Beware...

 March 18, 2026

I do wish Mother Nature would make up her mind. Now, there is a part of me that absolutely identifies with her behavior. The way she teased us all just a few short days ago, giving us that taste of pleasantly warm temperatures and intoxicatingly fresh air? Seducing us to step out onto the porch without a jacket, to remember how sweet this new season can be? Genius. Simply genius.

Our human hearts went pitter pat as we felt our “hooray, it’s springtime” vibes begin to quiver awake. And yes, our little minds, tired of dealing with real life in the big city and this wretched cold winter began to go off in every possible direction, coming up with all the spring-like activities we could indulge in now that it was Spring!

I can’t claim I actually heard MN cackle with glee when, the very next day, our temperatures plunged. But I could imagine it. I also imagined seeing her rub her gnarled old hands together as snow began to fall—just a little at first, so that me, the poor human being snowed upon made the quavering assertion that it surely would all go away any minute now…

Instead, we awoke the day after that to a snowfall that, while not the deepest of the year was certainly the deepest in weeks. A snowfall compounded by a bit of rain, a bit of drizzle, more snow, then rain again so that the outside looked like a damned skating rink.

Personally, I don’t think MN is deliberately taunting us. No, I’m beginning to suspect the old girl is completely demented.

A few years back I purchased, one for my husband and one for myself, a pair of those “wearable blankets” that were quite popular at the time. They are soft, somewhat heavy, and can be worn—though if you are wearing it, you’re not walking around doing anything. The style that I got for us opened at the back, with Velcro at the neck to secure it closed, after a fashion. The sleeves are generous, there is a front pocket similar to a hoodie, and on the inside at the bottom is a cozy extra, a “pocket” to slip your feet into.

We wore them often that first year, because it was the weather being extra chilly that prompted the purchase. Come the spring, we set them away. This garment truly is the size of a blanket, and where to store them became a subject of some thought. David put his on top of his dresser. I put mine—after rolling it and then tying it up—atop the tall, large six-shelved cabinet taking up space in my office.

The thing came down at the beginning of the next winter but then sat there through a couple more, simply because it never got quite cold enough to wear it.

But the winter of 2025-2026 has been different. I shamelessly took advantage of my grandson, one day back in November, and had him retrieve it for me. He’s a long drink of water, that one, and didn’t even need a ladder to reach it.

I’ve worn my blanket-thingy a fair bit this winter, and had been considering stowing it away again, until this latest cold snap arrived. I may or may not wear it later today. Yesterday, the outside temperature didn’t rise above 16 degrees Fahrenheit, with a “feels like” of minus 6. It’s less cold (NOT warmer) today at 28 with a feel like of “16”. That, friends, is pretty darn cold!

So, I won’t stow the thing quite yet. MN is demented, remember, and I don’t want to encourage another sub-zero temperature dip. Because I have been paying attention for the last ten-plus years and what I know is this:

That recent little display from MN was just another reminder that when it comes to dealing with the elderly in this lifetime, it’s best to never drop your guard. You might think you understand all the nuances and all the subtleties connected to their words and their actions but trust me.

When it comes to those of us who used above a certain number of birthday candles on our last cake, we can be slyer—and crazier—than you could ever even imagine.

Ignore that truth at your own peril.

 

Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com

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

The peace is within us...

 March 11, 2026

Rare are the moments of absolute silence. For those whose lives are busy, who are living days of constant balancing, trying to keep so many balls in the air at the same time, moments of pure silence can become their Holy Grail. Second best, if absolute silence is impossible, is a room wherein the only sound is a clock on the wall, ticking. Ah, yes.

I used to be that person. With three children under ten, with having animals about, always, and with trying to work at a day job and manage a home in the evening with equal efficiency, I can tell you there were times. Times when I would feel as if the next totally natural thing for me to do would be to pull out my hair, fists-full at a time.

