Full-bodied Living

M and I have joined a fine tradition in our building. Well, actually, to say we joined might give the impression that we were invited. The truth is I invited myself and then asked if my husband could come too.

A few months back over a glass of wine at a social, one of the grande dames of our apartment village commented that she and two other grande dames get together once a month for dinner and a movie night. "Oh that sounds like fun, can I come too?" I blurted. What was the dignified dame to say except yes. No sooner had she agreed to my inclusion then she was agreeing to M's inclusion too.

The tradition includes each of us taking a turn at hosting the social which always kicks off with a glass of Gerty's punch. No matter who is hosting, Gerty provides the punch and each month it is a different delight.

After appies we enjoy a three course meal - four if, Gerty, our culinary whizz, is hosting. Over dinner, M and I mostly listen. I really can't say if Cary Grant was a good actor and dishy besides. He was way before my time and probably also my mother's. Grace Kelly: I knew her as Princess Grace and, no, I don't recall when she married Prince Rainier of Monaco. My mother was just 9 years old in April 1956.

The movie ranges from the black and white classics to anything current, including the royal wedding. In honour of the dignified occasion we decked ourselves out in our refinery and summer hats. We enjoyed a splendid wedding reception dinner before the event and sipped a Jamaican punch while the the rest of the guests sat parched in Westminster Abbey. And when the newly-weds made their happy way back to the Palace it was time for dessert: tea and chocolate cake.

We may not be film stars, famous or rich. Our titles only extend to Mr. and Mrs. - no dukes, duchesses, princes or princesses here, but that doesn't stop us from living a life as full-bodied as the red Rosie brings to enjoy with dinner at movie night.

Happy the Writer

Twenty-six months of hiatus - that's how long my artist-at-rest sojourn was.

During this time I did write, but not a lot. I finished my writing course. I journalled. I wrote for work but not for pleasure. And I was kind to myself that I wasn't writing my blog. I knew that the time would come when I would be enthused to write it again - and if it didn't that would be fine too. There is time for everything under the sun.

And that time was this morning - I got to my writing desk and wanted to re-engage my blog. So I signed in for the first time in twenty-six months, without having to look up my password, and scrolled through the updates of the blogs that I follow - the ones that take me from Winnipeg via Tuscany to Johannesburg.

I looked at my own blog and wondered where to from here. I realised that it has morphed into my writer's scrapbook and, as such, it doesn't necessarily have a theme or follow a format. It looks like a scrapbook: filled with bits of this and that, it has practise pieces of writing, motivational pieces on writing or walking closely with God, and word pictures of instances in my life.

I've also realised that I do not write to become famous or sought-after. There are far too many pleasures in life to be enjoyed to add those pressures to my life. As Margaret Atwood says in 'Negotiating with the Dead - A Writer on Writing', "Happy the writer who begins simply with the activity itself."

I must say, it is good to feel the wind beneath my writing wings again!

Artist at Rest

It is time to rest. To lie on the grass, pull my hat over my eyes and take a break from writing on my blog.

Last April, a friend called casually over her shoulder as she took her leave of me, "Brenda, I hope you get your life back." And since then I've been trying to do just that - slow down, be selective about what I do and work at getting my life back.

Today I realised that part of doing that is to take a break from my increasingly dwindling blog writing. Releasing myself from this will free me to focus on my writing course. I am half way through the course now with six more assignments to go. I will still write in my morning journal but there won't be any more blogs for a little while. I have no idea of how long that little while will be.

Thank you so much for following my blog. I will blog again. But, for now, I say, adieu!

To Toughen my Touche

In preparation for our trip to Holland, yesterday M and I went on a bike ride at Mud Bay with two purposes in mind: to get biking fit legs and a biking fit touche.

We aimed to pedal out for an hour and an hour back. However, forty-five minutes later I was begging for a reprieve: my butt hurt! After a water and butt break, M comments, "Well, this is a good test that we can't bike 60 to 80 kilometers a day." Yes, please not, I sigh. Besides which, if I was to sit in a saddle all day I can do that in Canada. The bike tour in Holland needs to have some pleasure to it as well. M agrees.

"Stop!' M calls to me. "Look!"

I do and there on a pole above our heads sits an eagle. I don't think we've seen one this close before. The eagle cocks his head, as Brooks does when she's trying to get a better look. He spies us and decides we are not worthy of more attention. He preens - just a tad. Brooks, although just the size of the eagle's brilliant yellow beak, puts a lot more effort into her ablutions than this eagle does.

