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.

May — Things I Don't Want to Forget

When I sat down to think about May, I wasn't trying to write a review. I was trying to make a list of things I didn't want to forget. I expected to find two or three standout moments. Instead, I found page after page of memories. There were a few rough days, as there always are, but what surprised me most was how many good days were hiding in the month when I looked back.

 

Physically, I am doing very well. My blood sugar and blood pressure both moved into the normal range, at least according to my doctor. Aquafit has become part of my life rather than something I'm trying to establish. This week I completed almost an entire class without using the wall for balance support. I have established a 5,000-step baseline and reached almost double that on several occasions. My weight has remained steady at 196 pounds all month. Perhaps the most visible reminder came when I tried on a medium dress that I was sure wouldn't fit. It did, and comfortably.

The numbers only tell part of the story, though. More than once this month I caught myself noticing something that hasn't come easily in a long time: I was happy. Not every day and not all day, but often enough to notice. There is a bounce in my step that has been missing for years. Music has started finding its way back into my days. I laugh more. I sing more. One of the things that made me happiest was watching Nessa ( my daughter) decide to try Aquafit herself. Part of me is proud that my example may have helped, but mostly I am proud that she wants to take steps toward better health too.

Creativity found its way back into my life as well. I continued writing this blog, creating Pinterest content, working in my daybook, and began retraining some long-neglected visual design skills. The skills were rusty, but not nearly as rusty as I feared. It felt less like learning something new and more like returning to something familiar. There were moments of frustration, but there were also moments when I remembered that I knew more than I thought I did.

Not everything was easy. There were worries about people I care about, difficult conversations, and reminders that compassion and responsibility are not the same thing. I spent time looking at old patterns and old stories. At times I slipped back into habits I thought I had left behind. The difference this time was that I didn't stay there. When I look back at May, I don't see a happy month or a difficult month. I see a month where movement returned. A month where life felt a little bigger than recovery. And that's something I don't want to forget.

So I am stepping into June with gratitude for what May gave me. Not because everything was perfect, but because it reminded me that life can be bigger than recovery. June's theme is Summer Threads, and over the coming weeks I hope to collect small pieces of summer the same way I collected small victories in May—one ordinary day at a time.

Looking Back, Not Staying

"I looked back, but I didn't move backward."

 
There are times I look back at my life and go what the hell? We are what we were raised to be even when we fight against the things we went through ourselves. We either emulate what we knew growing up or we do everything in our power to go in the opposite direction. Either way we are shaped by it. We carry pieces of it with us whether we want to or not.

For myself there are memories I keep and others I avoid as much as possible, but lately some things from my younger years have been making their way back into my thoughts. Certain decisions I made in my twenties have come back around and I have found myself responding to them differently than I did then. Some of that is simply lessons learned. Some of it is pain given and received without closure. Either way I have been looking back more than usual.

Part of that happened because my family and I have started looking seriously at leaving Peterborough and moving somewhere healthier for us mentally and physically. We have been looking toward the Niagara region and trying to think about what that might actually look like. Funny thing though, before we could really think about where we were going, I ended up looking at where I had been.

When my kids were little we lived in Housing for about a year and a half. There was damage to the kitchen after a pipe burst one winter and after that I seemed to get turned down every time I applied for housing. I never really knew why. I always assumed I owed money and I thought I had taken care of it years ago when I paid off old debts after my dad passed away. Still, I never checked. The denial simply became a fact in my head. It became one of those things I just accepted as true.

Now that I am sixty-five and considering another move I thought I would ask. It turns out I had paid the arrears and Housing had no record of me owing anything. There was a note saying money had once been owed but nothing outstanding. I was encouraged to apply again and I cannot even explain how much relief I felt hearing that.

What struck me afterwards was realizing that I had carried that around for years. I had accepted it without questioning it because I thought I already knew the answer. Looking back did not change the past, but it did change the story I had been telling myself.

I think I have been doing that in other areas too. I switched Pinterest to a business account because I was curious if anything I was doing was connecting with people and I discovered the Things I'm Learning series has been getting a lot more attention than I expected. I was surprised by that because while I enjoy creating pins, the truth is they are part of how I cope with things and work through them.

