The Pulse of The Morning

August 24, 2025 8:25 a.m.  I wake at 3 am and lay still for 20 minutes, hoping to fall asleep again. The river has run dry from the drought and with the water almost gone, I hear nothing other than a solitary barred owl calling from deep in the forest. Usually I can hear the fast moving currents of the river around the island behind the house. Most often I can hear loons or echoes of ducks in the estuary. I think of the trout, the pickerel, the gaspereau, the eels, the birds, the muskrat, the beaver, the river otter. I think of the countless forms of life that rely solely on our beautiful river. I have been away from here for almost two weeks and, in that time, the waterfalls up river have vanished. Nothing is left of their presence but the enormous brown rocks that form the fast-moving eddies and pools that the kayakers and fishermen like so much. This climate catastrophe deeply frightens me. It is hard to imagine the future devastation that we are in for. There is no sleep for me...

  June 22, 2025, 8.40 a.m. Last night as I took the laundry off the washing line, I heard a high pitched shriek from above. I looked up past the pines and the oak tree, through the verdant green and up into the cobalt blue sky, and I saw an Osprey, circling directly overhead. It spiraled upwards, riding the thermal updrafts, those sultry pockets of rising warm air. I watched until I could no longer see it. Goodbye, I whispered. This morning, at 5:50 a.m., the Osprey's call woke me from a deep, dream-filled sleep. It was so close, overhead my window, that I heard the flap of its wings. I laid still in wonderment, holding my breath. Osprey, Canada Goose, Loon, Great Blue Heron, Common Merganser: the sounds of the river from my bed. It is the earth being itself and I am here to observe, acknowledge, listen, love. Life gives to life; there is nothing to fear. We live in a world of motion and distance. The heart flies from tree to bird, from bird to distant star, from star to love; and ...

  June 12, 2025, 9:40 a.m. A dark, dark morning with torrential rain and intense wind. I pull back the curtain and lay in bed and watch the tall white pines sway back and forth. A sudden flash of light and moments later a low rumble. Thunder. I love a good thunderstorm, especially while in bed. This storm is unexpected and I have a sudden realization that the kettle is empty. A thunder storm in this neck of the woods usually means a power outage. The grid is very fragile here. Our water supply is run by a deep well water pump and no power means no water. I get up and quickly head to the kitchen, fill the kettle and the washing up basin, just to be safe. Rhubarb stands by the kitchen door but refuses to go outside for her morning pee. She is a magnificent swimmer in the lakes and the rivers but the rain frightens her. A clap of thunder and she runs back to the safety of the couch. She sits up straight, wide-eyed. I sit next to her. It's OK, my love, you're safe. I'm here. Ss...

June 10, 7:30 a.m. I wake and it is dark. I reach out, open the curtain and see twinkling, shimmering, golden light through the stand of old pine trees. It is just dawn. My eyes are heavy from a dream-filled sleep. Feels like I've been busy throughout the night with various characters and unexpected plot twists. I want to get up even though it's still an hour and half until Frank's first medication dose of the day. Instead, I lay still. Listening. Thinking. It's been furiously hot these past forty eight hours. We retreat into the house each day by 11 a.m., with blinds down, curtains drawn, windows closed. While it spikes to 40c outside, it remains 24c inside our darkened cave. It's been too hot to cook. For the last two days we have lived on our first strawberry harvest, salad from the garden, sourdough bread with butter and jam, hot dogs, ice cream sandwiches. We have drunk 4 litres of lemonade so far. By nightfall, the inside of the house reaches 28 c. It is cool ...

May 25, 2025, 7:45 a.m. I wake. Dim light filters through the linen curtain. It's actually an old tablecloth found at the thrift store for a dollar or so. The embroidery looks like moths floating in the air. I look at the clock. 7:15 a.m. The duvet is warm, soft, heavy. I have a summer quilt on top because it's been cold at night. I stretch out my legs. They've been pulled into my torso for most of the night. My toes now reach the end of the bed. I flex my feet, pull my arms overhead, lie still. A clatter of pots. Frank is up already. I rise, wash my face, put on my old tartan flannel dressing gown. We've run out of bananas, he says as I enter the kitchen. Good morning, I reply. Oh good morning, my darling! You OK? I nod. Just tired. Bad sleep. Weird dreams again. He holds out his small, thin arms. Come here. He holds me, rubs my back gently. I'm tired and feel like folding in half. Immediately I feel a pang of guilt because I'm not the one who is dying, even ...

May 17, 2025, 3:30 p.m. I have escaped to Toronto for a few days to visit my kin. It took some engineering to leave home and to make sure all of Frank's needs are met. But I'm confident that everything will work out. But still there is an ever-present, disquieting anxiety. All will be well,  I say. All will be well. I am here in another place, almost another world, where no-one is dying, doing simple things with my child, her husband and their child, my beautiful grandson. I them love so very much. We eat good food. My son-in-law is a great cook. My daughter and I drink coffee on the porch, take walks along the laneway, through the neighbourhood. I cuddle on the couch with A, read him stories, give soft kisses on the forehead freely. We share warm hugs and lots of laughter. I love you. I've missed you so much. Spring in the city is not a distant memory; it's a full body, visceral experience. So many memories from 40 years ago. Queen Street, Grace Street, Indian Trail, B...