Utter devastation...

 July 9, 2025

In the darkness the water rose, so fast and so deadly. A lethal combination of raging river fed by the torrential downpour of rain became a nightmare the likes of which no one ever could have anticipated. Through the darkness came agonizing cries for rescue, pleas for someone, anyone, to help. One could not see those who cried out in terror and desperation. Once could only hear them.

Then came the daylight. The waters stopped rising and began to recede, leaving in their wake utter devastation. So many people dead, and so many more people missing.

Texas is a beautiful state. We’ve been there more than to any other state in the U. S. My publisher is in Austin, and I have visited her there. We’ve stayed days and nights in Houston and Waco and Dallas and San Antonio. We have good friends in the San Antonio area, whom we have visited several times—once I traveled there on my own, to stay for an entire week, just myself and my friend and her family. One of only three trips I have taken on my own. During the times when David and I traveled there together, we enjoyed seeing as much of the area and meeting as many of the people as we could.

We’ve toured the Hill Country and seen those beautiful rivers up close. Visiting the towns, the history, and the countryside itself, remain such joyful memories for us both. The people we met were welcoming and gracious. Truly, as much as anywhere can be, that part of Texas is God’s country.

Those same good people are in shock today, the shock of having their lives suddenly destroyed. Some have lost every material thing they ever owned. Some are now homeless. And some are grieving the loss of their daughters and their sons, their grandchildren and their parents and their grandparents.

Loved ones who were there mere hours before are abruptly and horribly gone.

A few families have lost more than one child; and some survivors have lost their entire families.

The flooding that came on the very eve of Independence Day was a terrible, terrible thing. I’m an author, but I don’t have any words that can really make a difference at a time like this. I don’t honestly know if anyone does. You can’t make sense of it. You can only struggle to come to terms with the weight of it.

There are times we are left to bear burdens that seem utterly unbearable, and we wonder how in God’s name we can manage to do so.

But we can manage, in God’s name. And we do so one moment at a time.

Times are tough for everyone right now. Money isn’t everything, but money is necessary and certainly does help. Because money is needed to rebuild, to begin again, and to care for the thousands of needs both great and small in the aftermath of such unimaginable loss.

Times are tough for everyone right now, but here’s an amazing fact: if everyone gave whatever they could, even just five dollars, or three, or one, well that would add up to a whole lot of money.

If you don’t know to whom to give your five or three or one dollar, the American Red Cross is a trustworthy agent. And a little research with the help of your internet search engine will provide you with other worthy candidates for your donations.

There’s always a lot of derision in the aftermath of disasters directed toward the offering of “thoughts and prayers”. But I believe in them both. I believe that when you say or think positive things, that positivity is amplified. And as for prayers? Prayers, offered in good faith, and from the heart are the most powerful force known to humankind. Don’t shy away from using either of those precious tools as a response to this dire situation.

I hope, for a little while at least, we can let go of our tribalism and our animosities and offer whatever we can that is good and kind and loving to our fellow human beings whose hearts have been shattered. We can always—and likely will—go back to our petty sniping, later.

But for now, there are many who are wounded and in need of our care. Let that be our focus.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury

Melancholy and change...

 July 2, 2025

This first week of July is usually a very melancholy one for me. Yesterday was Canada Day and had also been my brother’s birthday. My senior by ten years, Charles used to tell me, when I was about five or so, that the reason for the parade in the city on July first was in honor of his birthday. Yesterday, he would have turned eighty-one.

Yes, I was always a gullible person. And yes, those who know me best are likely now mumbling, “was?”

The fifth of July had been my mother’s birthday. And then more than a full year after her passing, it became the birthday of my second son and middle child. Those of you familiar with my essays know that Anthony passed away in 2006 at the too-young age of twenty-nine.

So beginning yesterday and likely for the duration of this week, I’m emotionally iffy, and will probably be more than a little prone to becoming weepy….and that is okay.

 The ubiquitous “they” used to tell me to not be so emotional; to grow a thicker skin. But I’m going to be 71 this month. And I have come to the conclusion that the adult thing to do is to acknowledge one’s nature and to accept oneself for the person one is, warts and all. Where adjustments are necessary, they should be made. I have done so, and successfully, I might add. My first adjustment was to tell myself I need not give so much weight to the opinions of the “they” of this world, ubiquitous or otherwise.

My second and kinder-to-me adjustment has been to allow myself to occasionally occupy the pity pot—in privacy, of course—and then to flush it when I am done.

