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!