It seems all I want to do these days is read.  When I get home from work I want to read.  When I wake up I want to read.  I forget to eat lunch because I’m reading, and even postpone my favourite meal of the day a few hours to finish a chapter or two.  I just want to read and write and drink coffee.  I want to scratch out a song on the cello and write and read and read and make tea.  I want to read on the couch and on the floor and in bed.  I want to read in the morning, the afternoon, and at night.  I want to get a glass of orange juice and read and write and rub Eliot’s belly and read and scratch out a bit of a song on the cello and forget lunch and then remember.

November crept in.  I don’t mind.  Today was warm and I opened all the windows.  The sidewalks were blanketed in yellow leaves.  I let my legs loose, no socks, no tights, my toes free and wiggling one last day before the colder days of autumn arrive.  Just last week, it was snowing.

I tidied quietly most of the morning.  On a far corner of my desk, I found a scrap of paper with a copy of my driver’s license, a tree drawn in red, and a small poem on it.  I don’t know when I wrote it.  It might have been a year ago.  It goes something like this:

When I think of autumn
I remember growing
older and dying
with you and the trees.
You are kind and life
is short but wide.
Laughter is sweet
and so are apples and grapes
and quiet hands.

apples, socks, squash, writing by candlelight, bundling up, wind, big pots of food warming the stove, warm bread, boquets of dried flowers, halloween costumes, learning, fat egg noodles, reading in bed, chilly fingers shoved in pockets, rethinking, heavy blankets, heavy meals, spicy cake

Outside our bedroom window are the leaves of a tall tree. As I write this morning, three small sparrows are gnawing on its tough, red berries. I tried a small bite of one once. It was tasteless and bitter, probably poisonous. It makes me happy to see the birds enjoy them. It makes me happy to feel well, again, after a day and a half in bed and a week of being lethargic. Much gratitude to Adam for being the sweetest nurse in the world. Nothing like a bout of sickness to restore one’s enthusiasm. Kids are good at that, too. And sunshine after a rainy spell. And girl talk. And a listening to a good lecture of sorts. And a good, long breeze.

I had a dream about a breeze last night. It was a lovely dream. Maybe I’ll tell you about it sometime.

What are other things that restore your enthusiasm?

The air doesn’t smell like flowers anymore, or leaves or young grass.  As I drove out to my parents’ house, I rolled the windows down and smelt the afternoon sun on cornfields and the backs of cows.  Late summer is rolling in.

I woke this morning to quiet.  There weren’t cars or bikes or people walking to the busstop.  There were some birds, a rustle of breeze in the trees, and the jingle of the dogs collar.  I walked in the fields white with Queen Ann’s Lace and sweet with purple clover.  I stood on a mossy path amongst the trees to pick and eat the wild blackberries until mosquitoes ate me.

It made me want to buy a house someplace quiet by fields of wheat and waves.

I guess I’m still the country kid I always was.

As I learn that plants I step on daily are edible, pick wildflowers for vases or my hair, feast from mulberry trees that line the street, and just learn to recognize the plants around me, I find myself understanding more and more the riches in the earth, the great provision we are given in nature. And somehow, I know God a little better.

Hi, friends. The tomatoes are growing, the fireflies are glowing, at the internet has vanished from the Whitlock apartment. It makes my posts here much shorter and less frequent, but I don’t mind. It gives me a reason to sit at coffee shops, and lets me find new ways to waste away my time. The other day I spent a half hour laying on the bed blowing bubbles at the ceiling. I’ll take that over blogging any day.

The most delightful things I’ve spent my internetless days on are reading The Idiot, running into Jonah, writing, eating juneberries, doing yoga and drinking fresh, delicious milk in wine glasses on the porch with Tiffany. And before the elderblossems all wilt away, I want to put some on a sandwich and eat it. I hear you can do that.

Oh, good days. So much happening, so much growing and being discovered. Summer is sweet, I tell you. Do yourself a favor. Find a juneberry tree. Buy good milk. And share it.

It’s been so sunny and colourful these days.  Oh, where did I put the camera?
Walking to the co-op to buy some juice, yesterday, I ran into Jonah, who is still a bit of a stranger, and also quite a friend.  In the usual fashion, we abandoned our tasks and walked for an hour barefoot on the grass, talking about food, society and friendship.  Chance encounters are absolutely one of my favourite things.  I’d like to spend some time walking slowly and cultivating all sorts of them.

Today I bought plants at the market and put them in pots on the porch.  My fingernails are full of dirt.  Playing in dirt might be another one of my favourite things.

Sunny days, barefoot walks, potting soil.  I love this time of year.

Dear winter,

March is less than a week away, and though you are a time period, not a conscious being, I want to be sure to say thank you before I get caught up in my excitement for spring.

You were so beautiful this year with your piles of snow, cold wind, and icy trees. It’s been a while since I’ve seen you so stunning. It’s hasn’t been the best weather for sitting outside, but that’s part of why I like you so much. I like how the streets get quiet when you’re here. The introvert in me delights in the solitude you bring to this lively town. With you, there is always so much space to think and be quiet and alone. Thank you for that.

Thank you for turning my cheeks pinks when I walk to work and giving me the chance to bundle up in soft mittens and wool coats. I like how good warm things feel when you are around: fireplaces, heat vents, hot soup, and roasted winter vegetables. I like not having to wince about turning on the oven. If it wasn’t for you, my homemade bread wouldn’t have improved nearly as much as it did the last few months.

I am glad you exist, winter. I’ve enjoyed you so much this year, and I know that without you, spring wouldn’t taste nearly so sweet. I will drink up the last drops of you, and then see you next year.

Oh, and thank you for that soft pinkish blue light you have.

Always,
Lindsey

(Thank you, God, for wintertime)

I discovered something unexpected, today. I love Valentine’s Day. Really! I do. The holiday gets such bad a rep these days, like its some commercial thing we have to rise above rather than enjoy. But it’s a very old holiday, actually. And what’s so commercial about love and showing affection?

It was interesting to work at a coffee shop on Valentine’s Day. People react to it in such different ways. Most people are pretty apathetic. One man who daily bikes through all this winter snow bought us all a box of incredible chocolates to thank us for brightening his days. One woman, who was long frusterated with romance, had a love/hate relationship with the holiday. Another lady (who is now one of my favourite customers) told me it was her favourite. She handed me a print-out of the holiday’s history and pulled a handful of fallen rose petals she gathered at work from her pocket. She kept them there so she could smell them all day.

And me? I couldn’t stop smiling and wondering about the love stories of people on the street. I loved how the snow began to fall so sweetly in the afternoon. I loved walking through the sparkley, snowy city after work to meet up with Adam. I loved thinking about how God romances us. I looked up at the dark trees on State Street and thought of a small story that went something like this:

Once upon a time, long, long ago, God created the first human. God looked down on him and loved him so much, that right where the man had stood, the first tree twisted its way through the soil and up into the sky. A year later, a wind blew the tree’s seeds, and another tree grew, and then another. And from that one tree, the world soon was covered with leaves and winding branches.

Adam and I went to a poetry reading by my favourite living poet. It was wonderful, not just because it was Li-Young Lee standing there in front of me, but because Adam came along, even though he didn’t feel well and doesn’t care much for poetry. He’s such an incredible husband.  We rode the bus home together and spent the rest of our Valentine’s Day snuggled together on the couch watching The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy and eating salami from the deli bag.

I can hardly think of a more perfect day.