Coming Up For Air

Life in general has conspired to keep me away from writing these past few weeks. I’ve spent so much time at a keyboard, both at work and then doing freelance, that working for myself was a chore I just couldn’t add to the list. In fact, all I’ve been doing is writing lists that I never seem to finish, items that never seem to get crossed off, organizational tricks that never seem to actually work. So, of course, it’s no surprise that I’ve ended up with a terrible cough just as spring decides to poke itself up out of my garden in the form of tulips.

We’ve been couch hunting. It’s taken weeks. But at last we ordered both the main stage and a love seat on Saturday morning. I think we’ve been to every single furniture store in the GTA over the past few weeks. The good news is that the deed is finally done and even though we’re incurring costs to have our own fabric put on the couch, at least it’s what we want. The house is looking so wonderful that it’s hard to believe that it’s ours — and it’ll seem like a dream come true when we’re actually living downstairs and enjoying all of my RRHB’s hard work over the last few years.

Annnywaay. I can’t seem to finish anything these days. Not a book. Not a project (have you been within earshot of me complaining?). Not a single damn thing. The foggy-headed disease blues are hovering and just knowing that I’ll soon be off the prednisone isn’t enough to keep me going. Hard work, hard graft, seems all I’m capable of — and it’s a little disappointing to realize that people all around you don’t actually see you for who you are. Someone described me as a “work horse” the other day, and I don’t know why it caught me in the wrong way. I’ve always been a hard worker but right now I just don’t see the point. I’m not enjoying anything at the moment. My heart’s not in it — maybe that’s why the to do list seems never ending. I just don’t have the get up and go to actually get up and get it done.

Annywaaay redux. Today I spent some time in the garden. My RRHB laughed when he saw me hauling the bags of composte from the garage. He said, “There’s no way you’re going to be able to move that dirt.” But the sun had worked its magic over the past few days. The top soil was flexible and I did manage to get one part of the vegetable garden turned. Layers of newspaper, more seeds planted (some spinach; we’ll see how it does), and five bags of dirt, compost and clay reducer later, I think we might just have something. Now if I could only convince my neighbour NOT to do our front gardening. Last week he severed my enter lavendar plant simply becuause he didn’t know what it was — didn’t know that it’s meant to overwinter and not be trimmed back to its bare, bare roots. This is the third lavendar plant he’s destroyed. We keep telling him. He keeps laughing. As you can tell, there’s a language barrier.

What a metaphor for my life at the moment, huh?