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These past months, my gobbling greedy self learned anew, and deeper than ever, how disappointment can punch you in the stomach. The deep, miserable kind. The cry loudly on your bed when you are home alone. The nose-running kind.

On a recent day, during a visit from my Mom, we travelled through Toronto via go-train, subway, bus, streetcar, taxi and a big chunk by foot all within the space of a few hours. We reached our destination: Canada Blooms.

I had a lovely embrace of a moment with an old friend recently. We encountered each other at a writers conference,  after 22 years of living our lives and growing up and out from what we had been when we knew each other: wives of husbands in seminary.

I have a dear and patient friend to whom I send the pictures I snap of the most annoying decorative signs I find in cute shops everywhere. She rewards me with a “HA!” of solidarity. Janet, I think, is the only person to whom I have so far admitted how much those signs, which can be roughly divided into two camps: the Bossy and the Boastful, bother me. That will all change now.

Words that inspire, stuck on my cluttered fridge. Although I do often give myself a day off, I believe, along with good old Eleanor, in doing things that scare you.