Like HD Thoreau, Bill Weale had faith in a seed. As a preacher, faith was kind of Grandpa’s thing. He also believed in being open to messages and signs. So it was strangely comforting yesterday, 15 years after his death, to be able to hear his voice again — singing, “In the Garden,” the same day I gave up on my pumpkin seeds. Suzy and the kids gave me a Crosley turntable for my birthday, so I was able to dig Grandpa’s 45rpm record out of my sock drawer and release his Welsh coal-miner voice from the crackly vinyl grooves. I often invoke Grandpa’s memory as I travel and speak…

“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 Project Pumpkin Patch has so far failed to germinate. I’ve always wanted a field of pumpkins. I mean, really, when you think of it, what could be more wonderful? From a little seed grows a crazy prickly vine that bears big elephant-ear leaves and day-long delicate orange blooms like trumpets. The surrounding ground can be weedy or irregular as long as it’s sunny and well drained. And the…

This is for Elizabeth. Let’s talk about chickadees! My heart leapt yesterday at the neighbourhood bus stop. We parents gather there every morning with a gaggle of bundled-up elementary school kids, waiting for the big orange tube to come ’round the corner. The past two months have been cold waiting —  red noses and frozen toes all around as Ottawa is held tight in the grip of the longest cold snap in living memory. But yesterday, suddenly, the birds were back. A bright cardinal high on a wire over the cedar hedge, and a party of cheery chickadees hopping and diving amid the branches of a crab apple tree. I…

In case you’re still dropping by, there’s stuff going on. I’m just lacking focus. I know it’s time to start writing again when the 2AM nightmares come back. So here’s what’s going on: – I have a new book idea, but I can’t tell you what it is yet. It has to be finished by the time I’m 50 and then could help keep me fit and financially stable beyond. Stay tuned. No, it’s not the Canada Day idea. That’s so last year. – Oh, and I have no idea how to pitch a book idea. – The music is starting again. Suddenly, Simon and I are able to read…

It’s around this time of year, not sure what day, or even what year, that Aunt Margaret died. It was four years ago? Five? I was in Vermont when I got the news, indirectly, through Facebook. Cousin Lynn, in Africa, had posted “Coming home for Mom’s funeral.” That’s a terrible way to find out someone you really love has died. And I loved Aunt Margaret a lot. She also drove me nuts. More on that in a bit. This will sound terrible, but my first thought as the news sank in that day was, “Why can’t it be one of the Mean Aunts!” I’m thinking about Alice Margaret Hickox (nee…

I’m messing around with a standing desk. Woot. Does anyone have tips? I’m motivated to do this for a few reasons: 1) There’s an epidemic of “sitting disease” — tight hips, expanding bellies, tense shoulders. I’m reminded of this every time I attend a yin class and end up crying four minutes into a deep pigeon pose. It’s true, emotions are caught up in the hips. 2) This year I am trying to unleash my creativity. It’s in there. And something tells me that I’m due for a leap forward — but not until I figure out how to describe this without linear reference. The thing is, the need to…

Not all posts can be super-duper* when there’s a daily deadline. So here’s a glimpse into my ordinary day, with some links: – I’m experimenting with recipes for gluten-free protein bars. The first batch of this recipe emerged from the oven last night but were too hot to cut and sample before my killer 5:30 vinyasa core class at Pure (ouch). Later, when Suzy picked me up to take me to a church meeting, I asked her if the bars were good. “Umm, no.” So I’ll try this recipe today. – My friend Anthrodiva (Susan) is one of the smartest and funniest people I know. She sees the irony and…

My mother turns 70 today. When we were kids, she occasionally mused that she was destined to die young. Well, she doesn’t have to worry about that anymore! Happy birthday, Mom! I remember when Mom hosted birthday parties for my grandparents when they turned 70. They were always held mid-afternoon so the “old folks” could drive home before dark. The cake usually had a rocking chair on it and was served with weak decaf tea. Guests were greeted with hushed voices and told not to tease overmuch. Still, we had fun! Today, as I search for info about being 70, some cool stuff pops up. Apparently, 70 is the new…

I’ve been in a lot of therapy over the past two years – first to quit drinking, and then for why I was drinking. A common theme is letting go. One day it occurred to me how to explain this. I was looking around the room at a SMART Recovery group cross-talk session. A self-described “wine-o” Granny was comforting a teary teenage crack dealer who had just been released from juvi. He was telling his story. I can’t tell it here but, OMG. Anyway, as I looked around the room at all the strong people at different stages of recovery, it occurred to me that life is like being launched…

I was camping in the desert in Jordan in 1995, snuggled up on the rooftop of a hostel with an older (28) woman named Jett. She was from Belgium. We were practically on top of each other in our respective sleeping bags because it was freezing; the hostel was full and we were given matts for the concrete rooftop. The sky was like none I had ever seen, bright stars right to the horizon and a ribbon of milky wonder, creamy rich at the highest point in a blended hub of billions of stars at the galactic centre. It was too cold to sleep, like there was nothing between us…

This post is overdue, and quick. It’s 10:15 and I almost broke my New Year’s resolution to write here daily. On Day 2. Something that keeps me going back to the cabin is the sense of wonder I feel there. The place is familiar but never the same. Each winter at about this time I pull out the binders of blueprints and maps and sketches and start making lists of all the things I want to build or plant or change. My good friend Carter indulges this curiosity and longing with his sharp drafting pen (he designed Walden). So there’s a shelf-full of slightly different plans and blueprints here, full…

In case you’re just joining me here, Day One of this New Year, welcome! I’ve been blogging at this address since 2001, mostly in a scattered attempt to capture some observations and to share some life lessons. I have done a terrible job of both, but whatever. In case you missed them, here are some nuggets from the Walden archive while I collect my thoughts and repack the cannon after yesterday’s trial blast: > Now that Grandma is gone, I can finally write this story. She said it would make grandpa turn over in his grave. I disagree. (January, 2006) > Ten years later and I still hate muffin tins.…

There is always a good reason to avoid writing here. Lately, it’s been because I have too much to say and don’t know where to begin. I was much better at this when I didn’t believe that a good personal blog had to be brutally honest. Nowadays I can’t stand to read whimsy shit, especially my own stuff. If you want to read some refreshing honesty, click here. I think maybe writing well is like stumbling – moving forward in a less controlled manner with involuntary movement and expression. But I have to be careful not to get too poetic here. I’ll get to honest in time. I hope to…

“A bewitching stillness reigns through all the woodland and over the snow-clad landscape.” – H D Thoreau. December 9, 1856 My sister popped by Walden yesterday to check on things and to turn off the heat for the winter. I was set only at 5C, but that is enough to keep the deep cold from the mattress and to avoid spills from split jars of frozen pickles in the pantry. Now it’s time to let the cold and stillness in. Val reports that the spring is running fast down the hill past the cabin, from the head by the turning spot and beneath the drive to where it spills out…

“If you get up and have a hot shower, you’ve already had a terrific day.” I forget who said this last week, probably someone on the radio musing about the January blues and imminent come-home-to-roost post-Christmas reality. Overweight, overdrawn, overstimulated. I’d like to think I appreciate the simple things in life, but as I write I’m syncing my new iphone and am taking a break from figuring out how I can share photos via the cloud. Still, what keeps me going is the chance to sit by the wood stove again with Simon, coffee in hand, as he pokes at the embers. I live for beating back brush where there…