I did a thing, on Monday. Y’all have heard of “covid hair”? Well, that was what I had. Until yesterday.  I’ve been thinking about getting my hair cut for some time. My usual morning routine was just to gather it all up into a messy bun, secure it with my scrunchie of the day, and leave it at that.

Have I ever mentioned how grateful I am to whoever came up with that idea, the messy bun? I have no hairstyling talent whatsoever. None. But thanks to the invention of the messy bun, I’ve been able to master the gather and the capture via scrunchie of my way-too-long hair.

How long was my hair? Well, one of the other stylists at the salon yesterday came over and said, “I watched you take your scrunchie off, and I thought, it’s Rapunzel!”

Yes, some scraggly strands actually reached my elbows.

I had it in mind to maybe just get a little taken off. Maybe shoulder length, which was my daughter’s suggestion. I know she gave it because she assumed I loved my scrunchies, when in fact I only needed them.

But my left shoulder has been acting up for a couple of months now, and there have been days when putting my hair up and into that scrunchie was a level of painful I really didn’t want.

Also, I realized within the last couple of weeks that I have a lot of broken ends, split ends, and a kazillion hairs of varying but short lengths sticking out every-damn-where.

The only way for me to look well combed was to use a bit of water to slick down those short ones and then apply hairspray.

I want my hair to be healthier and there was only one course of action for me to take that would help that to happen.

I had to have it all chopped off.

This has turned out to be a huge a change, one that’s going to take a bit of time to get used to. I don’t believe I have ever had my hair quite this short.

But the good news—and I am so a fan of good news—was that yesterday a donation of hair was made by me. About sixteen or so inches of grey-brown, braided strands are on their way to help make wigs and hair pieces for cancer patients.

Of course, me being me, I never once thought to take a picture in commemoration of the moment.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

http://bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury

I'm a creature of habit....

June 25, 2025

I’m better at it than I used to be, but that’s not really saying much.

I used to make a self-deprecating joke, “I am a creature……of habit.” The pause was, of course the intended joke. But the base statement was truth. I am a creature of habit, and have been since—well, I don't recall when my routines and habits became so germane to my psyche, but it’s been a very long-standing state of being for me.

I realized, just this past Monday, that I’m slightly better at coping when I am aware ahead of time that there is a strong possibility, bordering on probability, that my daily routine might be disrupted. But only slightly better.

I received an email last week informing me of “work that would be taking place in my neighbourhood” that was intended to give me a “more efficient, more satisfying internet/television experience.” And that to that end, beginning Monday, this work would commence. This work would, of course, possibly cause a few minor, temporary, interruptions. And they apologized, in advance, of any inconvenience involved.

Then, on Sunday, I received a “robocall”, which I only answered because I recognized the number was that of my internet/television provider. The automated voice on this call reminded me that I could expect service interruptions the next day between 8 am and 4 pm. And that they were very sorry (again) for any inconvenience this might cause.

So, I was ready.

And I did all right on Monday morning when, at about 11 am, after I had completed most of my morning routine, the internet and television service, between one breath and the next, was no longer available.  I could still use my writing program. It was only the back-up service I couldn’t use and that would be temporary.

The services came back up for about a half hour, early afternoon. I used that time to go back to my acrostic puzzle site, reload the puzzle I had been working on, and complete it—earning a “very slow rating” but that’s better than an “incomplete” one. And, I did that just in time because I no sooner received the grade than my service was down once more.

Because I am one who tends to always take others—be they friends, strangers, or internet provider robocalls—at their word, I didn’t worry. After all, it would be 4pm in about an hour and a half. And that call specifically cited an 8 am to 4 pm window.

Well, 4 pm came and went. As did 4:30 and then 5. Still no service. So, I decided to call the internet provider. (This is where my ‘handling the change in routine ok’ began to break down.)

During the first call I placed, the automated system recognized me and offered me options. If I wanted more information about the current disruption in my area, I could select “1”.  I did. Then I was informed that I could easily get the latest info about service interruptions by going on line to “www.company name.com/service interruptions.”

Why, I thought, what a relief! I’ll do that right now! Oh, wait….I have no internet connection because it is currently disrupted.

I hung up, and then after stewing for a moment or two, tried again. The next option I chose was to receive a text to my cell phone detailing the information I sought (mobile devices were not affected by the interruptions). I opted for that. The text included a link that I could then not access because, hello, no internet was not available!

I knew that if I could just get in touch with an actual, live human being, I could ask a couple of questions and hopefully get some actual, live answers.

On my third attempt, I did indeed manage to do just that. After being on hold for about twenty minutes, I was put through to a real, live human being.

