For Two Hands . . . .

The rest of you can just enjoy the story. . .

********

Ah, let me tell you about when I tried to show my exhaustive (snort) knowledge of Golf . . . .

So, the CEO of the company that owned us had come by with a donation for the silent auction. I looked at this golf club, a terribly expensive Golf Club that everyone was very excited about, with a great. big. head. and said:

"Oh, what a nice putter."

Which seems an innocent enough mistake.

Until you realize that putters have very small heads and are used at the end of the hole to put the ball in the cup.

A driver on the other hand, well, it's used at the start of the hole, to drive the ball down the fairway.

Say it with me. . .

I'm an idiot. . .

Saturday Quotes

"Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased; pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow; raze out the written troubles of the brain; and with some sweet oblivious antidote cleanse the fraught bosom of that perilous stuff which weighs upon the heart?"

Yes Lady M, but not in the way you thought.

This Post brought to you by . . .

Henry Weinhard's Soda Pop.

Vanilla Cream, Orange Cream and Root Beer to be exact. Enough to get us through the summer.

Purchased by Mr. Spit in the lovely town of Coeur D'Alene, Idaho. (Since the greedy americans try to keep it all to themselves and don't sell it in canada)

And praise be, the Air Con was fixed at work yesterday at 2pm. It should be bearable today.

Still Melting

Today's Update . . .

It is 11 Degrees Celsius out side (52 F)


Inside, bright and early, it is already 29 Degrees Celsius (85F)

It is only 9:30 am. . . .

It's going to be a long day, isn't it?

Feelin' Warm

It is presently 16 Degrees Celsius outside (61F) . . . .

And in the office? Oh, in the office, it's 28 Degrees Celsius (83F)

In case you haven't realized, the air conditioner is a titch broken.

Things I Thought I'd Blog About

Sigh. All evening I tell you. I kept thinking. Must not be sitting here knitting, must be thinking of something to write for the blog. Also, must vacuum, but let's move on.

I was going to write a post on etiquette and theatres, and etiquette and funerals, but, umm, not done that yet.

I was going to take photo's and tell you about the 3.5 pairs of socks that I have knit in the last 4 months, but I can't take pictures. The red ones are in the wash, the STR Thistle one's are a bit of a problem, because I know where one of them is - right behind my computer, but, umm, I can't find the other one? And I hyperventilate when I think about the possibility that I have lost them? So I try not to?

The STR Puck's Mischief socks are about 70% done, although I'm not all that jazzed about toe up socks, since grafting the toes together has never been that much of an issue for me.

Oh, and the self-striping ones have terrible holes, which means I have totally arsed them up, and I have not a single idea of how to fix them, other than totally ripping them apart and re-knitting them. I am trying not to think about that much either.

How about we compromise on this. . .

My mum's birthday scarf.












You lot sure are hard to please. . . .

(Also, many thanks for your suggestions. I'm ordering my chairs from a company called the Calgary Chair Company - thanks Carmen- that is, oddly enough, located in Calgary!)

Monday Miscellany

Sorry, this is a day late - wanted to get the spaghetti sauce recipe out for Jen.

• I don't know what it is, and I only go there about once a year, but every time I find myself at Wal-Mart, I get angry. I merely have to drive into the parking lot, and I'm snarly.
• The garden is still not completely planted. I have to pot the containers, and plant some brussel sprouts (for Mr. Spit!) and some broccoli. It won't be safe to plant the tomatoes for another week or so.
• Mr. Spit (who is in Idaho!) left me the new hose to install. It will be easy he said. After I fought with it for half an hour, I went and got my neighbour, and he fought with it. He brought a crescent wrench and a set of pliers as ammunition. I think I need to buy new couplers from Lee Valley. Also, since my sprayer is broken again, I think I need another one. Another year, another sprayer. Sigh.
• I used a manual mower for the first time on Saturday. I have to confess, in the small amount of grass still remaining, I loved it. It took me 10 minutes. Usually it would take me that long to figure out how to start the gas mower. I think we might be going with a hand mower this year.
• I want a set of Adirondack chairs for by my fire pit. My mum offered to buy Mr. Spit and I set for our anniversary - I have developed a habit of sitting in the back yard at night, and having a cup of coffee. I can't find any. No one seems to have them. . . I'm getting frustrated. What do you think - hold out for the Adirondacks, or settle for a nice set of wicker ones?

