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Wendi Stewart - Wendi with an 'eye'

Wendi lives in Nova Scotia’s Annapolis Valley, but the farm on Rainy River in Crozier will always be her home. MEADOWLARK, her debut novel released September 15, is published by NeWest Press of Edmonton. She is the mother of four daughters who did the unforgivable: they grew up.

Perfect in our imperfection

I find myself thinking of those whose hearts are aching; who are pierced with a longing that raises its pain at every breath and who feel the only way to stop the agony is to stop breathing.

It is a hushed conversation. We readily discuss the horrors of cancer and its treatment that ravages the body. I have regular discussion with my daughter on how she manages the wretched diabetes and the byproducts of her daily care.

We ask for specifics about diseases and injuries that are visible to our eye. But meaningful conversation rarely digs into the mystery of mental illness.

Bask in the warmth

'Tis the season of remembering and though we get caught up in shopping and decorating and baking, the remembering is the best part for me.

I was digging through my box of decorations last week and I reached for four separate items that make Christmas for me—one from each daughter when they were children (though they always are children in my eyes, especially at this time of year).

'Tis the season for giving

The holiday season is here and you know what that means: lists.

I have lots of lists this time of year. My Christmas baking list is a good one, though it doesn't always reach fruition. It's a bit like buying a gym pass in January. It seems like a superb strategy but after day three . . . who was I kidding.

I am a hermit 50 weeks of the year. But for two weeks at Christmas, I come out from under my rock to deliver yummy baking to my neighbours for two reasons: to give them my best wishes at Christmas and to assure them I am not lying dead somewhere in my house.

Putting on my big girl pants

I am shocking my drilled well.

It's winter and the cap of the well was buried in snow but I found it and dug it out. The nuts for the well cap bolts were a little rusted (okay, a lot rusted) and took some cranking—and my arthritic thumbs shouted back.

To shock the well, I told it off-colour jokes and swore at it, using almost all the harshest language I could think of and then I poured 133 gallons of chlorine bleach into it. I may be exaggerating but it seemed very much like 133 gallons as the chlorine glugged into the well.

Not ready to be old yet

I was thinking about the concept of aging. It's subtle; tends to sneak up on us and if it weren't for mirrors, most of us would take little notice of our changing bodies.

But some days, Mother Nature, with her wicked side, likes to shout it out. “You're old,” she says, her voice with a cruel attitude, like she got up on the wrong side of the bed and wants to ruin someone's day before her morning coffee.

Today was one of those days for me.

Travel isn't for the weak-minded

I'm sitting in the Pearson International Airport in Toronto. My flight was to depart at 10 a.m. bound for Halifax.

Warnings popped up on the radio this morning advising travellers to get to the airport early as they had “system” crashes during the evening and there would be backlogs. They weren't kidding. Very few of the baggage drop-off stations were functioning.

My life doesn't have a narrative

Narrativity is a word I wasn't familiar with, or rather I hadn't heard it used the way I heard it used last week on CBC Radio.

In fact, my spellcheck doesn't care for the word and wants me to use some other one while providing me with no alternatives.

In essence, narrativity is that our life has a narrative; a story that we live by or that informs us of ourselves. Mary Schechtman, a professor of philosophy at the University of Illinois in Chicago, claims a person must be “in possession of a full and explicit narrative [of his life] to develop fully as a person.”

Here's my to don't list

As you may remember, I am a fan of lists—lists for almost everything.

One of my favourite comedians, Demetri Martin, says the only thing on a magician's list is “ta-da.” I find that hilarious but perhaps you have to love lists to get the humour.

I've added a slightly different twist in the title of my latest list, to be added to my list of lists. It's my TO DON'T list and it seems there is no shortage of entries qualifying for inclusion in the category of to don't.

This is who I am reading these days

I don't think I've ever attended a writers' event, either as a spectator or as a participant, that the question isn't posed, “Who are you reading these days?”

I never seem to have an answer at the ready. After all, no one asks me who I am wearing—and that's a good thing.

I don't think well on my feet so I could never have been a politician or a lawyer. I have to go away and ponder before I can answer almost all questions.

I really don't need much at all

I'm trying hard to embrace the idea of minimalism. Actually, I've been trying since before they had a word for it but it is hard not to acquire a lot of “stuff,” especially in the kitchen.

I'm a sucker for anything lime green, as if a lime green paring knife magically would elevate my skill as a chef. I am no chef; I'm not even sure I qualify as a cook but that's a story for another day.