Morning Glory and Tumbleweed

It was a grey and miserable Saturday. Spent the morning lounging around in my pyjamas and scribbling in my journal. By mid-afternoon, I was experiencing a strange cabin-feverish sensation. In my mind, it should have been spring, with vibrant blue skies and wildflowers waiting to burst forth from the earth. The blowing snow outside my window was completely at odds with the image in my mind. Finally, I had to get out of the house – I ended up walking the bypass with a friend, despite the temptation to turn back and snuggle within the comforts of home. Afterward, I dropped by the community greenhouse and helped prepare the plot that the Brownies will be tending. I think I'll grow into the pleasures of gardening, slowly but surely. I've always liked the idea of having a garden, but my ideal garden is one that is wild, not one that is manicured with nary a weed in sight. My only gardening experience involved sprinkling wildflower seeds in my parents' flower-bed, and, much to my parents' dismay, the flowers completely took over, rambling uncontrollably all over and suffocating the more fragile plants. Why is it that the hardiest specimens are so under-valued? To me, my wildflowers had an incomparable boldness, and somehow seemed more alive than any other plant in the backyard. I remember when Dad had nursed some rare blue poppies into blossom, and everyone was marvelling at the translucent, paper-thin petals. While I appreciated the time and care put into fostering their growth, I was oddly saddened by their fragility. If I were a flower, I'd want to be a morning glory, trumpeting the wonders of the day. I would even prefer to be a pesky dandelion rather than that coddled poppy.

Went out for a night on the town for the first time in a long time. Had supper at the Finto with a couple of friends before moving on to Frosty's. An “ultimate fighting” program was on the big screen. It was quite a surreal experience, with people screaming and cheering on the barbarity. I couldn't help but laugh at the atmosphere, especially when we were seated under the giant moose head that was mounted on the wall – I'm afraid we were quite obvious about laughing at the other patrons' reactions to the television screen.

All three of us there were unsure of where we would be in the fall. I've grown used to the idea of not knowing. Let me be a tumbleweed. Let me be swept up and lose myself in the winds of change.