Have a happy Monday. . .

How To Make Spaghetti Sauce

For Jen.

This recipe seems to be rather time intensive. You may be able to further refine it, and make it a bit more simple.

*********
I have to confess, I don't really have a recipe, but here goes.

Order Roma tomato seeds from Vesseys in December. Also order beefsteak tomatoes. (You might as well order about another $200 in plants and seeds while you are at it) Start tomato seeds indoors in February. Water, thin, fertilize. Bring them outdoors in mid-May. Plant them in early June. Water, fertilize. Develop welts when you weed around them, because you are, in fact, allergic to tomatoes. Decide in August that the best of the summer is over, and prune ruthlessly. Laugh at Franken-tomatoes.

Give beefsteak tomatoes away to co-workers as your free-with-zucchini-gift because Mr. Spit is out of town. Take ripe Roma tomatoes from the garden. Throw them whole in the freezer until they are all ripe. Finally, in late September, when you have pushed it absolutely as far as you can, tear home from work, carefully picking all remaining tomatoes into boxes. Wipe carefully. (Bonus points if you are doing this wearing a suit, in a snowstorm.) Tomatoes take over kitchen. As they ripen, throw them into the freezer with their vine ripened buddies. Sometime in November, when Mr. Spit is shrieking about having no room in the freezer for dog food, plan to make spaghetti sauce.

Haul everything out. Grab single big stock pot. Debate about grabbing second stock pot, decide not to.

Fill pot with water, set to boil. When water is boiling, throw tomatoes in for about a minute. Peel off skins. Finish task, swear and itch madly, remember that you are allergic to raw tomatoes, go upstairs, find box of Benedryl that expired 5 years ago, put box back into cupboard for discovery next year, and run out to store, to buy Benadryl.

While at grocery store, also buy mushrooms, celery, gasp at price of bell peppers, buy orange and yellow anyway, carefully forgetting to buy Italian sausage or ground beef: your choice. Buy iced tea, take Benedryl in the middle of store, and stare in amazement at the welts on your arms.
Go home. Throw sodden mass of semi-thawed tomatoes into stock pot. Go and get second pot at this point, just because it is really obvious that you did, in fact, need it. Put enough water in to cover the tomatoes in both pots. Walk away for several hours.

Find wooden spoons by allowing the tomatoes to boil over at this point, and have your burner short out. Drive to the appliance repair shop, purchase a new burner and drive all the way back home to install it. The stove will still not work, and you will be asking for the nice repair person to attend your house. Pull stove out from wall, locating all wooden spoons that have fallen behind stove. Also, enough fur to make a good sized schnauzer. Get stove fixed.

Resume making sauce. After the tomatoes have boiled down into a thick mass, run them through the tomato mill. Marvel that you used to push them through a wire sieve, and that your arm would feel like it is going to fall off. Your arm still feels like it is going to fall off, but at least, you will console yourself, this is technology, and must be better. Return remains - sans seeds and other bits- to the stock pot. You may wish to feed the English mastiff that is trying her level best to trip you, the pulp from the tomatoes.

Wash out second pot, return to basement for next year. Better yet, leave it at the top of the stairs so that you can trip over it while bringing down a load of laundry.

Into remaining pot of tomatoes, throw in several tablespoons of minced garlic from Costco, diced celery, ground zucchini (what, I have to use it up somehow!), a cup of olive oil, diced onion, salt, cup of brown sugar, oregano, cinnamon, rosemary, thyme, sage, Worcestershire sauce. Boil for another hour or two. Make sure the pot splatters a lot, so that you are still wiping up spaghetti sauce on Christmas eve.

When the spaghetti sauce is starting to look quite thick, get ground beef or Italian sauce that you have forgotten to purchase out of the fridge. Swear. Drive back to grocery store.

