Adam recently found this old tossed-aside pair of headphones.  He brought them home as a gift, fixed up so I can use them with my iPod.  They are clunky and don’t fit in my purse and make everything sound a bit tinny.  I love them.  I love the way they feel so big and round on my ears.  I love that they are brown and white and full of personality.  I love hearing my dearest music in a new way.

When I was little, I wanted to be an inventor.  I wanted to invent things like this and this and this.  In fourth grade (or was it third?), we split into teams and had an inventing contest.  We were given materials and had an hour to create something.  The other kids were all building catapults with plastic spoons.  But I, was far too advanced for that sort of thing.  I had a brilliant idea.  A Stamp-o-matic.  That’s right, when stamping things manually gets too rough, just turn the crank made from broken pencils, put your paper on the conveyor belt wrapped around toilet paper tubes and- voila!- the Stamp-o-matic will stamp it for you.  And, of course, it didn’t work.  Not even a little.

I think it was that day that I realized I would be a terrible inventor.  Not only do I lack the mechanical skills but also that ever-imporant attention to detail.  I quickly gave up hope that I would grow up to be a female Caractacus Potts (I thought being an astronaut was much more suitable… claustrophobia notwithstanding).   But I never stopped loving the romance of invention as I saw it as a little girl.  Never.

Then, some years later, I married my very own inventor.  Adam is always tinkering with this or that.    I think there’s nothing that man can’t fix or remagine.  To my left on the couch are some mysterious chords.  To my right is an Xbox split into several peices.  I have a hunch that this will be the story of my life.  I love it.  On my way home from work today, walking and listening to music in my headphones, I imagined a house Adam and I would have together in some years, full of funny, reimagined trinkets, some practical, some clumsy and charming.

I’m the luckiest girl ever.

I already posted this poem, but I wanted to post it again.  Hearing about the economy, the state of agriculture, the forests, the planet, the human heart, something is happening these days.  Something is shifting.  This is the heart of the matter, this is my heart about the matter: hope is unfailing.

Thanks by W.S. Merwin

Listen
with the night falling we are saying thank you
we are stopping on the bridges to bow for the railings
we are running out of the glass rooms
with our mouths full of food to look at the sky
and say thank you
we are standing by the water looking out
in different directions.

back from a series of hospitals back from a mugging
after funerals we are saying thank you
after the news of the dead
whether or not we knew them we are saying thank you
looking up from tables we are saying thank you
in a culture up to its chin in shame
living in the stench it has chosen we are saying thank you
over telephones we are saying thank you
in doorways and in the backs of cars and in elevators
remembering wars and the police at the back door
and the beatings on stairs we are saying thank you
in the banks that use us we are saying thank you
with the crooks in office with the rich and fashionable
unchanged we go on saying thank you thank you

with the animals dying around us
our lost feelings we are saying thank you
with the forests falling faster than the minutes
of our lives we are saying thank you
with the words going out like cells of a brain
with the cities growing over us like the earth
we are saying thank you faster and faster
with nobody listening we are saying thank you
we are saying thank you and waving
dark though it is

My day off was cloudy and chilly. I put on a scarf and warm socks. I still had to go into work for a short review, but there was a market downtown and the possibility of photographs of autumn leaves. The wind off the lake was cold. The vendors all were bundled in layers. The sweet apple woman helped me pick out apples and pears. The man who sold gourds and tomatoes told me that being crazy helps time go more quickly. I bought cheese and squash and celeriac and cauliflower and far exceeded the capacity of the little bag I brought. I made my way to work with three.

On the street I ran into a handful of the customers I see every day at work. They were happy to see me. I was happy to see them, too. We waved to one another or stopped and talked. I discovered that the streets downtown had become my friends because they carried these people.

At the shop, I was met by a girl I work with. We hadn’t worked together in some time. She stopped what she was doing and walked out from behind the counter to give me a hug. I gave her an apple. She made me a latte with cinnamon and honey. Another girl working in the back heard me laughing.

Independent girl, I always need to be reminded of these things: the way we can kiss each other on the cheek with our presence, the fullness we can share in sharing our selves, how saying the words “I’m happy to see you” can change the human heart. On my walk home, my bags of fruits and vegetables were almost too full for my small hands.

