teapots

It's the end of April.

These past four months have been rolling away faster than I can keep up with them. Have I been busy? I'm not really sure -- it certainly feels like it, doesn't it? Still, I don't really have much to show for myself for the past 120 days.

Some things that are not done:

1. Seeds haven't been started. I have a whole envelope bursting full with seeds. Tomatos, marigolds, arugula, basil, dill, cucumbers, pattypan squash, poppies. All dormant.

2. My books are not in order. I mean my financial books. Being self-employed is so much more than just doing what you love. I love to write and edit; I think I'm good at it. But after I've written and edited, there is the matter of invoicing. Depositing. Bookkeeping. I never meant to work the position of accounts receivable, but here I am, doing it (and poorly) and floundering in my own disorganization.

3. The knobs on our kitchen cabinets are still teapots. Still teapots. When we moved in, we said, "well, the first thing to go are those stupid teapots." But we cannot agree on a single knob in all the land. There are 403 knobs to choose from at Lee Valley. We didn't remotely agree on any of them. And none of the knobs at Home Depot, Rona, the ReStore, Home Re-Useables, or Anthropologie. Some of the teapots are broken or missing, and the doors shut so tightly. I have to pry the cupboard where I keep the mixing bowls open with a knife. Every time. For the past year.

4. I am behind on work projects. All the time. Every day.

In addition, the house is always a mess, we haven't done our taxes, the dog doesn't get walked enough, I've seen my horse only four times in the past four months, we're living down to the bottom of every paycheque.

Now I'm sitting in a cafe waiting for my meeting to show up for a potential freelance job. I hope I get it, but at the same time, I'm worried it'll just add to the list of things I'm not doing a good enough job with.

Snow is smothering the tiny new buds on my apple tree.

Spring is weird.

wistfulness

Today an old friend had his birthday party in the community hall next to the riding arena where we spent all of our teenaged summers. There's no sand now; it's grown in with grass. We stood in the middle of it in our nice shoes while the sun set. I looked around, pictured us together there, riding our horses around the outside of the arena on the springy lawn. Pictured her car there, where she used to park it when she taught riding lessons. Thought about the sound of her voice ringing out through summer evenings.

It was a strange sensation, standing right on the spot where my best friendships formed, where our closeness began, and feeling so removed from the environment, it was like I was looking at it for the first time. The place isn't ours anymore. It was like visiting somewhere that only looked similar to the real place, the one in the past. And like always, I missed her fiercely.

Still, I can go look at this place whenever I want, and if I squint at it, it looks close enough -- and I don't think I'll ever stop trying to feel close to her. Close to how we all were back then, before we were touched by death and growing up and moving on.

And it has been another long winter. It doesn't seem right to complain; the weather has been very kind. No minus forties or snow drifts up to my shoulders. But I haven't had my fair share of bird songs or tall trees or long, aimless wanderings on horseback. I miss the country, and the lake, and bare feet.

If I had to pick a feeling to characterize my life, it would be wistfulness, I am very sure.