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.

the nature of things

these past few days i've felt a poem coming on.

or something like a poem. my head has felt in the right place -- a place you can't force it to be in; it just doesn't work that way.

this weekend i think i'll plan my garden. it's time to start seeds in my sunny front window. i look forward to the small joy of seeing that first speck of white and green appear in the soil. proof that life works, and goes on, and the nature of things is to grow.

love and some verses

sitting in a cafe trying to bang out an article i know nothing about. it isn't going very well. i am staring off into space and drinking my coffee too slow so it's cold. i want to go home, crawl into my bed, and close my eyes. my eyes are tired.

i'm listening to the song we signed our marriage register to. i was never capable of keeping it together during emotional moments (i have cried in front of hundreds, maybe thousands of people in my lifetime), so i was teary-eyed and my nose was running and i didn't have a tissue. i watched my best friend sign her name on the witness line and i felt eric's hand on my shoulder and i looked out at all of the people watching and thought to myself, "what if the song ends before we're done?"

i am obviously not the best at staying in the moment.

all of this to say i'm three days away from deadline and i haven't written a single word. 

dressage in the wintertime

I guess there's nothing stopping me from starting my work day at 2:30 PM at a coffee shop. Still, I feel guilty. It is a marvellously sunny day outside, and I wish I were riding a horse through a wide prairie. This wish will probably never go away.

I have been thinking about her a lot lately. She's always there, somewhere, but these past two weeks she has been at the forefront of my thoughts.

It's something to do with thinking about horses. With bringing my shaggy horse in from the pasture, cleaning him up, pulling his mane back to a respectable length. Schooling dressage alone in a quiet, cold indoor arena that reminds me so much of the arena at the old barn where we all met. Something about not being sure what it is I'm working towards when I ask for flexion and bend, when I ask for more impulsion, aiming for steady straightness and quiet transitions. There's no real reason for working towards these things, when there is no end result in mind and no one there to tell me should be able to do it, or to tell me I actually can do it. To congratulate me when it's done.

Without her it seems sort of pointless.

It could just be that it's winter and we're just as far in as we'll ever be out. It's a good season to be wistful.

office space

there's a for-rent sign in the top floor window of the noble building. i have always loved that building. the hallways smell like cookies and baking bread from the cafe downstairs. it's old, and a little rickety (squeaky floorboards and old windows) and it's charming. i loved working in that building.

the windows of the suite for rent face south-east. imagine the sunshine in the mornings. i imagine renting it with a couple of other writers. having a warm, bright space to work. eating sandwiches from downstairs and coffee from across the street. contributing, once more, to the community in garneau.

but it will not be so.

to help me remember

Today is one of those days I'd like to ride my horse through the countryside and just think about landscapes.

I don't get the urge to ride horses very often in the wintertime -- often it seems like a cold, unpleasant chore. A long drive, treacherous roads, numb toes and icy fingers. I've gone almost two months without the motivation to go see my equine friend. He has grown fat and his winter coat has grown long. On really cold days I think about frost on his whiskers and on the ends of the beard he grows to keep warm.

I saw him on Tuesday. I met one of my best friends at the barn to clip his winter fur so that I could ride him inside without dealing with an overheated, sweaty mess of a horse. It was like old times, standing around in barn aisles, laughing together, talking about horses and our lives. It brought me back to the place I loved -- a place I'm not sure we'll ever get back.

After he was snug in his winter blankets and I drove home on the dark highway, I once again felt wistful. And sad.

Now I want to go back and feel the soft velvet of his nose on my hands and take him on long rides alone (I wish they could be there to accompany me, like old times -- but they won't; they haven't been for a long time).

The difference between now and then is that I have other priorities. I can't go out to the barn -- I have to work. I have deadlines looming and dozens of emails to reply to. Back then, going out to ride was the one rigid aspect of my schedule that everything else had to revolve around. Now it's just something to fit in now and again.

Sometimes I think the only reason I still own him is to help me remember.

To have something to show for it all.