Thank you for reading my blog. Thank you for sharing.

A man came into the shop, yesterday.  I had met him once before.  I don’t remember what he ordered last time, but I remember that when I asked him where he was from, his face lit up.  He told me the ways he loves Morocco.  I can be shy, sometimes, to ask people about their origins.  But, I think very few things make people more glad than talking about their homes.

This time, he ordered coffee and sparkling water.  He was surprised I remembered him.  He had been very busy working on his thesis.  He is a graduate student of literature.

“What do you study?” he asked.

“I don’t study,” I said.

“Good!” he said, with marked enthusiasm.  I thought perhaps he misunderstood, and I laughed.

“You think it is good?”

“Yes!  I think it is very good!  Let’s say you love something.  Let’s say you paint or write.  Let’s say you knit.  And then you go and study it.  I think something can be lost there.  Something important.  The essence.”  His hand gestures were thick like his accent and just as welcoming.  “Maybe I am wrong, I don’t know.  But this is what I begin to believe.”  He was a little sad about that.

Was he right?  Do you think you can lose something of what you love when you make it a subject in a book?  I think he is wrong.  I think there is something beautiful in studying, learning, sharing ideas.  And at the same time, I think he is right.

We smiled at each other, and I felt I had met a friend, again.

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.

Today is a very important day. If I had a calender, today would have five circles and three hearts around it. That’s how important it is. It is also quite possibly my very favourite holiday. And not just because I get to bake cake. No, that’s just a perk, really. The important part of today is that 24 years ago, Adam was born, and I am so glad he was!

I hope all your birthday wishes come true, dear.

Three cheers for my wonderful husband!

Today was beautiful. At 35 degrees, I found it too warm for wool and happily embarked for work in my spring jacket. I left 30 minutes early to give myself time to enjoy the streets. There was so much to enjoy. Puddles. People looking each other in the eyeballs instead of hiding under scarves. Sunshine. Somehow, the slight warmth in the air defrosted my mind, and small memories surfaced.

I found myself thinking about the little voices that have shaped my life in such big ways. I thought about people like Paul whom I shared eight hours with on an airplane over the ocean. He was so kind, generous, and honest, the whole plane changed when he stepped on board. I thought David with a British accent thick enough to spread on a scone, who I spent 15 hours with on a train. He told me his own wide and wild story of leaving his job fixing roofs in a small town in England to build homes for the homeless Romas in Romania. He made a long, potentially difficult journey for me rich and light. I learned so much from him, the things he said, the way he was.

Its easy for me to close myself up, stay quiet, internal, and safe. I’ve always thought that in the end, it’s just you and God, really. Just you and him all alone. And that’s true. But it’s also true that we matter to each other. It’s true that we can help each other along, and that from our little voices, people’s lives can be changed in unspoke ways. Our hearts were made to be open and honest and alive. Let’s share them with each other. Let’s tell our stories. Let’s warm our hands together. Let’s fold fingers and pray with each other. What do we have to lose?

Have any little voices have shaped your lives? What words have near-strangers said that you’ve never forgotten? Please share. Your words make a difference to me.

Today, I got to spend a few rare hours with a very good friend. We wanted a good ole American breakfast in a cafe somewhere, somewhere cheap and vegetarian friendly.

We got sushi with miso soup and vegetable tempura and cup after cup of the best green tea I’ve had.

And of course she made me laugh and laugh, and we made a bit of a scene wherever we went. Even at the dance performance where Janelle had to have the last clap and we chuckled a bit too loudly when that little girl was whining in that funny way.

Adam said that you could hear Janelle and I walking down the street together a block away. It wasn’t an exaggeration.

Who do you make a scene with?

Some scribblings on living with Hannah Guerra:

I always thought that Hannah was the most beautiful of us. Her face was rosy and radient, full of the natural honesty of leaves and flowers. She wore openness on that face and unmatching socks on her feet tucked into shoes with the heels worn into the soles. She burped loudly and without apology and ate peanut butter out of the jar with ferver. Hannah broke all the rules I created for myself of womanly propriety, and she did it with such glad grace that it built up her womanhood rather than diminishing it. It made her something of a wonder to me.