After he took my identifying information, he asked me to wait, and he would do a thorough search as to the current status of the work in progress and tell me everything.

And what he told me, while not what I expected to hear, surprisingly helped me to get over myself and decide I was just going to do what I could while I could do it, period.

The work, you see, was slated not just for that day—Monday, June 23. It was for a three-day span of time, beginning with Monday and scheduled to end on Wednesday, June 25^th at about 5 pm. (Or thereabouts.)

After another question—"since I’m to possibly be without my internet/tv for three whole days, I certainly hope I will see a credit for the time on my next bill”—the call ended and I was, well, maybe not happy, but definitely informed.

And since I did take note of the gentleman’s name with whom I spoke, I am equipped to chase down that credit for three days usage, should it not appear on the next bill.

If you’re able to read this today—Wednesday, June 25th—you’ll know I’m coping. Which is really all I, or anyone for that matter, can ask of themselves.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury

  

You just have to remember two things....

 June 18, 2025

We’re already past the mid-point of June, and so far, I can say that the sweltering heat so prevalent last summer has not yet arrived. That’s the good news. The not-so-good news is that today, and for the next week or more, it’ll be here and we’re going to hit our first triple digit humidex days of 2025.

I am not a person who enjoys the extremes in life—not in any area. I am truly one of those boring, middle-of-the road kind of people, and quite happy being so.

Up until I checked the forecast first thing this morning, I was quite content with our spring/summer weather.

Of course, never far from my mind was the sure and certain knowledge that can and likely would change. Now it seems that today is the day. I will be venturing out later to have lunch with a friend. I’m made of tuff stuff. I can do it.

Yesterday afternoon—a day known here in the Ashbury household as Nanny Tuesday—our great-grandchildren who are the grandchildren of our daughter came for supper and brought their stepdad with them. Stepdad cut the grass while the kids did a few chores here and there around the yard. After the yard work, we feasted on grilled burgers and hotdogs, a favorite of almost everyone.

This past weekend, David re-planted one of the green bean gardens.  While one is already showing healthy-looking plants a couple of inches high, the other had only three plants up. He suspects the seeds weren’t good to begin with and so has replanted, using a different package.

There’s a wonderful upside in that. We should have some space between peak first-harvests in each garden of beans. And, of course, staggering the planting allows you to really keep up the picking, so that you get them before they’re “old”. That’s just one of the many qualities to admire about green beans. As long as you keep picking them (provided you do so carefully, without damage to the plants) you’ll get fresh beans well into the fall.

Our tomato plants look healthy, too. With some hot days and rain in the forecast, my fingers are crossed for a good yield. It’s one of our pleasures in life—for all three of us living in this house—to be able to step outside, pick a tomato, and have a satisfying lunch fresh off the vine.

The coleus plants my daughter put in the back yard are thriving, as well. They are lush and beautiful and will last into the fall provided we nip the little flowering stems that emerge from the center of the plants.

This getting old thing continues to challenge me. And it is a challenge to keep one’s attitude positive. It calls for a shift in focus, in emphasis. There is still joy to be found, but one must look for it. There are still accomplishments to be had, but again, one must redefine that word, make it more subjective, and then claim it.

Of course, all this is helped along enormously if one keeps one’s sense of humor.

I also try very hard to keep my sense of perspective. Life changes for us on a regular basis from the moment we’re born. In fact, birth was our first “oh, shit” moment in life when forces beyond our control forced change upon us.

Just think about it. There we were, safe, warm, and comfy, every need met, just floating around in the Zen of it all.

Then the next thing we know, we’re squeezed and squeezed and squeezed until, bloop, there we are, out of the warm and wonderful womb and into the cold and cruel world.

And while some may say that many of us spend the rest of our lives looking for a way to get back in, I say it was the first and the greatest change we’re likely to face in life. And if you strip it all down to the absolute basics, and if you’re determined enough, you can convince yourself that everything else that has followed that first big change is just a matter of remembering two essential principles in life.

Relax, and keep breathing.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury

Sowing....and reaping.

 June 11, 2025

I very much fear that we are on the verge of another if not a global pandemic, at least a very pervasive epidemic. I see the signs of the growth of a disease that has in fact been present throughout the ages. One that, while harmful to the unfortunate individual who has contracted it, has always failed to spread easily to others.  It has appeared locally, here and there throughout history, but has remained for the most part a malady that, if it turned virulent, was easily isolated.

But now I am very much worried that this disease, as the worst of them will inevitably do, is metastasizing. It is more contagious now than ever, and it has begun to dig in, and to spread from its location of origin through the rest of the body—even to parts not prone to it.