Brown sausage, chop peppers, mushrooms. Throw the lot into the pot. Smile at your husband as he indicates that he is looking forward to spaghetti. Cook longer.

Parcel out into Ziploc bags, make labels. Freeze flat on cooky sheet.

Go to serve remaining sauce over spaghetti for dinner, realize that you don't have any spaghetti, decide that neither you, nor Safeway will be safe from a breakdown in the middle of the pasta aisle, open up several boxes of Kraft Dinner, placing cheese powder packages in cupboard next to those from the last several years. Boil macaroni. Serve sauce.

Information

This blog entry is true, in essence. If it were a magazine, it would have one of those asterisks, with a note that said the names and places were changed to protect privacy. The story is true, but not factual. And my reason is simple - it concerns a real person. While this person is not aware of the issue, and likely never will be, the issue is very real in their life. And I don't want this entry to be about a person, really, it's about a set of circumstances, and feelings, and the subject of prejudice in general, not in particular.

I am tangentially part of a community group, that is finally able to hire a staff person. They have sent out a job description, and resume's have come back. The role of a staff person in a community organization cannot be overstated. They are the literal face of the organization. Community organizations take a tremendous amount of time and effort to get off the ground. We are talking about hours and hours and hours of time. Meetings around kitchen tables, at coffee shops. Real passion and purpose. Community organizations are hard to get off the ground. It is a mark of success and continuity to hire someone to do the work. In the life cycle of an organization, it is a much needed step, but also a big step, where you hand the coalesced dreams and hopes to another person, who may or may not care as much as you do. It's nerve wracking.

I was talking to one of the members, about the position, and about the types of resumes they got, and let's face it, because the pool of people who are willing to work in a community for a very small amount of money is limited, we knew most of them. So, we were talking about people. Perhaps this was the first mistake.

And have you ever thought about how we describe someone? Think, just for a second. Have you ever been in a place where you had to describe a third person to someone?

Well, let's see. She's about 5'3", over weight. She's in her 60's, with grey hair. Her eyes are hazel. She walks with a substantial limp. She's having some problems with her teeth, so she doesn't often smile. She's well dressed.

There. I've just described my mother. Could you find her? And would she recognize herself in that description? And what does the description have to do with anything, anyway?

Back to the conversation, we went through the names, and one was mentioned. I don't particularly know this person. But that wasn't what bothered me. No, what bothered me was that two different people have felt the need to mention that this person is transgendered.

And I'm not sure why. I'm not sure it was to prepare me for the appearance of someone, when and if I met them. I'm not sure if there were lingering questions.

And if that didn't bother me enough, my mind struggled with what to do with this information. You see, from the bottom of my heart, I believe that some one's gender identity has nothing to do with their job performance. Nothing at all. But, my brain twisted and turned over this information. It was, I will admit it, a bit shocking. It turned a simple candidate into something more than that. And in its own way, it made this person's application into something more than just a resume. And my brain started racing. In about 30 seconds, I found myself saying, "I didn't want to know that".

But I do now. . .

I'd like to scream

Really, I'd like to scream.

I packed up at least some of my maternity clothes today, to give to a co-worker. And I'm glad that's she's expecting. That's not what makes me want to scream.

But, I've told a few people today, that I was going to give her some of my clothes. And no one has said a word.

I went into those boxes, and I picked up and folded again. I picked up the shirt I wore to the hospital, when Gabe was born. I packed up my favourite maternity shirt, red and tan polka-dots. I packed up the first maternity shirt I bought. I packed up a few things I never even got to wear. I packed up my hopes and dreams. I packed up the best time of my life, and tomorrow I'm carrying them into work.

And no one has even noticed that this might be a bit hard.

ED: I have to confess, it's not the lack of reaction on the part of my co-workers that bothers me. It was a few friends and my mother, that I told last night, and they just carried on with their conversations. I don't think that most of my co-workers would understand. My friends? My mother?

Old Friends

I saw Ronnie today.

I was getting a bit worried, and trying to figure out who I could phone. I hadn't seen him in months. I wondered, worried, was he ok, was he gone?

But no, he and I walked by, and I smiled at him.

