"O! know, sweet love, I always write of you,
And you and love are still my argument;
So all my best is dressing old words new,
Spending again what is already spent..."
--W. Shakespeare, 76th Sonnet
Keb Mo plays his gentle blues songs, 'hey hey Loola Loo, I don't need nobody but you', and the sun is poking out and around those big gloomy grey clouds Cape Breton can't seem to shake. Mum spent the morning at the table around the corner conversing with the insurance man, papers shuffling and the nitty-gritty of money matters being discussed. To people in offices in Halifax or wherever our files get sorted and put away, we are just ink dots on bleached pulp, we are another case among many. To us, rising tax rates and rising insurance rates hit us where it hurts. Each dollar counts.
But the sun is shining. I picked Mum a bouquet this morning, as she was sleeping, from her garden that was still wearing plenty of fat dew drops. I picked columbines, an iris, lots of those pretty pinky-purple ones that grow so tall and smell of cloves at night, some lupins, and some white-headed chives. I had taken an early morning ride in with Kathy Kerr, my boarding lady, we had driven along the sleepy, bumpy highways 18 kilometers, watching Canada geese poke among the low-tide offerings of St. Ann's Bay and the water being flatter than flat. We saw bikers in black leather chaps and holding helmets stop for photo ops.
And the offerings on my scrap paper from a morning spent on the Internet include: the address of an Israeli friend met in Tasmania (I love the words, how they shape on the page: Kehilat, Kishinov, and how I wonder if I will ever see where this address describes), a new word (concupiscense, now try slipping that into conversation) and that quote above by Shakespeare. No, you all needn't worry, there is no new romantic love in my life, but I am feeling love these days--for home, for certain folks around me. And wondering about the romantic sort: have I felt it? What does it feel like? Will I ever feel it?
So, to counter these somewhat manic thoughts, and in true Cape Breton fashion, I'll conclude with this saying: "A watched pot never boils."
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