transplanting the jasmine







Oh those roots with nowhere to go. Forgive the shrubbery metaphor; witness the state of things around here.

It's been so long since I held up my end of the conversation. How are you? I'm mostly well, if a little uncertain of the details.

Things I do know:

- I have a study. I've moved in to the second bedroom in the new house with my books, desk, red couch, violin, sewing machine, plants, yarn, cupwarmer, notebooks, ballpoints, and microscope. I've been sitting here in the mornings. For the first time in 2 years, I have a space of my own. (It does not have a mirror. Trying to write in a room with a mirror is like trying to swim laps with people drowning all around you.)

- The bike route from home to work is settled on, down to preferred sides of the street. Every morning that I barrel through the NAIT campus, groups of men in mechanic's coveralls turn and wonder what's happening. This is not Garneau, where girls on bikes in dresses and tights are pretty commonplace.

- Although the stress of moving is dissipating, I am left with an unsightly five pounds--the result of eating bread and jam three times a day. I am nudging it off, slowly. I am seriously considering joining Weight Watchers online. Does anyone have thoughts on WW, especially as related to developing a mindful, healthy relationship with food?

- I am frankly astonished by how much of my internal dialogue has been chock full of self-loathing. How poisonous. It's this song, all day, every day.



- Ladies and men, I am so glad to be back, you have no idea.