Downtime is akin to vacation for me. During my off hours I am the go-to person if someone is unable to come in to work. Friday night I stayed up later than usual with the possibility that the night shift coverage might have difficulties.
While I was not contacted, I was off my usual routine and was unable to go to sleep. Being too tired to read, I played a little solitaire till my eyes burned. I had hopes that I might sleep in, but eight o’clock was my limit. I sometimes think that only so many people are allowed to be asleep at one time. My time was up.
Saturday is a peaceful day for me. I generally do my laundry during the week. All I felt compelled to complete was my dusting, an ongoing requirement. I have a mental list of possible to-do items but for the most part I read, write and watch a little television. I used to write an actual list, checking off tasks as I progressed. I have gradually learned the art of relaxation.
I crochet afghans to give to one of the mission projects at the church. We send out blankets, quilts and children’s clothing, a rewarding use of our efforts.
I read stacks of books: mysteries, relationships, even tales of life during the First World War and the Second World War. We know so little of that history. I’ve just begun a historical novel, The Baker’s Secret. The narrator, the baker, is required to provide bread for the occupying enemy force. Her acts of rebellion include using a little finely ground straw to extend the rationed flour she receives. She is able to produce two extra loaves on the sly, to share with the villagers who are suffering alongside her.
The opening statement, “bread tasted of humiliation” speaks volumes of the shame of war. She calls the occupation a time of slavery and cunning.
As I read it was hard to draw back from that era into my own time frame. I’m still thinking of the recent election and the hope with which we face the future. I ponder the length of Mom’s years, as she sits relatively silent in long-term care. Other than when she is moved by means of the mechanical lift, she rarely communicates or even opens her eyes.
I enjoyed a visit with my sister who drove up from Nanton for a few days. We gathered together with our other sister and our brother and his wife, to enjoy a meal and chat: to break bread together. Our bread tasted of home, acceptance and the security of family.
A friend is ever hopeful that I will accompany her to walk at the high school gym. The indoor track has great appeal. Safe, away from the elements, it provides us with exercise and often opportunity to interact with other locals. When we stop for coffee, we greet even more of our friends and acquaintances.
Whether at work, the drugstore or the foyer of my church, I meet others in need of comfort or a listening ear. We are all in various stages: stress, grieving, overburdened by family responsibilities. I am thankful: for family and friends, for a caring church family, a rush of rain this week after the dust and wind.
On that “to-do” list, I finished my dusting and re-potted another houseplant. Carol and I are trying to encourage a few African violets. They were mom’s favourites; she had a green thumb. She also had a sunny living room. My present location is shaded and my plants are pouty.
Carol gave me the last violet she had from mom’s collection. It was in a smallish pot. As I tipped it out, I discovered it was practically sitting on top of the soil, the root coiled like a rope, hardly attached.
I’d like to think that I do better than the plant. My connection to the soil I sprang from keeps me grounded, the Christian heritage nurtures me. Somewhere I read this quote that encourages me. “Flourish where you’re planted.”
- Joyce Hoey is a longtime Gazette columnist
