Ink & Pixels
stories worth sharing
This year, I managed to read 37 of 40 books of my Goodreads goal. That was also the year I started Analog August; a 30-day fast from social media. You can browse through that chronicle on Instagram. I embraced much craft, natural beauty, and found an invaluable calm in appreciating the work of my hands apart from a screen. You’ll see that reflected in my book summaries below.
When we got married, I was told on no uncertain terms was I to break up the family set: Kyle’s & mine were to stay on the Reiter mantel. We were in a basement suite our first year, and anyway I didn’t have a fireplace to hang anything. It felt so strange not to have stockings, so as a temporary measure I bought some cheapies from the dollar store and tucked them to hang out of high drawers in our games cabinet, just so I could see the familiar sight.
Grandma graciously gave me the cutoff remains of what supplies she had; a bit of red flannel, a short string of pearly sequins, red eyelet ribbon, and green quilt backing for a tree skirt—which I did make that first year. But I did not possess the needlework ability that I do now, and though she’d given me two blank stockings, I knew I wanted a matching set… and there wasn’t enough material for our future kids’. The supplies went into storage.
196 plump, papery cloves planted, exactly doubling this July’s harvest of 98 bulbs. I am very pleased with the quality of growing stock; these are the grandchildren (3rd planting) of the free bulbs I was given during the March 2020 lockdown. A positive pandemic legacy, large enough to provide both future stock and a year’s worth of eating garlic, I’m figuring.
…Oh, Danish. He’s entering Leap 4, if you’re familiar with @thewonderweeks. Won’t sleep without much convincing, or without me as a pillow. Bet-Lou, his Nana’s cousin-in-law (there’s a lot of fam up here), invested 45 minutes of bouncing him on the beach and was rewarded as Dane finally passed out in her arms.
Bitter smoke, like the smell of resentment, rolled in thick overnight and tints the light a warning amber. We still enjoyed more rock hunting in the creek, Dane snoozing in the carrier on my back. Speckled cubes, sparkling eggs, one russet flagstone that the men refused to heft home; the treasure we left behind.
The watcher waters, waits
for seeds to leaf in two, then four.
The quickest end
to this green vigil
is to plant a few rows more.
I wonder,
as I wander
through this furrowed, dirty sea,
How slow
seem I to grow
the seeds planted in me?
“…I am more conscious of the small, tactile observations around me. A construction-yellow-mustard lichen, no bigger than a thumbnail. The juicy crack each romaine leaf makes when pulled off the crown. The feeling of filling my lungs full, full to bursting with air, as I pray for a friend whose breath has become laboured with pneumonia. The scratch of sand against my shovel; the slinky slide of clay.”
“…Most of my morning was business, but I gladly abandoned my desk for the sunshine and this little miss. She is the cheeriest little joy, our little parrot, our climbing monkey, our apprentice gardener. She happily drowns the tenderest seedlings, moves dirt with proud industry to the surfaces her Daddy has just power washed, and somehow manages to mimic my every mannerism. She crosses her arms, her chin thrust speculatively out towards our efforts, humming and tsking her little opinions.”
Life has changed drastically for her these last 2 years. Demoted from Daily Companion to Toddler’s Live Toy, banished from the bedroom, beset with hyperthyroidism, arthritis, a world-altering change of homes, and now failing kidneys, this kitty is far older than her 14 years.
The first half of her life was treasured by breeders: she was a champion show cat, and a born nurturer; she would try to steal other kitties when she had none of her own. When presented with the chance to adopt her instead of waiting 12+ months for an $850 kitten, we snapped her up.
Making soap is pretty rewarding: you can take a few pretty innocuous ingredients and, with some careful measurements and a lot of stirring, end up with a beautiful, chemical-free product that's cheap and long-lasting.
There's all kinds, but I've started to think olive oil soap might be the best option for several reasons. I weighed the pros and cons for you below.
A. Reiter (Ashley Reiter) is a speculative fiction writer based in British Columbia. Her debut novel, Resonance Between Our Suns, will pre-launch on Kickstarter early 2027. She is the author of the children's picture books The Lonely Bear Who Went Looking For A Party and Tell Me a Story Mumma.
Crafting Eden, her monthly newsletter, invites readers into conversations about gardening, writing, and books—in search of the beautiful, resonant, and true.
