My dear Ruthi,

What an incredible day you describe, full of richness, connection and perspective. I have always loved your stranger stories. These people you bump up against. These unexpected gifts, given and received. And the lens through which you see, the distinct way you use words to tell of it.

That day was rich and full for me as well. There was so much to say. So much wonder. The gifts of many people.

And today, again, gifts and wonder. 

It’s a strange day. I was up early in the dark, cold and dripping, wet fog. Up to hear the owl outside my window, a first in this home. And now in the afternoon, so balmy and bright. (24 feels like 29).

The leaves cling to some trees while others are bare. Wind gusts threaten to ground them all by the end of the weekend. The chickadees buzz past my head in line for the feeder. And I flinch. Each and every time.

I sit outside, as if imperatively, anticipating a gloomy November to come. Bathing in the radiant glow of yellow as if my skin thirsts for the ambient light off the foliage. Stockpiling.

I sit and I type. A letter in place of the one I was to have done yesterday. A day easily skipped over. Ordinary. So ordinary, I struggled to have anything to say about it. And I “do” ordinary. Like full-on! The exquisite feel of flannel. The ever so perfect experience of ripe pear. But yesterday? Nothing.

The day had a feeling I am rather unfamiliar with. It seemed entirely neutral. Not averaged neutral – like some pleasant things, some unpleasant things, therefore somehow balanced. But the whole day, everything – neutral. What I ate, neutral. What I saw, neutral. What I worked on, neutral. The people I connected with, neutral. Ruthi, I would say now, I did not like that. But ironically, in the moment, that wasn’t the case. I could not like or dislike. And it wasn’t one of those cave days. Feeling blue and heavy and not mustering the energy to do anything. It was simply a day.

Undoubtedly somewhere in my morning pages recently I must have written about wanting off the rollercoaster. Wanting more balance. Wanting to be less of some things and more of others.

I take it back. That sort of balance? Gah! Good god no!

I could have told you about how productive the day was. How well the project is coming along. I could have told you about how astoundingly big my 13-year-old son’s feet are (11-1/2! – I took him last night to buy new runners and boots, as he seemed to have busted out of his current ones, perhaps we should start calling him The Hulk). I could have told you about the day before and all its beauty. I could have told you about the driftwood, or stones, feathers, coloured paper, crayons and beads that surrounded me. 

I could have told you any number of things. 
But I couldn’t. 
It was so strange.

I wonder if this experience is what people are referring to when they talk of medication making them feel flat. I wonder if this is an average day for the average person. I wonder…

Someone once commented that I live in technicolour. At the time I thought it was a compliment. I was wrong. But regardless of that, the observation is accurate. And I love this technicolour. 

My ordinary is in technicolour. 
And it is extraordinary. 
And I am so incredibly grateful.

With love,

Jules