He seems alright, thankful for the green grass and the trees in leaf, disgusted by the snow we got today, just like me.

Tuesday Update

I have tons of thoughts swirling around my head, and no ability to capture any of those thoughts and get them down on paper.

Thanks for all of your support, it has meant the world to me.

The Loyal Toast

Ladies and Gentlemen, if you would rise for the Loyal Toast

(All stand and raise glasses)

Host: The Queen - La Reine.

All: The Queen.

****

A very happy Victoria Day.

She is Gone

I think it was the way that Emma held her head this morning. It was not a trick of light, but a sudden emergence, almost. The way she held her head and her eyes and the position of her lips and Anna was there.

And I picked her up this morning, her small and compact body. She is at 4, perhaps too large to be held, and perhaps this is what she knows of death, that people pick her up and hold her very tightly.

I came in with a gaily striped bag, and she looked at me and sat on the stairs, her pink and orange and purple sundress billowing around her. And she looked at me, and she said "Is that a present?" They coy smile of a 4 year old that was the coy smile of a friend. A smile I saw when I went and bought Gerber Daisies for the two of us, and signed the card with something rude. The smile of a million comments, a hundred million shared glances.

I knelt down, looked at her and said "Why yes. It's a present for a little blond girl. Do you know any?"

She happily proclaimed that that was her. She dove in. I handed her the Pooh-Bear first, an old friend of mine, who wanted to come and live with her. She examined the books, and the toy and the graham crackers and the juice. Showing everything, before vanishing into the living room with the cat toy. Her father and I packed up the rest.

How does one tell a 4 year old that her mother is gone, and yet not. How does one tell a wee little girl that her mother is gone to a place that we cannot go, not yet, but that she lives and breathes in Emma? How does one tell a little girl that her mother is gone from this world, and yet remains within every fiber of Emma's being?

How does one tell a tiny child that all beautiful things live in memory, and that Anna, that my friend, lives in memory?

I saw the photo's at the memorial service, and I knew that I was looking at Anna, but I could see Emma in them. Peas in a pod. Like mother, like daughter.

And how does one say good-bye, proclaim that Anna is gone, when Emma comes sailing in?

She come sailing on the wind, her wings flashing in the sun,

On a journey just begun, she flies on, and in the passage of her flight,

Her song rings out through the night, full of laughter, full of light, she flies on.

Dust

I have but a few more things to do before leaving for Calgary. A bit of laundry, a trip to a store to put together a package of things for a little girl, some books, some crayons, for a little girl at her mum's funeral. In the back of my mind tasks race: the need to buy a dress for her, and breakfast with a friend, and the need to finish up some things. Change the bedding for the house sitter, and perhaps tidy the house a bit. I had wanted to get the perennials planted today, but I will settle for watering them in their green house pots. Packing.

I need to go and find the pooh bear from my childhood. An old friend to give to Emma. A scant and cold comfort. I should like to buy her a pony, a palomino, bright as a copper penny, with a blond mane and tail. Really, I want a pony for her like my first pony - Toby, small and sturdy, full of love, impossible to fall off of.

I think about Golden Retriever puppies, it is impossible to see a golden retriever puppy and be completely sad. And yet. And yet. There is perhaps one thing, but I know not the store to purchase it from - there is no store called 'back from the dead'.

And what of Allan. There is nothing I can buy for him. A puppy will not mend a mind broken by tragedy and grief. I cannot bring Anna back. I cannot even find a sympathy card. I cannot countenance trite stereotypes, slogans proclaiming peace and comfort, when I know there is none to be found. I can hear his words, "It's going to hurt on Sunday, when everything is done and she is gone, isn't it?" Isn't it? Won't it? And from the lump behind my throat I can only croak a yes. I cannot help him. Grief is the longest journey, and our hardest parts we walk on our own.

And me. Every morning this week, looking at my e-mail, waiting for that morning note about the traffic, about the thing that Emma did, about the weather. There is no email, simply a lingering sense, a painful realization that she is gone. I sent an email to her on Monday, knowing there was no one on the other end, but unable to bear that there was no one to send an email too. An email that said good-bye, acknowledged that there was no person to send this too, but a need to mark, to remember, to pause. Anna was here.