"Fly for us!" I call to the eagle. "Spread your wings." I know that the eagle is far more impressive in flight than perched on the pole. He ignores us and so we pedal on.

See, here is a case in point, I say to M, our bike tour in Holland needs to have time each day to stop and enjoy the scenery. And when we get to the destination, we want to look around too. M agrees. "Yes, the maximum is 50 kilometres a day," he decides. Fifty! My eyes widen.

If I don't get to blog too often this month, it may just be because I'm out pedalling: building my stamina and toughening my touche.

A Wealthy Tradition

We're just back from our annual day at Alice Lake. I can still feel the sun and the wind on my cheeks. I'm a relaxed Brenda Red Knees thanks to dozing off with a book in my lap. And for this day of simple enjoyments I am grateful.

Ahead of our trip to Holland in a few weeks, I'm reading the diary of Anne Frank. As I share in this young girl's experience of being hidden indoors behind closed curtains for two years, I realise what a privileged life I lead. The difficulty in reading the book is knowing the fate that awaits this teenager who will die in a German concentration camp before she is 16 - just weeks before the camp is to be freed by Allied forces.

Anne Frank writes of the difficulty of seeing the helpers who bring her family food and supplies arriving with wind in their hair and cold on their faces and to know that she cannot experience this for herself. What we take for granted became a sought after delight for young Anne Frank. What a privilege it is to be able to doze off in the sun and to be nicknamed Brenda Red Knees.

And I benefited today too from the wise words of my friend Morrie. As his wife, Em, and I discussed some of the challenges of planning for their retirement, Morrie quipped, "These are good problems to have." He's so right, if the problems we were discussing are the sum total of our problems, we are blessed: these are indeed good problems to have.

We count our wealth in dollars when we should count it in our friendships, our liberties, our enjoyment of health and the simplicity of our problems. After a fun day at the lake with friends, enjoyed in good health and with the prospect of work for tomorrow, my cup runneth over.

A Fine Day of Summer

It is a long-awaited day that oozes summer. The sound of kettle drums fills the air as I select ripe apricots; add two oversized zucchini, some broccoli and a bunch of carrots to my fresh produce purchase at the Lonsdale Quay Farmer's Market.

O Summer Joy! What a find this Saturday farmer's market is: organic, pesticide free, free-range, natural and affordable. Did you hear me say affordable? So often organic and pesticide free means ridiculously priced. But here are prices within my budget: a little more for quality but not excessive. I buy two goat's milk soaps, eggs harvested just this morning and a fresh baked organic wheat baguette. I can't leave the market without a baguette.

It is, dare I say, so French. With a market like this, who needs to hanker after the country markets of France? I have my own - a short jaunt down the hill. Next time, I must bring two bags. Today I would've put beets and blueberries in the other bag. I forgo those purchases as I still need to carry my treasure trove up the hill through the throngs of revellers enjoying the Caribbean Day parade.

I take the back alleys to avoid the crowds. It is perfect sunny Caribbean Day weather. The music is loud and festive. What a great start to summer. I'm inspired to prepare white cheddar and fresh sliced tomatoes sprinkled with sea salt on baguette for lunch. Or maybe guacamole ... And blog - I'm inspired to get home and write.

"Bonjour," I call to M. "Je reviens!"
"Salut," M responds.
"I'm in love with the farmer's market. It is so great! Next time I must take two bags."
"Next time I'll come with you," he says.
Super! I'm already looking forward to next week Saturday.

If They Could See Us Now

"Boy, if our South African and Aussie families could see us now!" I say to M as I put on my zipper jacket and wrap a towel to warm my legs. It's gorgeously sunny; however the wind gusts and is cold.

We're stalwarts and soldier on. It's sunny and so we must, we will, enjoy the beach. M suffers with goose flesh but he wants a tan. He's not using his towel and so I grab it to doubly insulate my legs.

This isn't how you enjoy a beach in South Africa or Australia but this is Oregon and here, in the Pacific North West, we have had more than anyone's fair quota of grey cloudy days - we want sun. An hour turns into discomfort as I feel the cold wind settle into my lower back and start an ache in my kidneys.

"I'm ready when you are." I tempt M.
He bites willingly.

Once off the beach and out of the wind, we start to thaw. We set our chairs on the grass and sheltered from the wind, we're warm again.