This year was born tired. Even in naive, privileged Canada, the air seems heavy with expectation of the worst. In Ukraine, 200 russian missiles struck overnight, mainly residential areas. I no longer rush to check whether one of these residential areas used to be my home. It is terrifying that Ukraine doesn’t seem like the place that has it the worst anymore.

I am wondering if I am right in trying to protect my children from the news. Should I tell them the truth? Or rather, what truth should I tell them? Whose truth? I tell them I love them. This much I can say for sure.

I have started reading Moon of the Crusted Snow advertised as an Indigenous post-apocalyptic novel – both adjectives appealed to me equally. So far I don’t like it, the writing style is rather dull and characters seem to have been written by an AI, but I am only on the second chapter and trying to give it time.

I had never liked journaling and never made an honest attempt at it, until now. I used to love blogging and was quite successful at it. I love blogging because it is about epiphany, seeing the divine through the lens of every day experiences. This is exactly my writing style and it reflects my expectations of life. I wake up expecting profound revelations, I open a book with a pen in hand – craving to find a prophetic life, I go for a walk expecting a life-changing encounter. I am dramatic, to put it lightly. If I’d lived in the Old Testament times, I’d be one of those mad folks in the desert. I wonder if I was born this way, or if this love of drama was ingrained in me in my pentecostal youth. Anyways, journaling never was my kind of discipline. It is a good reminder that the prophesies and epiphanies are indeed rare, but life keeps happening.