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Terse Tuesday 33

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“Grey hair is becoming a stylish and fashionable option for both older and younger women alike – it can actually make a woman look softer, more premium, more interesting – younger, even, if done in the right way.”
– Harvey Nichols 2015 Hot List Hamper

Whether it was reading this weeks ago or noticing the extra silver at my temples, I’ve been seeing youngish grey-haired women everywhere lately. No doubt this will all have passed by the time my hair is entirely silver, but I suppose this all just goes to show that everything comes around again in time.

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In the year 2015…

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They say that the surest way to keep resolutions is to hold yourself accountable by sharing your goals with a friend. Rather than burden any one friend with my list, I’m sharing it here.

This year:

  • I plan to read and to write more, even when I think I’m too exhausted. Reading at least one chapter and writing at least one full paragraph (here or elsewhere) each week should be entirely achievable, regardless of my work schedule.
  • I plan to get back into my running routine. I miss it.
  • I’d like to expand my arsenal of knitting skills so I can finally tackle some of the more involved projects I’ve been eyeing. Like this cloche here.
  • I’d like to take a few day-long hiking trips in the GTA. The Escarpment is virtually at my doorstep, and yet I haven’t taken proper advantage of my location. I think I do a good job of being a tourist in my own city, but it’s time to extend my field of adventure.

Here’s to the start of a creative and stimulating new year!

Terse Tuesday 28

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As I get older, so many of my travel souvenirs are food and drink. What power has taste to evoke memory, induce reminiscence!

Chicago was popcorn and celery salt. Ireland was Bewley’s tea and dillisk and carrageen. And Scotland? Ardbeg Uigedail and Marmite, chutney and cocoa balsamic. On a night as dark as this, I’m savouring what’s left and dreaming of my next trip.

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Terse Tuesday 25

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“To His Dead Body”
By Siegfried Sassoon

When roaring gloom surged inward and you cried,
Groping for friendly hands, and clutched, and died,
Like racing smoke, swift from your lolling head
Phantoms of thought and memory thinned and fled.

Yet, though my dreams that throng the darkened stair
Can bring me no report of how you fare,
Safe quit of wars, I speed you on your way
Up lonely, glimmering fields to find new day,
Slow-rising, saintless, confident and kind—
Dear, red-faced father God who lit your mind.