The Pulse of The Morning

  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 ...