WriteOut of Her Mind

Mental health breaks can be as simple as a drive to the garden nursery on a damp Saturday morning, to stand in the sheltered soft light of the greenhouse and breathe in the air of all the blooming plants and flowers that surround you in perfect rows. 

It was 4am and my internal alarm clock decided that sleep was over. A waning gibbous moon shone bright, clear white above the row of homes that stretch out in my neighbourhood. There is something magic in the dark morning before the day wakes up.

I’m not going to ask for Cadbury Creme Eggs this year (the British version, because I’m no amateur). I’m not going to do it. I will not get my hopes up.

On a rare day, I found myself home alone. The house was mine, all mine. Solitude. Sigh. 

I never thought I would say this, but I’d like to thank U.S.  national security officials for proving that I am not, in fact, the most inept user of current technologies, though my TikTok account may suggest otherwise. 

Spring has finally arrived, at least on the calendar, and with it a truth that I have long known but am now ready to formally declare:  I married a marmot. 

One of the key aspects to my successful relationship with my spouse, the Carpenter, is my ability to knock this emotionally grounded man temporarily off kilter. It’s my love language and I express it well.

I do not enjoy grocery shopping because I do not enjoy cooking. Well, to be fair, I do enjoy cooking if I have time and resources to do it properly. I rarely have either, and almost never both at the same time.

Every two years, I prioritize my eye exam. By that I mean, the nice office administrator of my optometrist office calls to remind me it’s time to book my check-up, then books the appointment, and then calls me to remind me to show up for said appointment. And I do.

It’s not every day my son asks to hang out with me, so when he does I cancel everything and make time.

When you move to a new home in the winter season, there isn’t much opportunity to meet your neighbours.

This is an interesting long weekend. Valentine’s Day and Family Day. One thing leads to another, if you catch my drift. What? I’m just pointing out the obvious. 

I keep hearing the Steve Miller Band song, Fly Like An Eagle, in my head. 

This week I learned that it is impossible to make the universal angry hand gesture, the one-finger salute (you know the one), when you’re wearing mittens.

“You look tired,” she said.