Tuesday was a lovely gentle day. I love every day that comes with no agenda. I love being able to do whatever I want. And I really love a day like Tuesday when I feel properly energized. Sunday and Monday were days of lethargy. I had no energy; I blame the anxiety and workload of preparing for Saturday night’s dinner party for my exhaustion.
The best parts of the day were our walks. I watch her as she leads our way along the paths. She knows where to turn and smells everything she can along the way. She never, ever, ever leaves me or the trail. She doesn’t chase deer or other dogs; she is my constant companion.
And as we walk, I watch here, amazed by the depth of my love and how much I look forward to going to bed because every night we go through the same routines. She warms the bed as I do my teeth and take my medications, and then she stands at the foot of the bed as I put my pillows in place.
She watches me turn down the covers, fluff the pillows in their place, and then, climb into bed. I have to be quick to snap the comforter back into place before she walks up to me and curls herself carefully and close against me. I feel the weight of her against me and nothing could possibly feel more wonderful. Every night, I fall asleep so, so close to her, feeling and hearing her breathing. Keeping me company. Guarding me. Belonging to us.
It rained all day yesterday, so I read a lot beside a low fire in a log home in the woods and reading about a Chief Inspector who spends much of his days in Olivier’s and Gabri’s Canadian cabin/café in the woods.
I just realized that I’m now 100% fluent everywhere on Gabriola. I still have trouble on Zoom and the phone, but not interpersonally. That’s measurable growth since moving here.
I ponder going to see Beth in Toronto, Steve in L.A., and friends in Vancouver. But the choice isn’t about how much do I want to see my friends, it’s about how willing I am to become my other self—the person with grossly compromised speech. And for how long?
I like being normal here, so I never want to leave. I have Agabriolaphobia. I might have been living fluently for a while. But I only just realized it last night.
I’m going to Nanaimo on Thursday where I’ll likely buy more plants. I’m densifying existing gardens so that I’m not using more water. But I also want more shrubs and trees for the backyard. As my plantings mature—remember: I moved into a home with a yard that had no soil and piles of garbage and construction detritus on it—as they mature, they add gravitas to the landscape. (A bit of a pompous word, but it’s the one that comes to mind.)
I don’t mind these rainy days at all. I’m in no hurry to do anything, and I love slow says of reading with pets. Of course, I look forward to the sunny days that make it impossible to be indoors. I have lots to plant, and lots and lots of little chores to do in the yard.
I believe the chores I do are a blessing. They get me on my feet and moving around, lifting and pulling and bending and throwing, day after day. What better medicine is there? And it’s right outside my door.
I also love the guilt-free couch crunching in the evening!