Both my parents are runners. My Mum was an amazing sprinter at school, and up until recently, my Dad ran marathons. They always won the Mum and Dad’s races at sports day which made my brother and I feel pretty chuffed. My dad used to go on long runs with our Great Dane, Magnus, it’s how he stayed fit and kept his stress levels down. He owns about thirty pairs of trainers, most of which he’s had for almost as many years. My brother is a runner, and for about five years I ran daily, also. I ran in blizzards, and in blazing heat. I ran tracks, riverbanks, mountain trails, parks, pavements and beaches. I ran. My only regret was that I didn’t run Marathons because I was surely in shape for them. I’ve never been fitter than I was in my running years. But as most runners know, it can take its toll in other ways. Running is intense and addictive. I was a new Mum, with two babies, and running was all I could do to manage the surge of emotional changes. With hindsight, I would have found more support in something gentler. But we learn what works for us by living through what doesn’t. When I was pregnant with Luma everything in me knew I had to replace running with something more nourishing, kind and sustainable. Swimming, and more recently, yoga, are a form of salve for the body and mind. In many ways, they are the antidote to years of running. And yet, there is still a part of me that misses it. The adrenaline, and the feeling of flight. Recently, I’ve felt a visceral urge to run. Maybe it’s Spring’s awakening, maybe it’s that we’re spending so much time at home, but I see runners from my window and I want to join them. I know I can’t run with the intensity that I once did –– I no longer want to –– but a once-weekly jog, or a sprint to the park and back, may be enough to satisfy the urge. The irony is that I no longer own a decent pair of runners. Unlike my Dad, I chucked all mine when I was done.

Just in case anyone is missing fresh flowers in the house the way I am, here are some breathtaking poppies. This barely-there-pink combined with the sage green is too lovely for words. Just picture a generous bunch of them in the grandest of vases.

“The best thing to do, is to stay home,” was my doctor’s advice when I hemorrhaged twice midway through my second pregnancy. I had developed a subchorionic hematoma, quite common in pregnancy, and his advice was strict bedrest. I spent four months in our small, sunny guestroom, a room that would one day become Antimo and Luma’s bedroom. With hindsight, bedrest was too strict a prescription; it put a massive strain on Jason, and meant me missing out on so many beautiful moments with Iole. There was no science to prove that bedrest would help my situation. Most of the time such blood clots resolve on their own by bleeding out or getting absorbed by your body. But all those late-night trips to the emergency (with Iole in tow) were frightening. And at the time, bedrest was all we could do to feel some semblance of control in a situation where we had none. Tell a woman to stand on her head, lie flat or fly to the moon to keep her son safe, and she’ll do it. I have never felt so okay about doing so damn little. In the situation we’re now all in, we do have the science. We know that staying home is the only thing to do. Here’s hoping for the gestation period of a mouse.

One of the many things I admire about my mother-in-law, is her respect for, and love of hobbies. Sewing has kept her sane, knitting has, too. She bakes beautifully. And is often trying new savory recipes. When her parents died and all three children flew the nest, she taught herself to quilt. She now has an entire room dedicated to her craft. It’s how she spends most days. When she can, at least. She has made each of her grandchildren a quilt, and there are some large ones in the works for her children. My neighbour, Josephine, a retired teacher who lives alone in a big house just north of us, wrote that she is sewing her way through this time of social isolation. My Mum, who also lives alone, is turning raw clay into shells and angel wings at her kitchen table. My studio mate, Dasha is making enough bread to fill a bakery. Hobbies sound old fashioned and quaint –– my brother used to spend hours painting those little metal soldiers –– but in our fast paced, prepped-to-earn lives, how lovely is it to press flowers, plant them, even, for the sheer love of doing so. For Frida, and many other hobbyists, quilting has woven its way into her day-to-day life. It’s an anchor, an escape, a labour of love.

The inside of my bag is a mess of unwashed paint brushes, crumpled receipts, orange peels and loose change. I’m way too slummy for a see-though bag. Sometimes, I’ll find an old sock, some twigs or a half eaten granola bar in there. Once every few weeks, I’ll empty it out, wash the bag, and start again. I own several beautiful bags, but I only ever use a cloth one. Or a canvas backpack. Because I’m a slob. At least when it comes to the inside of my bag. And the way I wear my hair. Rarely brushed, always lopsided. And the way I eat when I’m hungry. Food always ends up on my face. Or in my lap. And I’m ok with all of that. In fact, I rather like it. We’re all loose with some things, and rigid with others. And I say, thank goodness for that. That’s what makes us human. The only thing worse than across-the-board bedraggled-ness is across-the-board perfectionism, and vice versa. We’re all just trying to keep our shit together. In a bag that suits us.