Deconstruction

Carl and I are at the Georgian Bay Hotel celebrating our 25th wedding anniversary (!!) and departing for the Scandinave Spa in about 45 minutes. I’m lying in a king sized bed in a suite that seems huge, and he’s on the balcony meditating.

Things have changed for me. Last night, we were weighing our dinner options, with a really nice looking restaurant on the premises and no children to consider…and we ordered in pizza. That was just fine with me. I’ve been privileged to eat really good food in my life, most of it professionally when I was at More and Canadian Living, but some of it before my budget included childcare. But lately, I find my tastes are gradually shifting towards what I am starting to think of as my tea and toast future. It’s not exactly boring, it’s more that the ordinary things are increasingly extraordinary to me. Yeast. Gluten. The way some peaches taste like sun should.

Bianca Andreescu won the U.S. Open yesterday, we learned, waiting for that pizza to come to the room. I loved watching the highlights, the power in her and Serena Williams’ bodies, the naked language of victory and defeat. Game, set, match. I watched a few outlets’ responses – the jerseys from other teams, politicians, movers and shakers.

I spent the trip up here enjoying counting Tim Hortons, watching the trees get bigger, seeing the Blue Mountains — Carl, B.C.-born, just laughs — appear on the route from Wasaga Beach to Collingwood.

My own book is breathing well; I wrote 400 words in 40 minutes yesterday, without needing a long entry into finding where I’d been the day before. I find the deeper I go into my own places, the less noise I can tolerate. But here I am posting.

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