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I forget. That’s the problem. When bad times fall, I just forget all the good times. I wear the dark shroud of sadness around and forget all the light that also surrounds me. It never fails — or I should say I never fail at slipping into a depression where I see only the almost-empty glass and never the one with a delicious sip still lingering in the bottom like a memory.

Sure there have been a hell of a lot of shake-up things that have happened to me this year and reasons to ride down the slippery-slope of sadness. But for each one — except, perhaps, losing Sweet Nick two weeks ago — positives have appeared if I just step back and appreciate them. I have been doing this short meditation in the mornings and one of the things that’s always repeated is “Have appreciation for what you have and an eagerness for what is to come.” The line always makes me smile and always seems to come at the same time that Rose decides to crawl up on the bed and put her whiney “meow” right in my face like she’s reminding me that she’s, definitely, something to appreciate in my life.

Should it be so easy to forget the good things, the things to appreciate and readily hold onto whatever negative has just landed on your head? It’s like this past Summer of The Move. It was unbearably hot and muggy. I was here in a new space, a new neighbourhood surrounded by new faces none of whom I knew. I was homesick for my old routines, my old haunts, the chestnut tree I looked at when I woke up in the morning, hearing the rain on the skylights and having close friends close by. I could have wallowed around in that muck for months and months. Except for Sue who one day just

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The beginning of my being-away at the train station in Ottawa

reached down — she’s much taller than me — and just yanked me out of it. Before I could make excuses of why I couldn’t go, she had handed me a ticket for the train to Ottawa and a three-day adventure to a new place on water that I’d never seen let alone swam in, and with farms and trees and an island and even a thunderstorm that I sat through nestled with a cup of tea in a leaking cabin and watched the sky and the tips of trees blow around me. It was all new and it was wonderful — except, perhaps, for the first terrifying ride in Sue’s speeding boat as we made our way from land to the island with me holding on to anything in sight convinced that I couldn’t save myself if I flipped out of there.

When I look at this picture I’m reminded of how rejuvenating those three days around new places, new things but with old friends helped me. But isn’t that what I have here, eh? I have this very nice new space — with no stairs, alleluia — a new neighbourhood to explore, new friends a couple buildings down, and I still have my old friends, my old neighbourhood and a whole slew of new/old adventures to live.

I’m going to dust off my old blog idea of doing things I’ve never done before. Going places I’ve never seen. Shaking off my shyness and meeting people in my building. And everyday calling or writing an old friend and making a date to do something. Now, if I just remember that when I start to slip into my cocoon of isolation and sadness it should be the beginning of a wonderful new year.

Rose, lounging on the bed behind me, just reminded me that she’s still here and anything I plan to QjgXWcnhSF6%2Q0tNycS6wdo has to be cleared by her and can’t involve me being too far away from her food supply. That is, unless I train whoever takes care of her to give her extra treats and scratch her belly at least three times a day.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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