Don't Let the Door Hit You

KC and I whistled on down to the airport to pick Shelley and MC up last night. We brought them warm coats and boots because they'd worn clothes for Cuba.

Driving back home, the four of us, Shelley talked about the approach to Cuba - over the Florida Keys, MC interjected, with that blue blue water - to the green green island surrounded by more of the same. Approaching Canada, what you see is grey. White and grey.

"Dun," I thought, but didn't say.

January was a fucking write-off. My god, that was the most miserable month I've had in a long time. A lot to do with D.Jack suddenly being gone, compounded by the fact that I was both a bit surprised and slightly worried by how big an effect his absence had on me. Compounded by the fact that hello, fucking Ottawa in the darkest month of the year, as dark as December without the memory of fall sun to bear you through.

What did I do? I knit a snake. I watched Mad Men. I ate the never ending containers of leftovers from my freezer. Most weekday mornings, I got up before 7 and did yoga.

I didn't write.

Waking up before 7 makes me irritable.

My anxiety was back too. I lost 5 pounds because that whir whir sits on top of my stomach and takes away my appetite.

I'm a little wiped out by January's vagaries, but now also feel more balanced than I have in a while.

When I left my house this morning at 10, the sun was warm on my cheeks and made my eyes ache.