For we brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we can carry nothing out.
1 Timothy - 6:7

Choices

Mrs. Spit had the choice between writing a blog post and taking a bath in her cast iron bathtub, with water that comes up to her chin.

Oh, and lavender bath salts from the Body Shop.

Guess what she chose?

Memento Mori

Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am in a thousand winds that blow,
I am the softly falling snow.
I am the gentle showers of rain,
I am the fields of ripening grain.
I am in the morning hush,
I am in the graceful rush
Of beautiful birds in circling flight,
I am the starshine of the night.
I am in the flowers that bloom,
I am in a quiet room.
I am in the birds that sing,
I am in each lovely thing.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there. I do not die.

Today

Today I will get up and go into the office early. I will walk into my manager's office, and I will close her door, and I will, in careful, halting words begin a sentence that starts "Anna's husband called me early Saturday morning."

I have the information, noted on a sheet of paper, sitting on my kitchen table. I have answers to the how and the what questions, and I have time lines around the when. I can tell them what happened in bare sorts of terms. I have, in the back of my head, friends to call to get more medical information, to begin to unpack what the Medical Examiner tells us tomorrow.

And I have my list of people to contact: friends in other departments, someone in another city to pack up her work things, some one from HR to begin the process, because there will be forms.

Alan and I have discussed, in gentle, in timid, in awkward steps this morning, flowers and a trust account. I assured him that we are bankers, and we will take care of our own. Do not worry. Put the papers in a box, I will come in 6 weeks, and we will sort through them.

I will walk to the branch tomorrow, and I will see the assistant manager, an old colleague of mine, of ours, and I will tell him the news, and we will begin the process of winding up financial affairs.

I have been unquiet all weekend, since early Saturday morning. It has been a struggle to focus, to not ping pong from task to task. I have been making notes in my head, pacing around my house will making another call. This weekend seems as if it encompasses all the time there is in the world, as if it has not stopped. I have closed my eyes, laid my head down, and I wake up thinking of Anna. Emma. Allan. My lists.

And I will answer questions, and provide these answers and tick things off my list, and it will seem that when I start all of this off today, that conversation that begins "On Saturday", and it will not seem like it is Monday today, I swear to you, I have been living in Saturday for a long time now.

Mother's Day

I had other thoughts for today, but given the events of yesterday, they have flown from my mind.

And somewhere in Calgary today there is a little blonde girl who cannot give the card and the craft she made, to her mother. Somewhere in Calgary today there is a little girl named Emma, who loves to chatter who is silent and lost and alone.

And somewhere in Calgary there is a mother who will bury her daughter and her second grandchild, and who will not hear any greetings on this day.

Somewhere there is a father and a husband - a good and kind and quiet and gentle man who is lost and broken.

And in heaven today, Anna is smiling.

And I do not understand.

Banana

I met Anna just over 3 years ago. In fact, I sneezed all over her. It was one of those horrible sneezes, and as someone who had just started with White Guys in Blue Ties, Inc. it was beyond humiliating. And she smiled at me, and laughed and said, "Oh, I'm a mum. I've had worse done."

And I say, over and over to myself today, that Anna died last night. She had a heart attack. She's gone.

Anna, mother of Emma, Wife of Alan, friend of mine. Anna who was 36. Anna Banana. Anna who emailed me on Monday to tell me that she was pregnant again, after a year of trying, Anna -friend of mine is dead. She had a heart attack, and she is gone.

Over and over I say it to myself, trying to make it real.

Saturday Quotes

Though I do not believe that a plant will spring up where no seed has been, I have great faith in a seed. Convince me that you have a seed there, and I am prepared to expect wonders.

- Henry David Thoreau

Grass Cycling Through My Head

Mr. Spit and I are on the hunt for a lawn mower. The old one died last fall - after admission to the Lawn Mower Hospital, where we cordially but firmly signed a DNR - and then managed to not think about grass cutting all winter; with the arrival of spring, we are looking with trepidation, the grass it is a-growin'.

