It occurred to me yesterday that email, mail, and other courier services don't include a hope-meter.

That is, you can't tell by looking at the mailed item whether the person who sent it off was hopeful or discouraged.

All you can tell is that the sender got the required elements together and sent it, however that looked: she clicked Send, clicked Submit, paid for a stamp and shoved it into a mailbox, whatever.

It's probably a good thing, too. Because by the time the sent item arrives, the sender might well feel different--resigned, perhaps, or something even more neutral.

Regardless, the thing to do is get stuff sent. It doesn't matter how you (I) feel about it. Just, as they say, do it.

Here are some random thoughts that have floated across my consciousness recently. They're mostly related to "belonging" and "home," which are, not coincidentally, themes of "Atomic Tangerine," soon to appear in The New Quarterly.

1. I picked up my Canadian passport. Now that I have the ability to leave and return to the country as I wish, I feel more comfortable about staying. There's probably something to examine there. Maybe it's just typical human nature. Maybe I'm part cat, wanting out from in and in from out.

2. Speaking of the Canadian citizenship ceremony, it was...interesting. Sweet, actually. Held at a local high school. One of the school's students was becoming a citizen. I managed to repeat the oath and sing the anthem. And I now have all the lapel pins a new citizen could ever want.

3. Still on the citizenship ceremony: I've always liked "Uptown Funk"--catchy hook, great video, what can I say, I like pop music--but now have an even stronger connection, given the high school jazz band's rendition of it during the ceremony. Including jazz solos! Not a musical number I'd have predicted for the day.

In fact, overall, the ceremony didn't go exactly the way I'd have imagined a citizenship ceremony. I would have anticipated something more solemn--somber, even, with talk about duties and responsibilities. Instead, mine was was celebratory and welcoming. It featured young people, themselves relatively new citizens.

To which I can only, in the words of the song, "hit a hallelujah (woo!)."

The theme for March has been "postpone."

Because of illness, a friend postponed a get-together. For some mysterious physicians' reasons, a medical appointment has been delayed. Travel issues have caused a family visit to be postponed for months.

As a result, my schedule has room to breathe. And therefore, deadline that I had given up on meeting is now not only possible but reasonable.

Because of this room, I can not only "send something" just to be sending something, I can send something that's recently revised and re-considered. Perhaps even re-re-re-considered.

It's a good goal. So I will take advantage of fun (and appointments) deferred and meet it.

On the flip side, I'd planned to make a blueberry cobbler for the visitors. Even though they're not coming, it's still on my list for this evening. Because a cobbler is a sort of pie, and today's pi day, and my cobbler topping is scone dough, and (as we all know) scones are never wrong.

Some pleasures can be savored when they're postponed. But sometimes, making the cobbler is still the right choice. And new space in the calendar is a gift that I don't take lightly.

The days are getting longer, but the ice remains on the roads, and therefore, my walks remain on the treadmill. Which means I listen to podcasts.

I was especially excited to see notice of the return of this podcast: Missing & Murdered. This season focuses on learning the story of Cleo, a young girl from the generation of the "Sixties Scoop."

As I said here, I learned so much from the first season of this podcast--among other issues, how and why some people might zero incentive to cooperate with authorities.

True-crime podcasts can feel squicky, in the way that reality TV shows can: exploiting tragic stories for sensationalism, fame, or ratings. I have wondered whether I'm "done" imbibing crime stories, whether those stories come in the form of books or podcasts or even longform journalism. I haven't decided.

But even if I declare a personal moratorium on similar podcasts, I will continue listening to Missing & Murdered. First, it doesn't feel exploitative. (To me, at least; your mileage may vary.) I also learn so much culture and history from the families and their willingness to share their experiences and stories. I said it before, and it's still true: I feel honoured to have the opportunity to listen.

And, as always, listening is important.