Wednesday, 11 December 2013


It was so foggy in London this morning I could barely see across the road. Cold misty wind was snapping down on us like sopping wet towels in a locker room full of giant angry jocks as we made our way to nursery. My 7a.m. mind was like, yeah, well. That is exactly I feel right now, too, London. Particularly as I'm waking these days to not only the cry of a two year-old, but very full-on work, an international move three weeks down the horizon to co-ordinate and pull off and, oh, the always hectic business of day to day life.

But Jack? He saw "Bub-uuuls!" Jack loves bubbles (obviously. he's not crazy, after all). And it took this morning's fog for me to realize that in addition to rain, snow, fake snow in the weird see-through snowman at the grocery shop and (my personal favourite) dust motes illuminated by shafts of light in our house, fog also qualifies as bubbles.

What a wonderful lesson. That nothing needs to be the totally perfect, very best, most universally-celebrated -- or even particularly pleasant -- version of itself to be adored. Just needs to be headed in the right direction.

Thanks, kid. I needed that. Also, I suppose I might consider dusting a bit more often. Once this fog has cleared, that is...