Canada’s history magazine is called “The Beaver.” I would hate to do google image searches for past articles.
My brother sent me an e-mail that he was checking out at the grocery store and the clerk saw his ID and said, “Oh, are you related to Tim Sullivan!?” My brother said yes, that we were brothers. and the cashier said, “Oh! I used to take his yoga classes!”
“Were they any good?” my brother asked.
“Of course! I love Tim!”
“We must be talking about a different Tim Sullivan,” my brother said.
Thanks for the e-mail bro.
Me: Crap. I need some triple shots. I don’t have anything written down.
Ellen: Sorry. I wasn’t very funny this week.
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I talked to a friend today who lives in northern Canada. She had just gotten back from a from a friend’s from dinner. The thing was that she left six days ago. There’s a term for it, I’m told, “storm-stayed.” During dinner, the snow came and there she had to stay for almost an entire week.
She told me the first two days were torture, worrying about all the unfinished business.
But then something opened. She released.
I can’t put myself there, scanning someone else’s bookshelf, watching more and more snow fall, feeling like you over-stayed a welcome yesterday, petting the cat, petting the cat, sneezing.
I thought about it all day, on my bike ride, at work. Six days.
What about work? The dishes in the sink? The book I am supposed to finish?
Then I remembered something she said, “At some point you just have to surrender.”
The the last four days, she said, were heaven. “Cold air in my lungs, warmth against my skin.”
And I try and I breathe and when it all comes rushing in, I just keep repeating under my breath, “Snow-stayed. Snow-stayed.”
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