Yes, it was devastating, that game 7. If I’d been by myself, I’d have been asleep by the time the 11th inning blow came, but I was with two young Blue Jays fans who were spending the night here to give their mother a break. So we watched until the bitter end, and it was bitter. Both are on their school baseball teams and spend part of the summer at the Jays Care camp for kids from low-income families. They spent the between-innings times hurtling a tennis ball back and forth in the living room, catching it in their blue Jays Care gloves.

I talked to them after about what teamwork is, how great the team was, how they inspired us all. And they did, just a great bunch of sportsmen who made Canada proud. Life isn’t always fair, I said, as if they don’t know that. But it’s a good lesson to learn, over and over. As they will.

Reading the sad recaps next morning in the paper.

The next day was beautiful, and after breakfast and lunch, in quick succession – how does their mother keep those insatiable mouths fed?! – and a game of Snakes and Ladders won by Ben, hooray, I dragged them to the nearby playground. They played a complicated catch and throw game called Redass against the school wall, and then tag on the climbing structure, with a difference – the tag was the tennis ball, thrown with force.

And I had a moment of pure sublime bliss, a transcendent feeling of gratefulness. I was sitting in the sun as scarlet and tangerine leaves fell around me, watching boys I’ve known since conception chase each other like little kids, just as they used to when they WERE little kids, only now one is a teenager six feet tall whose voice is changing, and the other, at ten, is tough and savvy and fierce. What a blessing, what luck that I can provide them with a playground they’ve visited since earliest childhood, and a safe, familiar house, even if inhabited by a crabby grandmother who doesn’t let them indulge much in TV or phones or junk food. Lots of ice cream, though.

And then I took them back across town, helped their mother cut vegetables for a stew, and went off to a birthday party, where I had another important revelation.

It was the 70^th birthday of a woman I don’t know well; we met through mutual friends and liked each other immediately, have a lot in common. Still, I was surprised when she invited me, a relative stranger. The invite said there would be “a wave dance” in the church hall from 3 to 4.30, without shoes or talking, and then food and conviviality. I didn’t quite understand what that meant. I was prepared for dancing – rock and roll.

It was more a meditative kind of thing, the drone of Indian music, very slow and soft to start, but the wave, they explained, meant it would build to be more dynamic, and then get slow again. At the start, in a room full of strangers wafting about dreamily to the music, my critical brain was in overdrive. “What the @#$# am I doing here?” I thought. “I’ve got to get out!” But I couldn’t; it would be rude to flee. I noticed one of the windows was beaming in sunlight, so I stood facing it with my eyes closed and danced with the sun. I danced. As the music got more rhythmic, it was easy.

And I realized how my analytical, judgemental brain is always snapping at me. This time, I simply told it to shut up. I am here, I am going to stick it out and see what I can get out of this unusual experience.

At one point, a spiritual came on, rousing and soulful, and I felt my heart expand to meet it. My eyes filled with tears. I felt the music in my bloodstream.

And then it became quieter and ended. We gathered to discuss and to sing Happy Birthday, and then, as the food and drink arrived and the others lined up to eat, I escaped. As I always do. My primary drive, always, is to get home as soon as possible. I don’t know why I’m like that, but I am. I’ve surely missed many wondrous experiences by skipping out early, but I can’t help it. My son is the same. HOME, James!

On Thursday in a downpour I went to a U of T event at the International Festival of Authors, honouring our writing students who’ve won prizes. Terrific. (My fellow teachers and the head of the department set off afterwards for a nearby pub. I went home.) On Friday, to my handyman friend Doug’s; every Hallowe’en he has a big party with tons of food and guests taking turns handing out candy to the masses – literally, masses – at the door. Doug does everything in grand style, so there were talking, moving skeletons, a fog machine, bloody hands reaching out of the walls, ghosts screaming etc. (I lasted an hour.)

Below, Monique celebrates Hallowe’en with Danielle, who’s in the house mine is attached to. And the line-up to Doug’s door.

Saturday, before the boys came over, I went to a matinee of Bright Star, a musical by Steve Martin and Edie Brickell. I’d avoided it because it looked sappy, but Ruth told me she liked it and it made her cry, so I went. I loved it, and it made me cry, even if it was a tiny bit sappy. An extraordinary cast of actor-musicians – every single one played at least two instruments if not five or six, plus singing and dancing, just amazing. We learned at the end we’d seen two understudies, but we’d never have known. A truly lovely show. I’m sorry it has closed before I had a chance to urge you, if in Toronto, to see it.

So – on this chilly, gloomy fall day, as the toxic madness out there in the world accelerates, I finish by saying I hope you, too, can shut off your critical brain and just be where you are. It’s quite something. Recommended.