The poetry has been harder. Those poems came out of one of the most difficult periods of my life and sometimes working through them means revisiting things I would rather leave alone. Still, each time I finish a set of pins for one of the poems I feel a little lighter. I am dealing with difficult things, but they are reminders of what was, not what is.

I also found myself explaining some things to my granddaughter that I had never really explained before. Not because I wanted to excuse anyone, but because understanding where someone came from sometimes explains why I protect them so fiercely.

Even my weekend away ended up teaching me something. I realized how much I dislike feeling managed or directed around as though I cannot make my own choices. What surprised me wasn't that I felt irritated. It was realizing how strongly I felt it. Maybe that says something too. 

On the brighter side I spent time wandering through stationery stores and walking around a historical part of Toronto. I walked much more easily than I expected. My feet got tired and sore but nothing else did. I knew the YMCA classes were helping, but I had not realized just how much they were helping. I also got to share that time with family this week and it turned out to be unexpectedly fun.

So much happened this week that I kept trying to figure out how to put it into some kind of order, but maybe it is simpler than I thought. I looked back at routines that drifted, old doubts, family pain and old emotions. I kept the parts that helped and carried them forward.

I looked back, but I didn't stay there.

I continued moving.

I continued creating.

I continued showing up.

In Between Seasons

I'm somewhere in the middle of catching up with myself. The last few days have felt busy and full. I am home again now, but I don't feel fully settled yet. Some things are still moving through me while other things have stayed the same. Things are shifting, but not fully. I noticed how much can happen in a few ordinary days. I am still me. I still need rest. I still come back to familiar routines. But something feels a little different too.

Maybe that was the theme of the weekend without me realizing it at the time. Everything felt a little in-between. I was happy to get away, but happy to come home too. I was tired, excited, overwhelmed and interested all at once.

Of all the things I've gone through this month, one thing I'm certain of is that I like my home. Messy as it gets sometimes, I am always glad to get back here. Home feels familiar in a way that few other places do. It feels settled, even when I don't.

This weekend in the GTA with E and GD#1 was busy. We spent so much time in malls. Have you ever noticed that most malls have nearly double the amount of clothing stores as they have anything else? Every time I go to Dixie Outlet Mall in Mississauga I see acres of clothing stores, but then it is a discount mall. I saw so many things I wanted to buy. It's not like I don't have a lot of clothes already, but something about walking into that mall and seeing floral patterns everywhere made me very happy. Nearly every store I walked into had at least one item I liked, and sometimes three or four.

I could have spent a lot of money in them. I didn't though, because E over the years has instilled in me the desire to look at all the offerings before I buy a thing. So instead of coming out with a dozen new dresses, I only got one. It's a medium so I'm not sure how well it will fit, but I loved the pattern so much that I decided to get it anyway. Looking back now, I think that was another little in-between place. Wanting things, but being more careful. Loving something enough to bring it home, but still wondering if it will fit me the way I hope it will.

We went to Square One, but after spending a few hours at Dixie I decided to have a nap while GD#1 explored it for the first time with E. We ate at Mandarin. If you ever get the chance, go to a Mandarin. They have a buffet-style menu that caters to every taste from the most stringent vegan to the confirmed meatatarian. With everything you can eat for a fixed price, even the money isn't really an issue. You can get lunch for $25.99 and dinner for $35.99 most days, though holidays are a bit more expensive. Mind you, for holidays they also add holiday-specific foods to the menu so it's worth it.

It was a little strange this time, but it really proves the point about the value there. There was a baby shower happening in the room beside the one we were in. It was loud enough that you could almost feel like you were part of the celebration even if you weren't in the room. There had to be twenty or thirty people in there including kids. Like I said, if you ever get the chance, go to one.