Friends, the body is our society and the disease is hate.

Slowly, stealthily, over the last decade or so, hate has taken hold of a greater number of our brothers and sisters. I think it’s because of all the bullshit that has been thrown about in the media, in small gatherings, in our political arenas, hell, into the very air itself.

Now, as we all know, not all bullshit is bad. While it all does stink, some of it makes an excellent manure. Bullshit can work wonders on rose bushes. You can spread some on your bare garden plot just as spring is taking hold, and whatever you plant thereafter has a good chance of thriving.

Sadly, that’s also true if what you plant thereafter is not something good and beneficial. It’s true if what you plant is hatred.

Sowing hatred is a lazy habit. It’s like sowing weeds. Weeds choke out good plants and steal all the nutrients for themselves. It’s what you can plant and walk away from, knowing you don’t really have to tend to it if you sow enough of it. You’ll end up with a bumper crop with practically no work at all. As I said, lazy.

I’m seeing so much hatred in the course of my everyday life. There are some videos on YouTube. Maybe you’ve seen a few of them. They feature some “great injustice” done to an innocent person, and then the “great take that you cur!” that is ostensibly the moral of the piece. But what the piece does—whether wittingly or unwittingly—is to fertilize the seeds of hatred within you, the viewer. When you’ve finished watching the video, you’re not left with a feeling of having been uplifted. What you’re left with is a desire to see more.

Those videos aim to convince you that they have obliterated the injustice. But they haven’t done that at all. And that is because they use the same sort of injustice against the first hater, followed by an implied, “how do you like them apples?” And so they fail. They fail because the creators of those videos have forgotten one true fact about hate.

Hate cannot conquer hate. Only love can do that.  Darkness cannot vanquish darkness; only light can do that.

I’m ashamed to admit it, but I bit at the worm on the hook. It took my watching about three videos to understand why I felt the way I did after viewing them. Because the answer to the damage done by hate is never to throw hate back at the source. It can’t be.

One of the hardest things we learn as reasoning, thoughtful and loving human beings is that haters will hate, and the only weapon to fight it is love, and forgiveness.

Fact is, whatever you toss out into the cosmos comes back to you, often multiplied.

I understand the allure of spewing hate on those who have hated you. I really do. When we image “getting back”, at someone who has wronged us, we get a bit of a warm fuzzy and a sense that it would feel really good to do that. But that sense, that little voice that wants us to do just that is a lie. Because all we can ever reap from sowing hate is more hate.

There may be some who are saying, “I’m not going to forgive so-and-so. They don’t deserve it.”

Friends, no, perhaps they don’t. But you do.

You see, when you forgive someone for any real or perceived wrong done to you, you’re not giving them a gift. Frankly they could care less.

You’re giving yourself a gift.

You are giving yourself a gift by taking the weight of that hate off your soul—and filling your heart with love.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury

Reflections...

 June 4, 2025

Welcome to June!

Not only is it fully springtime, but the few television shows that I do watch have aired their last episodes for the season. This means that my life is once again unscheduled every day after 7 p.m. Being of an age, and no longer working outside the home, one would think it safe to assume that I have nothing but time.

And yet I’m busy every day and wonder where I can find even more of that time thing in which to do more stuff.

As one gets older, one tends to reflect on the past a great deal—sometimes if only for assurance that the memories so carefully stored are, indeed, still accessible. I can recall times that, when I was child, my sister would accuse me of being lazy. I probably was, as a child. After all, it’s our nature to start out life as tiny, self-centered creatures. What seems completely odd to me now is understanding how much that accusation stung, and how long it stayed with me, as if it had been an eternal judgement pronounced upon me.

Looking back, I can see that as an adult I was never lazy. In the years when we were raising our children, and before my husband stopped drinking, there were times when I would, once the children were in bed, retreat to a quiet corner and read, sometimes long into the night. Hours of self indulgence.

I understand now that those hours were necessary “me” time. That habit of withdrawing and decompressing began as late nights of loud music blasting while I belted out familiar songs, an exercise possible only because of a closed den door and a soundly sleeping son and husband upstairs. I switched to the quieter diversion of reading when there were three children, and a fervent desire not to wake them.

These days I have my office where I can hole up, relatively assured of solitude. Relatively because I still live with people and this office has two doors and olds the mini fridge packed with water and diet soda.

I also have a new chair in my bedroom. Not the old wooden kitchen one that was there so I could have a place to sit for a few minutes before climbing into bed. When I got my tax return this year, I treated myself to a new, small rocker with a matching ottoman.

