Eyes made of pearls; or of giving great beauty at the greatest cost.

I can’t seem to shake the hazy funk of this past week.


I seem constantly on the verge of quiet tears, or the most immense laughter; perhaps spiralling finally into some place of madness.  But with it has led me inside. It leaves me buried deep within my own thoughts- for many rational reasons to be sure, but much deeper than I’ve been in recent times.

I trudge through the days, slow and steadily paced; entrenched firmly in love and luck.  At night my head spins itself weary and frantic dreams.  Wings sprouted from my back, flying too close to the sun; a badger dug too deep into the ground.  Both times with too little air to predicate the ability to thrive, but not so little that I cannot breathe.  Everything lives in the haze.  A fog of sentimentality, and stagnation. I take two steps forward, and then sit there for days to reflect on the charm and the way my hand feels against the other.

I close my eyes and there is a world of possibility, and I open them again and there sits even more unending ways this life of my could turn.  I reflect. I reflect. I reflect. None of my writing takes on any sense of ownership; practices in first person narrative.  Isn’t that what a life should be though?  Not practices in torrid dialogue- just a thick tongued snake coiling back around the tree to catch it’s own tail in its mouth.

I am the snake.  My life is the tree. My life is the snake, I am the tree. The tree; the dirt, the grass and sky.


Welcome Xom; or a return to normal.

“I am tired”, she sighed as she sunk into the familiar arms of the black office chair.  The rest of the room didn’t acknowledge her muted words- instead the steady clicking and clacking of fingertips on plastic keys drowned out the syllables.  Her desk had binders, and files, forms and hand scrawled notes to prompt her productivity.  Somehow the jaunty script inciting, ‘Ignore the noise ~ focus on your work’ somehow didn’t inspire her to find her finest self during the long hours in which she occupied space within the stark white walls.

Click. Click. Click.

Click, clic-clic-click.


She was trying. Pushing her glasses up her nose, she could see that everyone else was thoroughly entrenched in their work– noses nearly flush to their computer monitors.  No one looked beyond their spreadsheets and stats.  Sitting perfectly still for a long series of moments, nothing changed.  Carefully she pushed her chair back from her desk, ever so slightly and clamoured up onto the seat.  She stood motionless in the center of the room, towering over her coworkers for an eternity.

Not a single person noticed as she slowly reached her arms up to the sky; her fingertips nearly brushing against the speckled pressboard ceiling tiles.  Her eyes closed.  The familiar click-clacking of hundreds of keyboards slowly started to meld together into a soft drone.  She could be anywhere right now- the top of a beautiful mountain, the front steps of a lover’s doorway, or hands held high in the middle of darkened city street.

But as she opened her eyes, she was simply in the middle of a pen of cubicles.  Arms outstretched to the muted heather grey ceiling, her feet planted on a sticky pleather of her office chair.  Eventually her hands would drop back down to her sides, she would take two shuffling steps down off the seat, and settle back into the endless pile of filings.

Ignore the noise.

Focus on your work.

Those seven words hummed like a dull hum in her head, just like the symphony of keyboards that reverberated in the air around her.



These are the winters of our heart’s discontent; or other misspoke clichés.

I committed to writing here today- today has been one of those days (cliché) where anything that could simple, simply isn’t. I am annoyed at the slightest, and even though some genuinely good things have happened today- I have no patience for even the upswings.

I am frustrated, and normally this is a bottled and vanished day from the history of the pages- but today I am going to follow through.  Here it is.  I am tired. I am hurt. I am more than my feelings, I am human. I speak consistently in clichés and I feel sometimes like a strange drawstring doll who’s voice cord has been yanked too many times, and so I just spout the same recycled thoughts out at inconsistent intervals.

It will work out, it always does (cliché).

Change is never easy (cliché).

There is no point in this post, save for maybe the slightest form of catharsis, but I never claimed this place to be anything more than a ramble of emotion and myself.  So here it is. Vague, because not everything needs to be aired like laundry in the backyard (cliché)- and even fewer things that make me an annoyed person are even worth putting down on electronic paper.

So, the only way to wrap up this seemingly useless grumbling, seems to be by pulling that worn, yellowed plastic ring on my back and reciting, “Tomorrow is a new day…”


Two Headed Boy; or that thing where I don’t know which way is up.

April and May are always that mess of too much to do, and not enough time to do it in.

In the past few months, I’ve spent five days in Montreal, did two weekends of conferences and trainings, did a week long trip home, a two day trip to Calgary, and now I am gearing up to board a plane for five days in Ottawa on Sunday… I realize that I am tired.  I am tired of being pulled in two very different directions, and the weight of it all is exhausting.

That said, I am feeling leaps and bounds more grounded and on top of things (including my anxiety) than I have felt at work in… well, maybe ever. But then where is that exhausting anxious energy going?  Probably into the neglect I feel I have been dumping on friends and family.  I feel like I am both never home, and also only ever at home. This past few days of sun and warmth has opened our home up to the ability to spend hours at the park, and bike riding, and bbq’s and just… that deep breath of calm that the end of May always brings into our lives it seems.  I have one last trip- one more monitor to do this month, and a birthday party, mothers day, a couple trips out to the farm, and then… NOTHING.

