It’s the Sunday of a long weekend: holiday tomorrow. Thus, silence. For once, no renovating, no hammering or machines, just birds and wind in the trees. On the other side of town, it’s Caribana, very noisy in Parkdale for my kids, for Anna, who loves the event and parties, and for Sam, who like his mother craves quiet. This morning I danced with Nicky and friends, our birthday dance since she and I share August 1; she played the Beatles’ fabulous Birthday song for us. Janet who’s staying here sat eating blueberries on the deck before heading off to her last day in TO. Tiggy sleeps in the sun nearby, as always.

Nothing planned. A long list of things-to-do, but nothing planned. A walk? Cooking with Eleanor at 3? Getting something done? Maybe. Maybe not. Silence.

Was part of an email exchange today between Chris and Juliet, whose blogs I follow and who’ve become friends with each other through their blogs. Both despair of humankind and have retreated, Chris to Gabriola Island, and Juliet, soon, from Paris to a small town in Spain. “We are the worst thing to happen to the planet,” says Chris. I understand his despair and disgust, when you look at what is happening to our world right now – Trump, the rise of fascism, viruses, refugees, burning, droughts, flooding, so much more. Horrifying. Terrifying.

But on this stunning day, I cannot give up on us. There’s the cardinal singing, such a powerful song. Bees nuzzling the rose of Sharon. Imagine, we share the planet with the miracle of flowers, bees, birds. Music, art, theatre, dance, literature. Literature! Writers! Scientists! I can’t give up, there’s so much that is marvellous, magnificent, about us, with all our hideous flaws.

Plus I have grandchildren.

So in the silence, I will tend my tiny patch of earth, try to be kind and help, try not to do harm. Is it enough? No, but for now, it’s what I’ve got.

On Friday, I had a bone density scan at Women’s College Hospital, a twelve minute bike ride from home, in and out in fifteen minutes, a lovely chat with Jenny the technician. I have lost an inch and two kilos since I was there two years ago — pandemic weight lost. But it’s a shock to be 5’7 3/4 instead of 5’8 3/4. My six foot tall mother was about five seven when she died. We shrink, but hopefully in body only.

And then I went to Toronto Lynn’s for a swim in her sublime pool, like a forest glade, and for dinner. I asked her to take a photo of me in my new bathing suit, and bravely I’m going to post it. Because 73. Because the best suit ever. Absolutely no waist, but could be worse.

What I’m thankful for this morning. Plus silence.

On the other hand, someone posted this on FB. I sent it to Abigail Thomas, who has recently tattooed FTS on her arm, for “Fuck this shit.” She wrote back, Exactly!