an ugly truth

what a day.

the injustice of the ghomeshi trial.

i got through the day going through the many motions of caring for a wee one, looking forward to a quiet evening alone to pen something. and here i am. exhausted and speechless.

i don’t know what breaks my heart and scares me more, the culture of impunity around sexual assault and the message this ruling sends to (would-be) perpetrators, or the fact that the systems in place and the powers that be value the lives, the words of women so much less than those of men.

i was ranting to some friends a while back, when the shit of this case first hit the fan, and i surprised myself saying ‘i’ve reported my stolen bicycles but i’ve never reported my sexual assaults.’ and it hit me like a brick. because reporting stolen bicycles, if you’ve ever done it, is pretty pointless. (i even asked the police officer « should i still get another bike since i need one to get to work, or do you usually find them rather quickly? » and i was basically laughed out of the joint.) but it somehow didn’t seem quite as pointless as reporting the violation of my person.

today’s verdict and its framing confirm what too many already know.

and it’s an ugly truth.


tomorrow’s another day.


foghorn feeling.


the last days of heavy fog remind me so much of strolling in rural belgium. those first forays into solo travelling. the empowering and beautiful and scary unknowns.

the last nights of heavy fog  remind me so much of walking, chilled to the bone, along the streets of halifax’s north end. a very dishevelled me,  under permanent misty grey skies. the humidity soaking through my denim, my wool. feeling heartbroken, my life like a living poem.

grateful for this weaving of strands and feelings. moments where i was/am on the cusp.



Midnight on a Wednesday and P. is going back and forth between home and the far barn because a heifer is about to calve. We’re not set up for winter calving; this wasn’t planned. She joined the herd just this winter and we were told she’d calve in April-May.

I’d love to spend a week shadowing and just chewing the fat with a woman who respectfully and soulfully raises livestock for a living, who’s birthed herself, and who feels at peace with it all.

In the meantime, warm thoughts for that brave heifer and her calf. And for P. who has to do this work of tending her alone with less than ideal infrastructure (while I sit here, typing and thinking about how easy it would be to have a radish farm).

To the brim.

These have been such hectic days and weeks. There’s been the flu, and croup, and a week-long daycare closure. Some lovely new friends to get to know and to help and to assist. A lot of driving. A lot of coordinating. A lot of emotions. And there’s the farm. And these little ones.

To top it all off, this adorable little person decided that despite not having yet passed the eight month mark, he’s going to just go ahead and crawl all over the place and pull himself up on everything, regardless of its stability, weight, or sharpness.


It’s exciting and wonderful to see him fascinated and to watch him learn to use his body, but with anxiety levels being where they are, the numerous loud thumps (and cries) a day are a bit much for this mama.


In the midst of being quite sponsorship busy (and having undivided attention/one-on-one time being harder to carve out), I thought it’d be rad to start a family ritual. Something delicious and cozy and grounding. So I started making crepes on Sunday mornings while our big kid is at swimming lessons with his papa.

I made the (very rookie) mistake of going all out on day 1 by using my new cookie cutter collection to make animal shaped crepes. The following Sundays have, of course, been an exercise in negotiating an ever smaller number of animal shaped crepes (« Look, this one is ball shaped! This one is moon shaped! Oooh a wheel one! »). Also, word to the wise, crepes don’t really lend themselves to cookie cutters.



These are very full times. Full of big wonder and big joy and big sorrows. Of heartwrench. Of awe. Of big questions that I have such a hard time verbalizing. (I so miss having my feminist community close-by. and close women friends to rant and drink coffee with when overwhelmedness looms.) I wonder if I’m doing right by our new friends. I worry my children are missing our quiet together times too much. I’m exhausted beyond belief. But I am so grateful too. To the brim, even.



While out in the snow yesterday, I snowshoed a baby to sleep. F. « built Manitoba » (« pardon F., tu construis le Manitoba? » « oui! ») and used his « moissoneuse-batteuse de neige » (his snow harvesting combine). Moments to savour.


a night of blusters

des vents à décorner les boeufs (if they weren’t angus and horn-less)

east facing windows covered in ice and snow

soffit ripped off the outbuildings

feeling the winds through the walls

worrying about the roofs

about the free range hens and calves

and the partner who still needs to feed a herd in the back 40.


and I remember with a good chuckle

my urban days, when I

talked about leaving the 9 to 5 behind.

it’s 10pm.

what naïveté.