Seasons


And then it was summer

And then it was summer

I have been getting what I longed for at the end of May - a break, a rest, a reprieve. And lots of fun.

Winter is my country (but then there's March) ~ Part two

Winter is my country (but then there's March) ~ Part two

By the end of February I was feeling a whole lotta cranky. And then it came to me, while I was out in the woods for Laurent's birthday. I needed a solo backcountry ski trip in March.

Winter is my country (but then there's March) ~ Part one

Winter is my country (but then there's March) ~ Part one

I love the rolling mountain winter landscapes of Quebec, the ski hills and all the snow. I haven't had a strong sense of "home" as a place since leaving Alberta as a twenty-three year old wife and new mom, but winter mountains come close.

The rewards of parenting in young adulthood (a birthday in the woods)

The rewards of parenting in young adulthood (a birthday in the woods)

I feel grief about these years being nearly over, all that time spent together, the beautiful mundane punctuated by exciting adventures, the whole thing steeped in love. I feel so busy trying to keep up with it all that I'm afraid I'm missing it, even while living it, even while I'm wishing it was done!

A journal for Spring (and yes, it's still winter)

A journal for Spring (and yes, it's still winter)

I love seasonal rhythms and routines. And I know many of you do also. Which is why I'm excited to tell you about 52 Mondays: Spring Session, a seasonal mindfulness journal.

Hello Darkness my old friend

Hello Darkness my old friend

I thought I'd be able to power through my agenda, which included my writing agenda, and my to-do's with the happy ease of joyful holiday anticipation. And maybe I could have, but life happens. We read things, we see things, we have conversations; the pain, loneliness, and fear comes back to us afresh. Stuff slips through the cracks.

December

December

December, you cradle my spirit and capture my imagination, you hold a lifetime of memories, as you descend to the darkest day of the year.