an unlikely pilgrimage

In a faraway land, where I once lived, a cave sits on the steep hillside above a dark lake.

More than a thousand years ago, a saint lived in this cave. The hillside is impossibly steep and treacherous and the cave is said to be unreachable except by boat - and there are no boats on the lake anymore.

But on dark nights, over too much red wine and whiskey, one or two of my many intrepid friends have whispered to me of a secret path that winds along the lake shore to the cave - difficult to walk, dangerous too, but not impossible if you have courage.

One of my stranger dreams is to find this hidden path and make my way to the saint's dwelling. To reach this wild, impossible place at the end of the world. I may never get the chance - after all, I live two thousand miles from there - but it doesn't really matter in the end. Having this secret plan seems important.

she once asked me

“She once asked me the name of my favourite poet and I replied
God
She laughed and played along and asked me which one of his works was my absolute favourite
I said it was the one where he wrote her into existence”

(unknown)

oatmeal and insecurity

Now: Snow, oatmeal porridge with honey and blueberries, a feeling of insecurity.

Later: A quiet office, pilates class, a question of why.

sorbet in the streets

The cold is easing up under a relentless sun and the snow under my feet is turning into a sorbet-like mush.

March, a long time ago, used to be the month for building the last snow forts, the kind that fortify themselves with a glaze of ice during cold nights. Getting your bike out of storage. The joyful lightness of exchanging heavy boots for sneakers in electric colours. Delicious sunlight on your frozen face. Mild evenings with woodsmoke and dogs barking in the neighbourhood.

March, not so long ago, used to be the dreaded month of working too much and endlessly waiting for winter to end. This year, I'm enjoying it.

I unbutton my heavy, green coat and flex my fingers to warm them up for my piano lesson.When March ends, I will play "Walking My Baby Back Home" during my last lesson ever. A new season will begin.

March is the month of nostalgia and preparing for new adventures.

cold ghost wandering

“Lonely skies, orphan eyes, I’m a cold ghost wandering, waiting for a warm hand to take my own, for a warm heart to lead me home.”

(Josh Riebock)