9:53 a.m., Wednesday
March 2, 2005

Some cannot understand why I do not do my work in the morning so that it is over and done with. I don't try to explain. It is simply that there are other things I prefer to do in the hours after waking up.

I like to start the day with some reading — this morning it was a collection of letters from Vita Sackville-West to her lover and friend Virginia Woolf — and a few words in my paper journal, where I write down my dreams and record remembered events and thoughts about them.

I like to relax while sipping on my black coffee, two cups of it. Lately I've been eating breakfast. And for the past week or two I've been doing yoga after being out of bed for about an hour, rather than waiting till the end of the day. Now that is something I feel good about getting done early, as it is more important — has more profound effects — on my entire day and my life in general.

This morning I laid in bed feeling fortunate, listening to the voices of the three males in the household as they spoke from various rooms in the house. It is Emil's first day back at school because he's had a raucous cough and stuffed nose; I had my doubts about letting him go even after keeping him home for the entire past week, but he was so excited I didn't have the heart to insist he stay again.

Everett came running and bouncing onto the bed with the biggest, most beautiful smile on his face. "Why so happy?" I asked. "I'm not!" he insisted. Could've fooled me.

Scott's not yet back from his trip to Emil's bus and Everett's school, so I imagine he's gone shopping for some material. He is making a wine rack and goblet holder — or modifying some — for the people whose house we are living in.

We've been over to their place three times in the past week, practising and then recording songs for Mom at her request. On Monday night we laid down the last tracks, so soon she'll have her tape in hand.

After the first recording session Steve wanted me to listen and see what I thought. I didn't want to hear it, because I am so accustomed to being embarrassed and turned off by the sound of my own voice when I sing. I've always cringed at its "syrupy" effect and, though I love to sing, never liked to hear it played back. But he insisted, so I listened, and guess what? My voice sounds nothing like I've been hearing it recorded in the past. It's fine. I don't have one thing to be ashamed of and from now on when compliments are given, I can believe that they are not offered out of kindness but out of genuine appreciation. Oh what a difference a good quality recording can make.

My brother was here over the weekend and shocked me by requesting my bread recipe. What? Yes, after eating it toasted this weekend, he's realized how much he missed it over the years since he lived with me, and wants to try making it himself. Holy Hanna! I said when he comes at Easter I'll give him a lesson. Meanwhile I sent a loaf back to Edmonton with him.

Mom's doing okay. I mean, she was doing okay yesterday. The day before that she was over here and had so much pain she could hardly stand it. Then yesterday, 100 per cent improvement. Who knows what today will bring.

How do you like the pig up there? It hangs on the wall above the pool table. Ugly thing. No, I don't want it for the collection. Where in sam hill would I put it? Guaranteed it would never find a place on a wall in my home.

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