I have tried to post something on here several times now; every time I get half-way through and think, "Cripes, I am so melodramatic." I really do have a poet's heart. Maybe the heart of a crude, novice poet, but a poet's heart nonetheless.

Visited Edmonton this weekend, here are my most available memories:

  • Crossing the Saskatchewan River, frozen nearly across. The sun blazing over the ridge and through the trees, searing rays and spots on the eyeballs.
  • Strange infrastructure; long double-decker train bridges and 180-degree turns down into the river valley.
  • Losing my temper (twice) during the journey; consiquently making my sweet husband a little nervous.
  • Playing the infamous Settlers board game and seemingly impressing my sweet but very competitive husband with my powers of boardgamage.
  • Riding the rollercoaster and decisively yelling; losing my voice a bit later.
  • The comfortable feeling of being able to be totally myself.
  • Found my husband saying, as we climbed to the third floor, "Isn't it nice to be home?"
    I just thought how nice it was to hear him refer to it as "home". It's good to be anywhere with him, and I am warmed to know he is starting to think of this chilly Canadian clime as his home.

Now, back at home. Working away. Finding myself much improved emotionally and psychologically over last week, when I was reaching near-basketcasedom. Will play hockey at lunch at work, and think about how my happiness is the choice to fight the depression.



I wish I could just let my guts spill out to people. What I think and what I feel like. People must walk around with hearts as raw as this.

My email inbox contains a draft email to a friend. I was composing it, wanting to be an encouragement to him in his struggle with cancer. He died before I could send it. Every day I log into my email and I see it sitting there, waiting to be sent. And I can't delete it. It feels like it's erasing him somehow. It kicks me in the gut every time I look at it. SAVED DRAFT.

This is a bit of me, carrying around bits of people.


social system

It has now been nearly a full week of illness, although whatever I have seems to be clearing up. Some unknown virus attacked my throat last Monday and the resulting "viral infection" was far from pleasant. (It's not from kissing puppies, either, as this picture was taken a few years ago now.)

Even now, my mouth and throat look horribly reminiscent of those disgusting pictures they show in high school. I don't really want to see anyone, but I don't really want to be alone, either.

I have had alot of time to think about nothing in particular. Below, a list of things I have considered while bedridden, sometimes spitting in a rag when it was too excruciating to swallow.

- Was God trying to teach me something? If so, what?

- I need to be more understanding of people when they are sick. I am often very suspicious of people. This cynicism was birthed from living with a real-life hypochondriac for two years…

- Serving people who are ill is a gift that is a huge blessing to those who are sick. There is something very psychologically healing about knowing someone is taking care of you.

- I'm a big baby. Three days of pain and a liquid diet and I am crying like a babe, wishing for “someone to end this misery.” Martin is marginally amused.

- Some things done back even 30 years ago made sense. Quarantine, etc. We must think we are invincible, really, that antibiotics are the cure-all for the every day illness, that nothing will stop us and we don’t have to slow down. Never mind the growing number of superbugs, the inexplicable viruses that strike people dead even in modern hospitals. We just run out to the doctor, who prescribes painkillers and penicillin even before a diagnosis, rush home, pop pills, and expect all is well.