This morning, as I sit on my patio in the sun and write in my journal, check my calendar and write a few more lines of my writing project, I feel focussed and solitary ~ not alone ~ but a oneness with this pen as it flows along my page. No other task that must be done in the moment but feeding the page with each word. A small spoonful at a time until I am filled up and so is each small page. I remember this feeling from the farmhouse kitchen when mom was busy with mom kinds of things, brothers and sisters were out doing whatever brothers and sisters do, and dad was doing dad kinds of things.
In that farm kitchen I was designing beautiful ball gowns of paper, colored with crayons for beautiful models made of paper. It’s as though, for a moment and maybe forever, I will have connected with that young soul who is timeless on the page in the sunshine.
Any difference is only in surroundings. From the summer prairies to the summer west coast island patio. Praire birds of meadow larks and kildeers replaced by seagulls and humming birds at this western edge. Broad colourful patchwork fields of flax, wheat and canola whispering in summer winds replaced by stands of Garry oaks with tall grasses set away from the ocean that ruffles the shoreline. Wild saskatoon berries among wild roses in community pastures replaced by wild blackberries winding through alleys, along fences and sidewalks.
But my soul, hidden for so long from my own sight, is unchanged and yet has grown slowly while I have moved through each phase and place of my life. I have sighed my own sigh today feeling this satisfying reconnection with the little girl cutting, colouring and playing.
“Whatever satisfies the soul is truth.”
~ Walt Whitman
This morning, as I sit on my patio in the sun and write in my journal, check my calendar and write a few more lines of my writing project, I feel focussed and solitary ~ not alone ~ but a oneness with this pen as it flows along my page. No other task that must be done in the moment but feeding the page with each word. A small spoonful at a time until I am filled up and so is each small page. I remember this feeling from the farmhouse kitchen when mom was busy with mom kinds of things, brothers and sisters were out doing whatever brothers and sisters do, and dad was doing dad kinds of things. 
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