My courage with both hands, mostly. In September, I’m traveling for the first time since October 2, 2019. (I found a receipt in my US wallet.) I’m not sure it’s the right thing to do. But much of it is. So, a risk.

Manitoba Maple starting to change

Quantifiably reduced expectations. It’s really helpful to specify how many pages of an interminable project I aspire to finish in a month (and then cut that by a third), as opposed to hoping that somehow I’ll magically finish the whole thing and being disappointed when I don’t.

I think this green plant is a lupin; it's spread farther in the ditch where they grew this year. Readying for next year?

Wild blueberries, enjoyed this year and stored for next. I made a couple of awesome desserts, and we’ve got a stash of berries in the freezer. Since we had zero local blueberries last summer, a freezer full feels both magical and mundane. 

Is the world, ever so slowly, righting itself again? Stabilizing? So, so slowly? 

And if not -- or if this sense of balance, possibility, and normalcy is also only temporary -- can I enjoy it for this moment? There's the bigger question.

The wee scene below caught my eye the other day, when it wasn’t raining and I was out for a walk

A small yellow weedy wildflower grows through a crack in the asphalt.

It made me laugh because it’s begging to be an inspirational poster on the wall of some business conference room.

Then I started wondering which word it would illustrate.

Persistence? Inevitability? Endurance? Imperfection?

Maybe a phrase. “Allow space to grieve,” or “You can grow anywhere you want,” or “Imperfection is where the good stuff happens.” And of course, an obvious choice: “Nevertheless, she persisted.”

Nevertheless. Love it.

So. Perhaps, just perhaps, there isn’t one perfect word or phrase for this photo. The “right” phrase depends on your perspective. And there are millions of those.

I hope you’re enjoying your Wednesday, whether you’re the weed, the asphalt, the observer, the sun, or a fawn who’d like a little snack while crossing the street.

It’s Mid-August in a year that’s included fawns and chipmunks, squirrels and crows, clean water and clean new sheets, burgers on the barbecue, and The Great British Baking Show.

And I’m enjoying it beyond all reason. Who wants to listen to reason in August?

Morning sun breaks through clouds.

Doe watches photographer while fawn gambols.

Fawn gambols some more.

Fawn butts doe's flank; 
surely s/he's weaned? 
Maybe not yet?

Sunset lights up the evening sky.

I was not a huge fan of the movie Grease, but Olivia Newton-John made the world better, and we will miss her.  

I've been thinking a lot about grief lately. I imagine we all have. All of us humans.

Eight years ago, I took my cute boots out in the canoe. We had fun.

Whether we are or aren't "coming out of the pandemic," we have definitely been IN one, and that has held grief. Birthdays missed. Hell, births missed. Deaths, too. All kinds of celebration of life. 

As society changes, in whatever way it changes in the next 2.5 years, those changes can cause new pain. 

Perhaps I didn't have a "productive" stretch during the pandemic. Perhaps I have redefined "productive" and live a far happier life, more connected to things that matter. Perhaps I have merely survived. No "merely" about it, though.

In any case, I am considering today whether I (and we, as a society) have been misunderstanding grief. It's not like I haven't experienced it before, and I know more grief lies in the days ahead. 

As does more joy. Make no mistake, I know that, too.

Today I had a(nother) dental appointment. I'm getting two back molars crowned this summer, and I have whined about it before. I acknowledge my privilege in having dental insurance at all, to say nothing of the wherewithal to pay premiums and copays. But it's just not pleasant, okay?

Waiting for the "numbing," as the dentist calls it, to wear off is always interesting. I'm continually poking or patting at my cheek, my tongue, my lips. Can I feel them now? Here? No, how about there? Maybe. Et cetera. 

And then, whoosh, the numb spots are gone. Today, sensation returned to my face after 3.75 hours. In the space of about 5 minutes, I went from "is that gnarly thing in my mouth my tongue?" to "hey, there's skin on my cheek and I can feel my lips!"

And yep, that's how I still thought grief works. Like in the movies: there's a montage where our protagonist drags herself out of bed in January, sometimes falling back into bed with a bottle of wine, but generally mooching around the house in her bathrobe while calendar pages flip, and then it's March and trees are budding and she wakes up and goes, "Oh, I feel better! I'm going to be okay."

Feeling returns. The good kind. Energy enough to overcome inertia, to return to some semblance of a former self. 

But I'm guessing that's not how it works. Or how it will work, for some of us, this time. Because while we've all experienced a pandemic, we haven't had the same experience. And that's not all the painful experiences that some of us are experiencing.

Funny (not haha) how old assumptions lie there, waiting to be questioned. 

Now that I have, I won't be wondering where all my old energy is. I can be open to whatever energy I have. And look for that joy.

Bobcat on the septic field at dusk, from a previous year's August but not out of the question for this year.

Helpful, positive, constructive input on a beloved project.