Today, rain. It's been raining all morning. I woke at 6 am and went to rescue the blanket on the lawn, the patio couch cushions.

Everything is shining.

I feel a small sense of the day unfolding to me. I'm watching to see what is going to happen... So far, lots of rain and some banging going on downstairs where the landlord is putting in drywall. Blackbirds on the telephone wires, sharp against the clouds. A guy walking on the sidewalk with a black umbrella and a piece of... motorcycle?? The sunflower seeds in the window have sprouted. A new book sitting, waiting for me on the coffee table.

The break in heat comes as a relief, all the windows and doors open to let in the breeze. Finally the house has cooled off, the sounds of rain and cars driving through puddles are coming in through the screens.

I have a long list of things to get done today, but that book on the coffee table is calling to me... No point in fighting it.

Summer has come all at once it would seem. One day it was sweaters and blankets, closed windows, today it's fans and ice cubes and iced capuccinos.

The week has been filled with dinners with friends, wine outside on the deck after dark, trying to escape the heat. I don't miss the air conditioning. I prefer open windows and the hum of fans.

On Wednesday we ate tacos with Ari Neufeld and his new wife & daughter outside on our stone table. We had a strange conversation about men nursing babies, something about how men have mammary glands too - I told him about a story I heard once about a man who nursed his baby when they were trapped underground, and he actually began producing milk. Ari seems to be seriously considering nursing their next child. I told him there is a hormone drug for women who want to nurse adopted babies, said maybe he could check into it.

Then he said his cat always tries to nurse on his nipples. The conversation got a little weird after that.

I wish I had something profound to say.

I'm just trying to keep plugging away on a few projects that need finishing. Some days, I envy those with normal 9-5 jobs, where they can go in and know what the day's work is going to be, and that it's non-negotiable. Plumbers fix toilets, mechanics fix cars, but an aritst is faced daily with wondering if they are headed in the right direction, no rules or lists to lead them on.

Someone once said that you can't look to anyone else's path to show you how to get there, that you must be faithful to your own path. I think this is what we are all trying to do. Maybe we are all just fumbling around in the dark. Come to think of it, I don't know of anyone who doesn't contend with self-doubt at least part of the time, and I'm not sure I would want to be friends with them if they didn't.

Today I am just trying to do my best to fumble along. But some days, some days, I am gloriously aware that perhaps I am getting somewhere, that perhaps part of the joy is in the fumbling. And when it all comes down to it, I have chosen this. And I keep choosing it, all of it, including the financial unpredictability, the uncertainty of where this train is headed, and the extra moments I have to write about my friend whose cat tries to nurse on his nipples.

This is the way I like it. A good day is when I get a little work done, and if I can stop feeling afraid to write, this is always possible.

Yesterday evening, before the sun went down, I walked a few blocks over to a cafe to buy Swiss water-processed decaf beans for morning lattes. It feels like summer now. People are out walking their dogs, smoking on patios, buying ice cream at the little shops downtown. I passed some little tiny stores I'm going to go wander in this afternoon, a clothes store with turquoise flip-flops in the window, a rickety old second-hand bookstore which I anticipate spending hours browsing in.

Afterwards, I came home along the walk way by the lake, then along the shore and the light was shining on the water. I passed a guy meditating on the sand, someone reading under a tree, boats bobbing in the harbour.

I love it here.
There are so many things to make you sigh. I used to make little lists of things I'd see on my runs, and I started doing it again last night.
A dogwood tree.
Enormous maples.
Purple irises.
A little old lady working in her garden.
A furry grey cat sitting in the shade watching me.

When I go for runs, I run through little pockets of scents, and they're continuously changing. Lilacs and tulips and woodsmoke and things I don't recognize but that smell wonderful. All the gardens are bright and alive here, not like the tidy flower beds in my old neighborhood, perfect manicured shrubs surrounded by shiny rocks. You always had the feeling that people were trying to compensate for something. Here, things are a little messier and wilder, the way I like them. There are trees that are a hundred years old and ferns spreading into the alleyways. All the streets have nice names. Lake Road, Beach Drive, Robin Way.

I've noticed myself rushing through life the past little while. There is so much to do, boxes still to unpack, things to mail out, a writing class I'll be teaching soon which requires some prep. Even in my dreams I am rushing, missing deadlines, late for everything, running frantically to get somewhere.

I want to slow down. I get so tired of hearing the same old punitive voice in my head screaming at me to do more and be more and get more done, get further down the road. For what? What is the point if at the end of the day, all I feel is frantic? I have moments and days and seasons where that voice is quiet, but when I begin listening to it again, it takes awhile to regain my balance.

If nothing else, I want to be here for my life. No body else can do that for me. And although the whole world keeps saying go faster, go harder, do more, be more, get more things on your resume, I want to move slowly. I want to be aware of every small thing.

The interview on CBC, will be airing on Friday morning, May 19th at 8:20am Pacific time, on Daybreak.

It’s been a little crazy around here. Boxes stacked everywhere, waiting to be unpacked. We got here to find water leaking in the basement. Then there was the steady stream of repairmen. Somehow the horrible telephone company hasn’t given us a phone line until now (which is why I can post) and there are no payphones within walking distance, we discovered. Not even at the 7-11. What is the world coming to???

On Saturday, because of sewer problems, we weren’t allowed to flush the toilet. I was tired and took a nap in the afternoon only to be awakened by either the electrician or the plumber—not sure which- who are both very sweet men with thick accents named Fluvio or Enrique, or something like that. One of them was pounding away right under my bed. There has been nothing but banging and drilling and leaking going on all week. I feel like I’m Frances Mayes in Under The Tuscan Sun.

Strangely, I don’t mind. I’m happy to be here. There are so many windows in this little house. In the mornings, the light comes in filling all the rooms and I walk around listening to all the floors creaking under my feet. The previous owner planted flowers everywhere and I wander out with my cup of tea and slippers, like a little old lady, and look at everything that is blooming or going to bloom—Delphiniums (the tag says), Peonies (the neighbor told me) and dozens of tulips, which I pick daily and put on the windowsill in my kitchen.

Some good news recently:

I came up in the top 10 on CFBX’s playlist in April.

And I’ll be doing an interview on CBC Radio tomorrow. I guess I should figure out when it’ll actually be getting aired so I can let you know. I’ll get back to you on that…