The post-flood apartment renovations continue, and I remain transient. I’ve got my sweet little Airbnb until the end of this month, and then it’s a whole lot of ‘we’ll see’ until I can move back home again. It shouldn’t take much longer. My best guess is mid-April. The beautiful thing is seeing how grounded I feel. How at home I am in myself. It’s a good thing too, because there’s an anniversary approaching. Last year at this time we were set to embark on a family vacation. On March 19th 2018, on said vacation, I witnessed something that made it…

Last year, at this time, I could see the end of my relationship clear on the horizon. On the surface, I didn’t know how I would survive the pain, how I would start my life again from scratch. In the marrow of my bones, in the fibre of the universe inside me, I knew I would be okay. The legacy of the outrageously resilient women who are my ancestors whispered to me that I would rise from this in power and grace. It was their silent solace, and the tangible love I have for my children that kept me moving…

I thought the crazy in my life was over, at least for a little while. But crazy doesn’t care about timelines, it seems. Or how much you’ve been shuffled around, unsettled, displaced. Crazy finds you when it wants, and it found me again on February 6th, the day of the first of a series of ice storms. My son was with his dad, home from school because it had been cancelled. I was under the weather with a cold, and was thoroughly delighted to be working in bed for the day. No interruptions, no need for makeup. Then it began…