The next day we went for a walk on Queen Street West. It is one of the oldest areas in the city and the architecture is fabulous. One of the iconic places on the stretch we walked was the Drake Hotel. I didn't get to have lunch there because it can be a bit pricey, but maybe next time. I went to two stationery stores (The Paper Place & Paper Plus Cloth) and picked up some scrapbook supplies. They really are one of my happy places. I could lose myself in one for hours, but E & GD#1 were with me, so I could only indulge a little. We had gelato after the first half of the walk. From Queen Street West we went to First Markham Place specifically to a shop called Oomomo, which had a stationery section that rivaled the other shops we visited, but with much better prices.

Not everything about the weekend sat as lightly as floral dresses and scrapbook supplies though.

The weekend had a couple of emotional incidents as well. I finally got around to telling GD#1 why I make excuses for my son and it made me cry. I don't want to go through it again; suffice it to say my boy got very sick when he was nine months old and it caused changes inside his brain, making him look normal but leaving him developmentally delayed. As he gets older the difference between his physical age and his mental age becomes more apparent.

It is another one of those things I don't usually tell because why? What difference would it make? Except now I feel like I don't really have a choice because people are becoming more aware of his differences, and I won't stand people being angry at him for something he can't help.

One other incident caused me to have a bit of a meltdown. E was being stupid and so was GD#1, steering me around and pulling me along as if I was a child. I move where I want and I don't go around people or wait for them to pass me. I own the path as much as they do, and perhaps a bit more since I am a senior. It irritated me to no end because it made me feel like a child on a leash, and I hate seeing that. Why would I want to be that?

Maybe being between seasons isn't really about weather at all. Maybe it is being considered old and frail when I'm not. Maybe it is about the stage of life as much as it is spring drifting into summer or, in my case, autumn fading into winter. Maybe it is that feeling that I have many years ahead and I want to make the best of them. Some things are changing. Some things are staying the same. I still need rest. I still come back home and feel relieved when I walk through the door. I am still learning to be myself, and that is okay.

The Small Days Count

This has been a good week in some ways and a lousy one in others.

On the plus side, I walked nearly 10,000 steps and did not collapse into a fibro flare afterward. In fact, this week has been harder mentally than physically.

 Thursday was nearly a perfect day aside from getting lost on the way back from getting my sugar checked. Even that turned into a positive because I ended up walking over 9,700 steps and used my bus pass for the first time in a long while. But that was also when the bad luck for the week seemed to begin. When I got home, my key would not work in the front door, so I had to use my phone to get into the building. I assumed it was a one-time problem and just sent a message to Ruth to let her know.

Friday I stayed home and did food prep using what I had left in the freezer. I managed to make enough dinners to get me through to Thursday, which felt like a small victory in itself. Other than being tired from all the walking the day before, it was not a bad day.

As the weekend went on, though, the front door still was not fixed. Each day I sent another message to the building manager, and tenants started stopping me to ask about the problem or tell me their own experiences with the door. I also sent an email to her and her boss because it was becoming clear this was no longer a minor issue.

Then on Sunday, when I went to do laundry, I found a broken crack pipe outside the laundry room. After that I checked the hallway connecting our wing to the other side of the building and found a pile of garbage blocking part of the fire door area. Again, I contacted the building manager.

 Later that same day I discovered someone had stuffed paper into the latch section of the outside door so people could come and go freely without needing a key or access code. That was the moment the situation stopped feeling frustrating and started feeling genuinely unsafe. I live in an area where there are a lot of crack houses nearby, and with the building now easily accessible, outsiders could come and go as they pleased. Many people in this building do not lock their apartment doors during the day. Suddenly the possibility of break-ins did not feel abstract anymore.

Sunday was also Mother’s Day, which always brings its own wave of dysthymia with it. Physically I was fine, but depression has a way of making everything feel heavier. Mother’s Day usually leaves me struggling for a few days because of my mother, now gone, and the complicated history between us.

By Monday the depression was still sitting heavily on me, so I stayed home from the Y and decided to work on my poetry instead. Unfortunately, the poem I chose to work on was one about living inside depression at its worst. Unsurprisingly, that did not exactly help.

Physically, aside from a stupid headache, I am okay. Mentally, not so much.

