Mornings are for reading and evenings are for writing. Evenings are also for trying to fit in the other stuff like fitness, boyfriend and friends. Practicing the ukulele and keeping up with my blog aren’t even on the table right now. So if I am not writing my blog, what am I writing?
I’m writing a book. The book is about the solo bike ride I did this past summer from Toronto to Cape Breton, including the three hundred kilometre loop of the Cabot Trail. It was epic. It did not transform me, it affirmed me. I desperately needed that affirmation. My new skin is still soft but with much more elasticity. I like me now; more than sometimes and with confidence and with knowing why.
I’m reading Girl in the Woods by Aspen Matis. Her real name is Deby. I haven’t discovered yet why or when she changes her name. I will never change my name. It’s a good book. I just finished reading Alone Against the North by Adam Shoalts. That was a great book! I loved it. I love reading. Books are the adventures my mind takes in the mornings on my way to work.
I did not read a thing nor listen to music during my big bicycle ride. Books and music are sweet escapes. There was nothing to escape from this summer. I was flying, soaring, camping and pedalling my way through beauty, wonder, discovery and on a path of freedom from self-doubt and self-badgering. I was poignantly present in every moment. My terrible memory remembers so clearly almost every moment. I don’t just remember, I am there again when I think of that magical time. It is an inner sanctuary.
The subway is arriving to Finch. My morning novel lies untouched on my lap. There is still the bus ride. I shall read! There is still so much time to do all the things: my book, a book of poetry, my blog, writing songs on the ukulele, another piano, another marathon, another bikeride, maybe even true love. There is still time. I am only forty-one, you see. A chickadee.