dozen shades of green outside my window and so many pinks and purples in bloom that sometimes it feels dreamlike when I am out wandering. 

Summer never arrives all at once.

It arrives in pieces—in flowers and rain, in laughter and birdsong, in the scent of lilacs and the taste of iced coffee. It arrives one small moment at a time until, before I realize it, the season is fully here.