Or less, I suppose.  I have the joy of being able to spend so much more time with my daughter this summer- and now that she is running/climbing/jumping… I cannot wait to explore with her.  I am counting down the days until the last of my exchanges wrap up- and I have a handful of things to do other than promote, and manage my few summer groups.img_3399


Summer, I’m so glad you’re coming.

Something old; five years ago.

I had a dream that the world was shifting under my feet; that everything was shaking, screams lighting up across the sky.

I dreamt that I stood in the hollow of a valley as it transformed heaving, into a mountain- with only a mind shattering screech echoing in my head to prove it had ever been anything but the newly minted peak.

There was death in my dream. Not just mine; but the deaths of many. Mothers, fathers. Lovers, spinsters, and the damned. We all died the same way. It amazed me, dream me- that death was the same equilizer as birth had been. We all were born the same way- setting and timing aside. We all die.

It wasn’t a scary dream. It was hardly even a nightmare.
It was cold.

Cold, when I woke.

It was cold with the realization that one day I would move my valley to the top of a mountain. And from there I could see everything ending.

I woke knowing that one day, I will have all of my answers.

Describe yourself in six words or less; or what even happened?

Do you know how hard it is to describe yourself to a stranger in six words or less?  Try it:

Lazy, lucky optimist with friends?

Low maintenance, anxious mess mother?

Unapologetic apologist with penchant for lattes?

Proper Gemini, if that’s your thing.



I don’t know. I’ve been introspective a lot in the last few weeks- and I’ve joined a group challenge on Make Me that is challenging me to write something at least once a week, because I have been out of my usual groove.  In fact, perhaps more of a funk, than a groove.  I’ve been asked to write, and read the eulogy for my grandfather’s funeral in the next few weeks, and because I am a selfish and normal human– it has made me reflect on who am I?  What defines me?

I don’t have huge ambitions in life- I never wanted to be an adventurer, or a true innovator, and I don’t care much for things… but then where does that leave me?  We are raised to believe that we are all vessels of potential; of greatness. So then, aren’t I failing if I strive for mediocrity?  But then, how do I reconcile that mediocrity, if it makes me happy?

I often, over the past decade, have fallen into the trap of comparison.  Looking at outwardly makes other peoples lives happy, and assuming that it too would fill me cup.  If I’m being truly honest with myself, even if money wasn’t an issue, I don’t think having a masters degree would make me happy.  I love to travel, and learn– but I have no true ambition to pack up and live abroad for months or years at a time.  Not unless I could have my tiny family with me.  A bigger house, means more cleaning for me to neglect.  I love my vehicle, and my job isn’t perfect but it does afford me the allowances of family.

Like I said… I’m not one for things.  I have long given up on trying to be one of those people who needs the newest, and best of much.  So.  Then, how does that fit in with the push of society?  Does it need to?

I want and hope for the best with my child. I aim to keep her safe, but also want her to experience hurt, and loss too.  Those are things that round us into whole beings.  I want her to love reading, and jumping in puddles and being a kid for as long as she can, before the weight of the world finds her tiny frame.  I don’t know.

Maybe I am unambitious?  But I don’t believe that to be true either.  I just wonder if I have all the things I need right now- to make me happy.  More money would always be nice, a bigger savings, less bills.  But. Even if nothing were to change right now, and we lived our lives on this well worn path, I would leave this world a happy woman.

Andrea described in six words?

Rad mama, decent wife, okay human?

My Barren Womb; or that perfect age.

Hello, you may have met me- my name is Andrea.

Hi, nice to meet you.


I have a lovely husband who is pretty sweet, pretty thoughtful and we quite like each other.

Mexico & Work 022
This is him, isn’t he handsome?


Together we have a three year old furbaby, a border collie named Watson.  He is incredibly emotionally needy, but he is a good dog who doesn’t eat our furniture or poop in the house, and he is always up for sharing my side of the bed, especially on cold nights.

Doctor Watson.


We also have an (getting too close to two) nineteen month old daughter, Olive.  She is short, with the chipmunkiest of cheeks, and is just the funniest little duck I’ve had the pleasure of knowing.  Olive has many things.  A fashionable wardrobe, a plethora of toys, great friends, greater family and some decent parents.

My Olive bird.



The one thing she does not have, as some of you may already know, is a sibling.  How do I know, that you know, you ask?  Because you’ve likely asked me.  Or told me how much my child needs a sibling.  Probably recently.  Because my child is nearing her second birthday and apparently this is the magical time where people might start thinking about a second child.  I promise you this.  If you were to ask my child right now, the last thing she would want right now is a sibling stealing her attention.  But more than that– we don’t want a second child right now.  So.

My womb remains fruitless. And I am 9000% fine with that.

The day that that changes, I am sure that our family will share that with you.  But I will humbly ask that you stop filling my uterus with your hopes and dreams.  Maybe one day we’ll be ready- but, we already have a great hashtag for Olive… and we’re really not ready try and think of a new one yet so.

#selfish #wealreadyhavetwokids #butseriously