We look at the price tag and think manual reel mower, and then we look at the work (our backyard is quite small, but we also do the fronts' of the houses, and down the side of the neighbour's property) and we think gas? electric? battery? $500?!?! We look dismissively at the riding mowers, and then I am seduced by the lime green Gardena lawn mower, but am afraid to confess to Mr. Spit who understands about such things as small engines and corrosion and blade deck depth that well! hello! it's lime green! With snappy orange accents! Also, made by the same people who made my hose sprayer and water wand and sprinkler, and I like those well enough. And at this point, $500 is looking like a price I am willing to pay, just to make the whole problem go away. Look at her running toward the checkout with a box in the cart, waving her Visa card, shouting sold. (And now is probably a good time to point out, if you are buying something worth $500 the box ought to be a whole lot bigger. A Whole Lot!)

I spout aphorisms like "It is only the rich who can afford to buy cheap things", and then I say, '"well, a penny saved is a penny earned". And frankly, my eyes have long since glazed over. This is what being a homeowner means? I must converse intelligently about lawn mowers?

Then the whole discussion starts over again. It is not a particularly productive discussion, and this discussion, immediately necessary though it be, is not helped by the fact that lawn mowers are located precariously close to the bedding plants and seeds, leaving me easily distracted.

"But that one has a 4 year warranty. . . Oh, look, cup and saucer vine. Wow, I've never seen gladioli in that colour before. . ."

And then Mr. Spit ( lamentably understandably) gets a touch cross with me, and he draws my attention back to the lawn mowers, and I am then distracted by deck furniture, BBQ's, garden accessories, and the final stopping point, pool accessories. (Chez Spit is, sadly, lacking in the swimming pool department, and there is, I confess, quite simply no sane reason for me to be interested in pool chemicals)

But here I am, with visions of a lime green lawn mower dancing in my head, wishing for a 50% off sale.

Reason and Boxes

The heart has its reasons of which reason knows nothing.
- Blaise Pascal

My pregnant life is in 3 boxes - Rubbermaid totes - in my basement. And there are a lot of reasons that I don't go into the basement - it's dank and damp and smelly and the concrete is falling apart and one of the dogs has developed an unfortunate habit of using the basement as a rainy day bathroom, and well, really, I've never liked our basement. Frankly, I've never been a fan of basements at all.

But, as I was flipping my winter wardrobe to my summer one, there were a few maternity things in the bottom drawer. I bought them last October, in the sure and confident knowledge that if Chlomid had worked on the first round last time, there was no reason it wouldn't work that quickly again. Right? Right.

I folded a few t-shirts, some capri's, a dress and another pair of jeans up, and I stuffed them into the Rubbermaid tote in the basement. And I stepped back, and realized that I could get rid of these boxes. Somewhere there was a teen aged mum who needed clothes to accommodate her growing body. Someone somewhere needs these things. I have no need of them.

My head says to find the address for the school for unwed mothers, haul the boxes out to the car, and get rid of them. Not because I am shoving pain out of the house, but because there is someone, somewhere who needs what I have, and I can help them, and it is, simply, selfish to hold on to things I will not use. My head says these things, in a reasoned and calm manner.

And my heart? My heart says - not yet.

Renewal

I remember a boss once remarking that it was hard to do a performance appraisal for me, because I was much harder on myself than he could ever be on me. He was, and is, still right. I'm harder on me than I would be on other people, always quick to point out my failings, as the Book of Common Prayer puts it, things done and left undone.

The sermon on Sunday was about joy. Now, I don't know about you, but I sure haven't looked at these last 17 months with shear joy. Shear joy was what I was expecting when our baby was due in March of 08, not what I got when he died in December of 07.

Now, I must stop. There have been moments of joy. I have been thankful. Truly thankful. For the moments of pain, there was joy. Gabriel died, yes, but oh, he lived for a glorious 3o minutes, he was baptized, our family spoke to him on the phone. I have photo's.

I may not have a living child, but I have all of you to remember with me. I am not alone. And at the end of this, I have the glorious promise of heaven. I have not said good-bye to Gabriel, but only so long for now. I will see him in heaven, and we will both be perfect.

