Listening: I’m listening for the first Swainson’s thrushes, the ones I hear every spring just to the south of my bedroom window, the ones I’ve only seen once, by chance, on the moss, russet-backed, speckled breast, but their song is a mnemonic for spring, for spring mornings, sometimes entwined with the salmonberry song of the robins, the rougher western tanager, the single long whistle of the varied thrush.
Sipping: the other night at bedtime I asked for a small measure of Islay malt and I sipped it while re-reading Louise Erdrich’s Shadow Tag, a book I remembered for its fascinating portrayal of a marriage, an obsession, a painter-model relationship, a family. And yes, Reader, it was just as good the second time around.
Reading: see above. And also several library books about natural dyes, a couple of long articles on parietal art from the Gravettian culture (still musing about formal study), and too much news.
Thinking: while I’ve been swimming for the past couple of weeks, 5 mornings a week, I’ve been thinking about how the world has become such a chaotic place, beyond how I remember it to be. Is this because of the immediacy of our news sources, the omnipresence of social media, or is it because the norms of behaviour have changed, maybe irrevocably? Political discourse, for example. Our expectations of world leaders, that they behave in a civil manner towards others, that they treat their citizens and their peers with courtesy: is what we see now the new normal? Another example of why I’m glad we don’t live forever. I couldn’t bear it.
Remembering: I wonder if the obverse side of remembering is anticipation because I am looking forward to swimming in the lake again, of leaving my towels on one of the picnic tables, remembering how it feels to be stepping out of my flip-flops, and entering the clear water, pushing out from the green shallows into deep dark water. I want that sense of communion, clouds overhead, or the sun coming up over Mount Hallowell, the loons calling, trout rising for mayflies, dragonflies hovering so close I can see the fretwork of their wings, the long stitches of swallows.
Wishing: that I took some of the paths that veered off the main one that brought me here, to 70, followed them, learned their own topographies, maybe returning, maybe not.
Eating: last night I made a salad we ate several times at Cafe Boulenc, in Oaxaca, using croutons of sourdough bread baked with a drizzle of olive oil, chopped tomatoes, fresh basil (from the greenhouse), thin tangles of red onion, green olives, a handful of arugula, tossed in a bowl with more olive oil and a splash of red wine vinegar. Flaky salt and a few grindings of pepper. We had it with saffron and dried chanterelle risotto.
Finishing: I wish I could say I am finishing the pink and purple quilt I am making for my granddaughter, based on a bar graph she sent to me to let me know what colours she wanted (and Please, she said, no crazy designs), I wish I could say I was nearly finished. But I’m not. Not yet.
Watching: I’ve been watching for salmonberry blossoms as we drive back from the pool and this morning there were so many! I’ve been watching for bears and last week I saw my first one of the season. I’ve been watching for rufous hummingbirds but none yet, or at least not here.
Wearing: baggy jeans, a big red turtleneck I bought at the thrift store about 8 years ago (handknit by someone, not me), Chanel 19.
Loving: the chickadees gathered in the wisteria this morning, calling for seeds.
Hoping: the same old hopes and dreams.
Enjoying: pricking out the tomato seedlings into bigger pots and easing their roots into soil. Planting salad greens in big tubs in the greenhouse to move up to the deck in a few weeks.
Appreciating: the foresight of the person who came out one night about two weeks ago and hung a Canadian flag at the top of the Sakinaw hill and the fact that no one has vandalized it.
...Theresa Kishkan 