Which brings me to today and the pièce de résistance for the week. I tried to contact the Landlord and Tenant Board and instead ended up being scammed by a site pretending to be legal help. On top of everything else, I now need to replace my bank access card.

I know situations like this eventually pass, but sometimes when I am in the middle of them I have a hard time remembering that there is always a way around or through even difficult circumstances. “This too will pass” is something I have lived with for a long time now. Sometimes it is the only thing holding hope open long enough for things to begin easing again.

 And the small wins — walking nearly 10,000 steps, preparing meals for the week, continuing to show up for my life even while mentally struggling — they matter. They count.

Sometimes far more than the bad days do, even when the bad days temporarily seem louder.

What Stayed -What I Chose to Keep

 

The theme of May is nostalgia and memory. I chose it because Mother’s Day is this month, and while working through my poetry, my mother appeared once again, bringing with her something I had not fully realized before. A part of me that is also her.

We shared a history that women of neither generation openly acknowledged or talked about. I wish that silence had passed with time, but it hasn’t. There is a statistic I have remembered for years, one that still makes me terribly sad. One in three women will experience sexual violence in their lifetime. It is called many things, but when it happens to a child, it is still violence. It is still a violation.

 I have five granddaughters. Statistically, two or three of them may experience or has experienced some form of that harm in their lives. That thought weighs heavily on me sometimes.

I am not entirely sure why this is where my mind went tonight. This week was supposed to be about “what stayed,” and at first all I could think about was mental pain. Maybe it is because this is Mental Health Month. Maybe it is because memory does not separate itself neatly into pleasant and unpleasant things. Our memories are often built from the moments that shaped us most deeply, and for many women those are not always happy memories.

What happened changes you. I know that now. It changed my mother. It changed me. It changed my daughter. Trauma leaves behind fear, anger, shame, and mistrust that can touch nearly every part of life if we let it.

For a long time I believed that was the only thing that stayed.

But as I kept writing, I realized something else stayed too.

Compassion stayed.

I often say that I do not know how to love properly, but people tell me I have a big heart. What I understand best is compassion — recognizing the pain in others because I know what pain feels like myself.

 I try to listen more than I speak. I try not to judge people too quickly because I know how much hidden suffering people carry. I give hugs instead of harsh words whenever I can. Sometimes my words still come out wrong, and when they do I think about it for hours afterward because I genuinely do not want to hurt anyone.

 My father used to call helping others because you can “being a good neighbour.” That stayed too.

So did determination.

People have called me stubborn all my life, but I think much of that stubbornness is really resilience. I decided long ago that I would never live only as a victim of what happened to me. Life has given me many setbacks, including cancer, but somehow I have continued moving forward through all of them.

And maybe that is part of what stayed as well — the refusal to let suffering make me cruel.

I remember when I told CAS about what had happened to my daughter. My mother was scandalized by it, but my daughter protected her own daughter fiercely from experiencing the same thing. That matters to me. The silence did not continue unchanged. Something shifted between generations, even if imperfectly.

That realization may be the most important thing I have learned.

We are not our history.

Our experiences shape us, yes. They leave marks. They influence how we move through the world. But history does not have to repeat itself forever, and pain does not have to consume every corner of our lives.

We still have choices.

 I may not always be able to prevent painful things from happening, but I can choose what I do afterward. I can seek counseling. I can learn coping strategies. I can remind myself that what happened was not my fault. I can remember that I am not alone in suffering and that I do not have to spend the rest of my life trapped inside old pain.

What stayed was not only hurt.

Compassion stayed.
Resilience stayed.
Choice stayed.

And after everything, I still want to be kind.

A Bit of a Shift This Week

Bit of a shift this week. I’m experiencing SAD symptoms even though it’s no longer winter, which is making today’s writing difficult.

I did manage quite a bit after hearing from the radiologist that there is no recurrence of the cancer. Even so, it took me about a week to return to most of my usual routines. During that time, I spent a lot of it working with ChatGPT on pins for my Pinterest boards. I uploaded Awakening and Becoming Visible from Currents of Becoming a poetry book I’ve been planning and added a couple more lists to “Things I’m Learning.”

