When along grey hair falls on your keyboard, you know it is time to write.
I am so very fortunate, I tell myself. Retired and on my own. Not to mention a lifetime of white privilege, class privilege. Location. Location. Settlers have more than a leg up. And now I’m out of the loop of daily care for a young child. I don’t know how I would manage single mothering during COVID. Probably badly. Now I have no one to send to school or not. Home school or not. No classes to prepare. No papers to grade. No schedule to adhere to. The end of summer approaches and I’m writing less, hanging around outside, walking more, leisurely weeding the buckets of thistles and pesky plants that rise up in all this rain and sun.
At a potluck in Western Canada, we could talk politics but restrain ourselves. Though before dinner, we bemoan the outcast state of health and education in the province. The public presence of White Supremacy. And the catastrophic weather elsewhere. Deadly hurricanes gather and let off steam in the Atlantic. Six thousand missing in the Bahamas: that much grief as unfathomable as the turquoise sea around Abaco Island.
26 April 2019 When I travelled to China in 1999 to adopt a seventeen-month old, I remember wondering what the future would hold. I was single and 48 years old and working for pay at a job and a half. I wondered whether I was too old - what would it be like when I… Continue reading A Loving Rapport – mothering daughtering