But, back to the sermon. We were being exhorted to feel joy. Joy is, I must confess, rather different than happiness. Happiness depends on what is happening, how we feel. Joy is rather deeper, depending on what we believe. But, I will confess, I don't think anyone would look at me, look at how I have handled Gabriel's death and point me out as the poster child for obedient, amazing, strong Christian woman. Mostly I have stuttered and stumbled my way through. I'm no saint.

I'm better. It's easier. I still hurt, and I think I always will. But, I am emerging. The very though of Mother's Day, while not thrilling me, doesn't leave me gasping for breath either. I can face the year ahead with my head up, and even smiling now. I know that I have survived, I will survive. Still sad, perhaps more quiet and introspective, but alive, and dare I say it, even thriving.

Our priest used a variety of verses to illustrate joy, joy in sorrow, joy in trials. And I was glad, it was an educational sermon, and a timely reminder to chose joy.

But, as I was sitting in the pew, feeling pretty much like a failure, thinking of all the times I didn't chose joy, all the times I could barely chose life. All the times my sorrow and fatigue and pain overwhelmed me.

And I hold on to the same psalm. The same one that God brought to my mind as I was beating myself up - Though the weeping may last for a night, joy comes in the morning. (Psalm 30:5)

And I understand. The night of weeping is over now. I'm not perfect, I still miss my Gabe, I still wish, with all that is in me that he was here, but he's not. I am alive. I am here. Still standing.

Perhaps it is a good thing that the fruits of the spirit: love, joy, peace, patience, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self control are lumped together. One doesn't exist without the other.

Perhaps in this long night, perhaps I can make a case that if I have not had joy, I have had love and patience and faithfulness and gentleness. And as long as I have those, I will have joy again. The morning will come, it has come, it is ever coming.

The fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control. Against such things there is no law. Galatians 5:19-23.

Monday Miscellany

• I spent 8 hours in the garden yesterday. And every moment was worth it. But oh, I'm so sore. I have a progress update (with no pictures - sorry, my body is too sore).
• We have mulch, on every bed but the veggie garden. I have to confess, I don't like the look of mulch, I much prefer the look of weed free black dirt, but the weed free look is often absent in my garden. As a bonus, the mulch holds more water, so things should do a bit better this year.
• The winter kill on Gabe's tree is worse than I expected, but not as bad as it could be. I'm just waiting for it to fully leaf out before I haul out the pruning shears to get rid of the dead stuff.
• My lilac is once again looking at a banner year. And I have to wait for it to finish blooming before I take the pruning shears to it as well.
• I did prune the indestricti-rose. It should have been done earlier, but this rose is about 40 years old and so hardy that I wasn't worried. The blooms are short-lived but smell so sweet.
• I was at a community event today, and someone asked me what my favourite garden plant. Of the 50 or so in my garden, I have to confess, it's the sweet peas. I love sweet peas.
• Everyone say it with me. Dill is a perennial. Really it is. So, would someone explain to me why I have to replant it every year?
• I also have to plant Thyme. It's a biannual, and I guess this must be the third year. I can't figure out how, but nothing's coming up, so I guess I'll replant.
• As payback, I was mocking Kuri's partner a few weeks ago, because he managed to kill off his mint. Guess who's mint didn't come back this year?

What's coming up in your garden?

A Week in Pictures

From Sunday . . . .

Gabriel's 12 week ultrasound - The First Time Ever I saw your Face - Roberta Flack.

My Vegetable Garden the first year we lived in this house, 4 summers ago - I Never Promised you a Rose Garden most commonly sung by Lynn Anderson.

The beach, just before Carmel by the Sea - Song for the Mira, made famous by Anne Murray.

SS Jeremiah O'Brien, in the SFO harbour. The ship's mechanic handed me this wrench, and told me to hold it while my husband took the picture - Your So Vain by Carly Simon

My craft room, what we turned the nursery into - Bridge Over Troubled Water by Simon and Garfunkle.

Yes, that's Lake Louise, in the midst of the Rockies - I Can See Clearly Now by Johnny Nash

A Week in Pictures

I can see clearly now the rain has gone