I wasted Friday. It was cloudy and there were showers but it was warm, so I walked Sheba and lay around watching episodes of Escape to the Continent.
The best moments of the day were on my walks. The flora was thick and billowing like ocean foam, bursting from the forest into the trails. I was drowning in green, constantly ducking or weaving left or right.
The smells were rich and pungent. The gentle wind created a rain of needles; the trails were carpeted in light brown pinecone flotsam. The birds were orchestral. Everything I heard, saw and smelled made me glad for the showers of light rain. The mist was soothing on my skin. All my senses were alive.
“Glades” of tall grasses stood alone and tall, towering over all else in the meadow—a clump of single spires, many were taller than me. When the light penetrated the cloud the lightest of the greens become almost yellow and glowed.
And the Ravens! Soaring black shadows; their caws and clicks inspired thoughts about the past of this island.
I took Latin for years and easiy the most popular verb was vasto, vastare, vastavi, vastatus: To lay waste. Romans were constantly laying waste to things—fields, ships, virgins, towns, castles, etc. That’s what I did to myself—and my day—yesterday. I laid waste—and waist. I ate lemon tart.
Today is bright but only 7° this June morning. There was a good healthy fall of rain last night so the garden is looking veryhealthy. Thankfully, it’s predicted to get warmer and drier over the coming week.
This weekend brings an end to my eighth month on Gabriola. I’ve done so much here (with Darrell, of course) and had so many novel experiences that it seems much longer. And now, with the “heavy” work finished, I can enjoy the contemplative pleasure of attending to the innumerable details.
This morning I’m going to the Farmers’ Market. It’s the secular equivalent of going to church. It’s a rich social and emotional experience, enriching my sense of belonging—as does the Sunday community dog walk. The weekend is the highlight of my week.
But tomorrow I’m not dog walking because I’m going to Vancouver for lunch with John and Bunny and to stay overnight at Bruce’s. Bruce and I will watch the Tony Awardsand I will weep. It’s the musicals. I’m missing many genes but for musical theatre I’ve one one huge throbbing giant of a gene. And I’ll likely see or hear some real actors scattered amongst the narcissists and the pretty people.
I was born this way. I put on my first plays in our garage when I was four. There was so much I did not know about myself: Who my parents were. Why I had no siblings. Where I came from. Why I felt like I didn’t fit in. But one thing I knew that was true about me was my profound passion for theatre and the talents of its agents. TheToniesare high mass.
Then Monday: Dr. S. and then a reunion with Sheba, Fred and Ethel. Oh… that’s going to be good.