It’s Wednesday at midday, so you know where I should be — where I’ve been at this time for the last thirty-five years, if possible — in Carole’s class at the Y. But I’m not, I’m sitting in the kitchen doing nothing. Watching. The cardinal just flew to perch in the rosebush. What a clash of colours, the bright scarlet of the bird and the peachy-pink of what’s left of the flowers. Summer pleasures.

But I’m not feeling much pleasure these days. Besides the actual pain, this stupid accident is causing psychic pain; it has left me feeling vulnerable, frail, slow, old. And hideous; the bruising on my face has bloomed into a patch of black and blue on my chin and lip, lovely. My knee is no longer an open wound, just a wash of purple, green, and brown surrounding the swollen red wound which is scabbing successfully. My right hand sports ten dark scabs of varying size, and my right side is sore, I think maybe a bruised rib or two. My spirit hurts.

Proud, wounded Canadian. I just went to the health food store for Arnica, for the bruising, and I could tell the women in the store were concerned. I do look as if someone punched me in the face. But no. It was Dundas Street.

Life marches on. On Monday, I read the NYT list of the 100 best films of the new century and thanks to Kanopy, watched one I’ve been meaning to watch for ages: Punch Drunk Love. My beloved Bill Nighy said it was his favourite film, and it is delightful, extremely quirky, not at all what I expected, and yet original and engaging. Adam Sandler’s character is obviously autistic and made me think of a Masterpiece show I’m enjoying these days on PBS, Patience, about a young woman whose autism helps her solve, of course b/c this is British, murders.

But even better, yesterday the boys came over while Anna was at work, and we watched Marcel the shell with shoes on. Again, a completely unexpected treat with astonishing depths that delighted me much more than the boys. I found it imaginative, moving, and wise and loved it unreservedly, and I think you will too. Its hero is a one-inch high hermit crab shell with pink tennis shoes, one googly eye, and a tiny, very articulate mouth. Marcel meets a documentary filmmaker who makes a film about him and his quest to reunite with his missing family. An extra delight: one of Marcel’s favourite TV programs is 60 Minutes, (as it is mine), and the actual journalist Lesley Stahl comes to interview Marcel for the program.

I will watch the film again, this time with captions on if possible, because Marcel has a lot to say, and I missed some. Don’t wait for the children in your life; watch it your grownup self. A must watch, a thoughtful treat of innocence, humour, and wisdom.

Last night dear Toronto Lynn and her partner Nick came over with a picnic basket full of deliciousness, and we had supper on the deck. One of Marcel’s messages: friendship will help get you through. Yes indeed.

So will persistence and patience and courage. I think of people who have a ten-ton boulder dropped onto them — a cancer diagnosis or heart attack or stroke, the death of a loved one, being fired, being dumped. I just tripped and fell. Still, the experience of running for the streetcar on the way to a party one minute, and the next, lying face down in the middle of the street in shock and pain has stayed with me. A perfect embodiment of one of my favourite sayings: If you want to make God laugh, tell Her your plans.

I will do my best to stop reading about the rise of the fascist dictatorship to the south of us and elsewhere; the bad guys on the side of evil, greed, lawlessness, and appalling cruelty are winning right now, unbelievable as it seems. @#$%3  them.

Two kinds of treasure: the last roses, and the boys at a diner for lunch yesterday. They were playing a game to see how often they could make the creamers land on the bottom. Very competitive, many rules. Wearing “Every child matters” t-shirts. And yes, yes, yes, they do.

Today I’m taking an online webinar by a friend I made in San Miguel, Jennifer Leigh Selig. The rest of the week, sitting here, watching the garden. Have picked a bowl of cherry tomatoes already, lettuce, a few beans, lots of basil and other herbs; the bounty has begun. There’s a New Yorker cartoon I cannot of course share with you, much as I’d love to — a man gesturing to the spectacular country landscape he’s standing in, with mountains and waterfall, and saying to his dog, “Behold, my antidepressant.”

Mine is considerably smaller and more local. But it’s there. And it is.