The chair was a bit too close to the floor for my purposes, so David built a platform for it to sit upon. It’s much more comfortable than its wooden predecessor, and once more gives me a private little place, behind a closed door, where I can sit to read or just be.

Life is good

Our tomatoes and green beans have now been planted. The plants are alive and look healthy. The bean seeds should be popping up any day now. Our daughter purchased and then planted some large coleus, and they are now thriving. And the rhubarb we planted last summer is also doing well. We’ll harvest a bit more in a day or so and freeze it. And in a couple of weeks there will be a fresh rhubarb pie on the table.

I’ve been parking my car in my newly restored driveway. There is enough room for the car, so it fits without impeding access to David’s new, smaller storage tent. There is a bit of a slope for me to navigate from the car to the back walkway that ends at our yard’s gate. But it is a very small slope, and I can manage it well. Now the only step up or down in order to leave my house and return again is going out the back door (a step up from the kitchen floor to the back patio) and then coming back in again. But one step up or down is better than six or seven.

The winter will return. And when there is snow and ice making life a challenge, the car will be parked on the street once more. I’ll need to use those front porch steps again, and so I will. Slowly, and carefully, but not often. I tend not to venture out when the weather is filthy. That is a right I proudly and adamantly claim.

A right that I know I have more than earned.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

https://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury

Our King was here...

 May 28, 2025

For those of you who are regular readers of my essays, what I am about to announce to you won’t be news. But if you’re new to this blog, this might make you blink.

Almost everyone is aware that in England, they have a King—Charles III—who ascended to the throne upon the death of his mother, Queen Elizabeth II.

The proper way of “introducing” or “stylizing” the monarch is as follows: Charles III, By the Grace of God, of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland and of his other Realms and Territories King, Head of the Commonwealth, Defender of the Faith.

I italicised the word Realms for a reason. Because, you see, Canada is one of his realms, which means that Charles III is King of Canada.

Yes, Canada does indeed have a king, who is our head of state. One of whom we are rather fond. And yesterday, our king was here, right here in Canada. And for what purpose, you may ask?

Well you see, after an election of a new Prime Minister, we have a day when Parliament is officially “opened”, and the business of governing begins. Usually what happens is that the Governor General of Canada (currently Mary Simon, a former public servant, diplomat, and broadcaster, a woman of Inuk heritage, making her the first Indigenous person  to serve in this role) also known as the Vice-Regal,  reads the “Speech from the Throne”, on behalf of the monarch, a speech that outlines the government’s priorities for the coming session of Parliament. Yes, she is the head of state in Canada but one standing in for the monarch. The Governor General is appointed by the Monarch on the advice of the Prime Minister, and usually serves a term of 5 years, though that can be extended.

And yesterday, she didn’t have to perform the role of reading the throne speech because our King was here, in person, and he read the Speech from the Throne himself, and opened Canada’s Parliament.

The rituals and ceremonies of this occasion date back to the 1700s and are quite interesting to watch.

The King was accompanied by his wife, Queen Camilla, and was received before the Canadian Senate by a full honour guard, a twenty-one-gun salute, and of course, the playing of “God Save The King”. And many spontaneous cheers of the same. He inspected the troops, chatted with some of them, and then returned to the place of honour and was treated to a rendition of his second national anthem—O, Canada.

The last time a monarch opened Parliament in person by Queen Elizabeth in 1977, which was her silver jubilee year. Prior to that, she opened it during her first visit here as Sovereign in 1957. So yesterday was a big deal, because it marked only the third time in our history that our monarch performed that duty.

Their Majesties arrived here on Monday, and left Tuesday afternoon. It was the King’s 20^th visit to Canada but his first as Sovereign—and he came at the invitation of our Prime Minister.

By and large it’s fair to say that Canadians have mixed views about the monarchy. There were signs in the crowd reading “God Save the King”, and signs that read “Not my King”. But that’s Canada for you.

Once when the CBC challenged Canadians to finish the sentence, “As Canadian as…”, the consensus answer was, “as Canadian as possible under the circumstances.”

That said, many Canadians of late have been on edge and unsettled what with all the flotsam and jetsam and hot air being heaved our way over the last several months. The arrival of our king on our shores, the words he read—some his own, and some crafted for him by the head of government as is the norm—were designed to let Canadians know that they are not alone, and we don’t have to worry.

We are a sovereign nation, but not a nation alone. We are the true north strong and free. We are a member of the Commonwealth of Nations, and therefore we have allies. And we have a king.

And our King has our backs.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury