The Pulse of The Morning

 I've been wanting to write this for the last nine years but I've been too afraid to. I still am. However, it seems like it is time because for some reason, I have been plagued this week with thoughts of the past. When I write " thoughts of the past"  I  actually mean visual flashbacks of events, places, people. Most often my thinking begins in pictures and then these pictures are translated into words. It's one of my secret (no longer!) superpowers. This week, I've seen the chapel at Trinity College, Toronto, just after communion, when it is empty and quiet and the cloud of incense still floats high in the air and the students can be heard in the cavernous Strachan Hall, collecting their next meal in between classes, with cutlery clinking and loud laughter and jokes. I've seen St. Mary's Episcopal Cathedral in Edinburgh, with its tall, triple spires that frame the landscape along Queensferry Road, a place that is always cold and always dark, with wet,...

January has come fast and I notice a change in the light already. When I lived in Perthshire, we all longed for January 25th. Besides being Burns Night, it was the date when the sun, after laying low in the horizon for months, finally made its way over Birnam Hill, shining glorious weak, watery light into the village. The dark days of rainy gloom and dark skies would soon be over. I still hold this date in my heart even though the winters here bring blue skies and crisp pale sunlight. The coyotes are not as active these nights but the deer have emerged from their hiding places to nibble on spruce buds. I see them at 3 am if I am awake. They are not skittish at this time of year and we carefully stare at each other as I stand on the porch, wrapped in my shawl. I walk back inside, close the door quietly, and they resume their slow, meditative chewing on the edge of the dark forest. I've been thinking a lot these days about the wondrous beauty of this world. I have to. I must. If I do...

I wake each morning this week feeling unsettled. My nightly dreamscape has turned frantic, sometimes violent, with kidnapping, death threats, chase scenes that involve what seems to be every single person I've ever met. I wake exhausted, confused as to what day it is. I rise, feed the dogs, go outside, stretch, inhale, exhale, look skywards, stand still, do a couple of tai chi moves. The forest is silent now except for the chickadees and brown creepers and nuthatches. A lone blue jay sits on the fence post, resplendent, majestic in its cloak of flashing azure blue. I miss the summer sounds already but I settle into this new quiet. I still feel rattled, though. It is Thanksgiving weekend. It is the one holiday in the calendar year that can stir angst, anxiety, apprehension within me. I think back to my younger self in 1976, arriving in Canada from Glasgow, unaware of what Thanksgiving was. It would be our first holiday to celebrate in this vast, unknown, country. My family dismissed...

September 14, 2005  7:20 am Yesterday, I said to my dear friend, T, that I could easily live through a year's worth of late summer and early autumn. The deep, cornflower blue summer sky has watered down to a paler version of itself, with cool, diffused sunlight dancing through chestnut trees. Soft shafts of light brighten my kitchen with slow moving shadows. It has been an unhurried, steady summer for us. Incrementally, Frank grows smaller, slower, his energy dwindles along with his sharp-as-a-tack memory and his high-spirited wit. But his determination remains the same. Fuck this shit!'  he sometimes says. I'm not ready to die yet. Well, don't then, you crazy fool!' I answer back. And we laugh and laugh and laugh. And   he bravely carries on. The vegetable garden went to hell this year because of the drought. I speak to other gardeners and we bond over this climate tragedy, relieved in one sense that it's not due to our poor gardening skills. Save for a rather ...

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...

  May 2, 2025, 7:25 am The midnight rain wakes me from a strange nightmare: wolves morphing into people I'd rather not see again, especially in my sleep. I am shaking, breathless, afraid. I sit up in bed and listen. Just the patter of rain on the woodshed and the tick-tock of the cuckoo clock in the living room. I wrap my heavy woolen shawl around me and quietly tip-toe through the darkened house to the entrance of the mudroom. Frank sleeps in his hospital bed and I can hear from his breathing that it is a deep sleep. Are you awake? I whisper softly, knowing I won't rouse him. I just need to hear my voice. He sleeps on. It is cold in the house. A fire is needed. I walk over to the woodstove without turning on a light. Frank jokes at my ability to see in the dark. Calls me a vampire in disguise. I reach for the kindling and newspaper and quickly set it alight in the firebox. The flames creak to life, adding light to the darkness. I warm up some milk and wildflower honey in a sa...

  April 20, 2025. 6:50 am It has been far too long since I've written anything down in my notebook. It was a hard winter. Frank went into heart failure in November, an unfortunate co-morbidity of his particular cancer. After many appointments and overnight stays in the cold and windy city throughout January and February, he had an aortic valve replacement in March. The medical care was exceptional and he recovered well. But it has taken a toll on him. He is smaller, frailer. But his determination to live has only increased. He walks 15 minutes every day, rain or shine. He stacks wood until he feels the all-too-familiar, slight nagging pain in his back. Sometimes it takes an hour for this pain to emerge; sometimes half an hour. But he persists. He is a superhero. So I begin another season with good intentions of writing each morning, pencil to paper. It is spring after all! But this morning, I struggle to make sense, to form any proper, cohesive thoughts. I am still tired from the ...

  [This post is from diary entries from last summer, when Frank was first diagnosed. It serves as context for the rest of this blog] June 20, 2024 Frank has been in pain for six months now. He says it's from splitting wood all winter-long. I am worried, naturally. He saw his doctor a few weeks ago and blood tests are in the works. We receive a phone call this morning from Dr. F, a locum at the clinic. She is shaken by Frank's results, especially his prostate specific androgen (PSA) levels. We can hear it in her voice. She says she's never seen anything quite like it before. A PSA test result above 4 is concerning. Frank's is over 1700. He has excruciating bone pain; so much that he cries when he rises from his chair. "I'm confident to name what will eventually kill you," she says. A strange and abrasive way to phrase, "You are dying." He has prostate cancer. And, more than likely, it's metastic prostate cancer. We are both numb, speechless. ...

Most mornings I try to sit and write a few pages in my small notebook. Pencil to paper. A daily record of thoughts, observations, feelings, ideas. Mainly unedited and nothing profound. In my small notebook, I try to capture my slow, deliberate days with Frank, who is living and dying with aggressive, terminal cancer. I try to capture the beautiful intricate dance between life and death; the weaving together of living and dying, and the grace and beauty of awareness, compassion and love. This blog is an attempt to reflect my morning scribblings. I've been contemplating it for a while but my inner saboteur likes to tell me that no-one would be interested in my very small, quiet world alongside a river in rural Nova Scotia. So I've put it off for many months. I am a Luddite in heart and soul [I'm a weaver after all] and I rebel against this technology. I considered publishing a zine which feels much truer to who I am. But that takes time and effort, something I am very short ...