 

I also started a new board that I still can’t name in any coherent way. It began as Grandmacore (Grammacore), inspired by a set of pins that felt connected to the values I grew up with. An article called Grandma’s Rules really sparked things, and I spent time turning those ideas into pins and building the board around them.

When I stepped back, though, I could see it had drifted off brand. I tend to prefer soft watercolor and pastel tones, but these pins leaned heavily into sepia. It works for a vintage feel, just not the one I was aiming for.

I tried again using my May palette—cream, blush, and moss green. I liked the look, but I still couldn’t find a clear direction. The board seemed to want to be too many things at once. In the end, I hid it and stepped away. If I can’t find cohesion, I’ll likely take it apart and reuse what I can elsewhere.

One thing that did come out of it was experimenting with images. I tried recreating my living room setup and ran into trouble describing a wall hanging my daughter gave me. Uploading a photo instead made a big difference. The first result stayed very true to the space and surprised me. The ones after that were decent, just not as strong.

 

Yesterday I tried using photos from my trip to the Y. Those didn’t work as well, mostly because the photos themselves weren’t great. I’m planning to try again and be more intentional about what I take. I’m not even sure where I’d use them yet, but I’m curious to see what happens.

I walked to the Y yesterday morning for my swim class. I ran out of energy about halfway through but kept going. It was my own doing—I forgot to eat before I left. Even having a grilled cheese after class didn't help. I still needed a ride home and ended up taking a nap. A reminder that with diabetes, regular meals really aren’t optional.

I’ve also been thinking about the people I see around me. Living where I do, most of what I see is Caucasian, with some Indigenous presence. Being French Canadian, I’ve always thought of myself as mixed, though it’s a bit more layered than that. My mother was English with Black ancestry, and my father was White and Indigenous.

It’s an unusual mix, but it has its advantages. I’m 65 and don’t look much over 50—aside from the hair, which shifts between silver and white depending on the day. Slight side step there but matches the way my mind is working today.

It also leads into May, which brings Mother’s Day and a pull toward memory and nostalgia. I’ll likely write more about nostalgia. Memory tends to live in my poetry. Nostalgia, for me, is about continuity—the things I learned and valued growing up, especially the parts that lead back to my mother.

 

If this kind of reflection resonates with you, you’re welcome to follow along. I’ll be leaning into nostalgia and continuity as we move into May. For now, I’m taking this as a week of small returns—to routine, to energy, and maybe to a few things I thought I’d left behind.

Not the Kind of Adventure I Expected

Tests, quiet fear, and the small ways I kept going while I waited. 

The type of adventure I have been on this week is a little different than the others. It started with a pain in my left shoulder. I assumed it was just a simple rotator cuff issue and didn’t think much about it. I worked around it, took something for the pain, and carried on. I do regular self breast exams after my run-in with breast cancer a few years ago, and I noticed a strange texture along the skin that connects my underarm to my breast—on the left side, the side that was operated on. I noticed it, but I didn’t really notice it. I told myself it was probably just skin changing with age… but only on the left side.

I didn’t go to the doctor until I put on a bra and saw the swelling on the outside of my left breast. That was the moment it shifted from something I could ignore to something I couldn’t. The doctor didn’t seem too concerned, but he sent me for a mammogram. The next day, they called and said there was some thickening and that I needed to come back for an ultrasound. That was on Monday. 

There’s a space that opens up when you hear something like that. Everything keeps moving—appointments get booked, days go on—but underneath it, there’s this quiet thread of what if. I didn’t go to the Y this week. I needed the time to sit with it, to be quiet, to not have to be anywhere or do anything for anyone else.

Instead, I worked on my poems. I didn’t think of it that way at the time, but looking back, that’s how I was handling it. Sitting with words that didn’t quite fit, turning them over, letting them be messy, staying with something until it felt a little more true. It was something I could hold onto while everything else felt uncertain.

Yesterday was the ultrasound. When the doctor told me it was only a swollen sebaceous gland, the relief was immediate—physical. I remember making prayer hands on the bed without even thinking about it. Just… thank you. I don’t know much about sebaceous glands, but I do know they are not cancer, and right now, that’s enough. I’m nine months away from being five years cancer free.

 This week didn’t look like much from the outside, but it was. It was a week of waiting, of quiet fear, of trying not to get ahead of myself, of finding small ways to stay steady while I didn’t know. The poems, the pauses, even the decision not to go to the Y—those weren’t just small choices. They were how I got through it. I think this is what a small adventure looks like sometimes—not going somewhere new, just staying with yourself while you wait to find out.

I’m still here.
Still paying attention.
Still finding my way through, one small thing at a time. 

Learning Not to Fix Everything

This week didn’t go the way I expected. Not in any dramatic way—just small things. A thread stalled, a tool didn’t behave the way it used to, and I found myself sitting with a question I couldn’t quite answer about friendship. Nothing big, just enough friction to notice.

 

And that’s where this week seemed to settle. Not in fixing anything, but in paying attention to how I respond when things don’t go the way I expect. It turned out to be less about solving problems and more about noticing my habits around them.

I noticed how quickly I want things to work properly. The system should behave, the routine should hold, and the plan should still fit. When that didn’t happen, my first instinct was the same as always: figure it out, adjust it, fix it.

But this week offered something quieter. Sometimes the answer was to refresh, restart, or simply let it go. Not everything needs a workaround, and not everything needs my full attention.

At one point, I caught myself thinking I had lost momentum. It felt like I had somehow undone the progress I made earlier this year, like the routines I built in January and February had slipped out of my hands. But looking at it now, that’s not what actually happened.

My system didn’t fail—it shifted. My energy dropped, my focus narrowed, and the things that usually matter stopped feeling important. Not because I’m weak, but because something in me didn’t feel safe.

 

Fear has a way of settling in quietly. It doesn’t always show up as panic; sometimes it’s just a steady “what if” sitting in the background. Once that thought is there, everything else slows down whether I want it to or not.

There were different kinds of days this week, and they didn’t all feel the same. There were flare days, where the pain came back louder than I expected, and foggy days, where I couldn’t focus long enough to stay with anything. There were also what I’ve started thinking of as waiting days—where the best thing I could do was keep things gentle and let time pass.

None of those days looked productive in the usual sense. But they weren’t useless either, even if they didn’t give me anything I could point to at the end of the day.

I saw the same pattern showing up in other places too. I started looking at travel—what it might take to go somewhere a little farther from home. For a moment, it turned into something big, complicated, and expensive, something that didn’t fit my life at all.

So I stepped back and changed the shape of the idea. What I’m working toward now isn’t one big trip, but something smaller and more manageable. One simple trip, something close, something I can actually follow through on without it becoming overwhelming.

The same thing came up in how I help people. I’ve been offering water and a snack at my window, nothing formal, just something I can do. At first, I found myself thinking about how to make it better—what else I could add, what would make it more helpful.

But what I’m learning is that keeping it simple matters more than trying to improve it. Something to drink, something to eat, something steady. That’s enough, especially if it means I can keep doing it without wearing myself out.

Even in quieter moments, the same idea kept showing up. I found myself thinking about what a “friend” really is, not in a heavy way, just as a quiet check-in with myself. What I realized is that I might not be missing people as much as I’m missing a certain kind of connection.

Something steady, easy, and known. That’s different from having nothing at all—it just means what I have doesn’t quite match what I expected it to feel like.

There’s a pattern here I’m starting to recognize. When something doesn’t work, when something doesn’t fit, or when something feels off, my instinct is to fix it right away. I want to make it better, smoother, or more complete.

But this week offered a different option. Let the broken thread stay broken, let the unused thing stay unused, and let the question sit without a full answer. Not everything needs to be resolved to be okay.

 

By the end of the week, something small shifted. I don’t need everything to work perfectly to keep moving forward. Sometimes it’s enough to notice what’s happening, choose the simplest response, and leave the rest alone.

That might not feel like progress, but it is a kind of steadiness.

And right now, that’s enough.