Times when I would instead choose to slip out of the house, under the radar. I’d grab a coffee at the take-out window and then drive to some secluded spot—both within minutes of my house. There, I’d turn off my car, open the windows, and wait. It took a few moments for the engine of my car to stop its little ritual of ping-ping-pinging as it finished shutting down.

Head back, eyes closed, I’d take the time—never more than a few minutes were needed—to soak in the blessed silence, to find my center again. To breathe deeply and just be.

When those moments would come, those little times of escape, when I finally reached that point? Well, the irony was not lost on me, and I thought about that irony every single time.

Because way back in the beginning, when my first born was my only and we were newly returned to rural living, my escape came not through silence, but through music. Magnificent pieces of music which were never the same, as my heart and my soul have always had a lot of room for songs that touched me.

When we moved into my mother’s house, after her death, we had a lot of room. Bedrooms were upstairs but downstairs, in what would later, and after the next two children become our bedroom, was the den. The den contained a couple of comfy chairs to sit in, shelves of books to read, and our stereo system with a mountain of LPs.

A system that late at night would play Streisand or The Supremes or Neil Diamond or even a movie soundtrack—whichever flavor I craved in the moment, and always at glorious full blast.

Both husband and son back then slept like babes and never awakened—a reality I considered a gift from God. The blast of music took a bit longer to do its work than the later pounds of silence, but the music was it for the younger me. A half hour, minimum, and all would be well again.

So I have used both all-consuming music and total silence as healing balms during the course of my lifetime. Two extremes, bound together only by the use to which I put them.

Being more mature now, I no loner need the extremes. More and more I find that balance I need within myself. Moments of mindfulness, and moments of prayer have become the salve and the elixir when one is needed. And I’m pleased they’re needed less often than ever they were.

For me, absolute silence is no longer achievable. Actions always have consequences, you see, and music played at full blast has resulted in tinnitus being one of mine. But even that’s less than once it was, and I find it much easier these days, even with that constant buzz, to find contentment.

I’ve discovered, as I am sure most everyone does eventually, that contentment and peace are not commodities. They are states of being. They are not found in the world, they can never be found in the world, because that is not where they exist.

They live within us. They always have and forever will. And like just about every truly good thing in this life, having them are the result of a decision.

The world outside my office window reveals the change of seasons and thus the passage of time. But here, within my heart and within my soul, time slips away from the spotlight, and peace flourishes.

 

Love,
Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

 

Hang onto your sanity...

 March 4, 2026

I can finally report that most of the snow, and more importantly the ice that has been strewn about our yard is gone. Of course, we have a few of those usual places where shadows rule for most of the day. There small mounds remain, and if one didn’t see them in the corner, hovering, one would surely feel the cold they release into their immediate environs as one walks past them.

The forecast for the next week or so is promising spring-like temperatures. We will pick a time and put the cat into the basement (one of his favorite haunts) and close the door to keep him safely there for a little while. Once that has been accomplished, I plan to have both front and back door, as well as a few windows, open to the allure of what I hope will be sweet, fresh, spring air.

Our actual spring cleaning will have to wait another week, because daughter is working this weekend and trust me when I say that the kind of cleaning we need doesn’t happen without her.

I’m not completely useless when it comes to household chores, but it’s getting close. Last year I had a left arm strain that took a while to heal. Apparently, my right arm was jealous as I have been dealing with its version of the same injury for the last two and a half months. It’s getting better but still impedes the implementation of my activities list.

I’ve never been a person content to sit day after day and do nothing. I’ve had a few of those, however, during this latest little blip. I really don’t like it all that much. When it comes to the adjustments that one is forced to make as one ages, this has been the most difficult for me—and the most humbling.

 Fresh in my memory are the days when I would tackle my house like a zealot, cleaning, scouring, rearranging….well, you get the picture. I found great satisfaction in the doing, and the results. Even if in those days it was a numbers game with the odds stacked against me. The numbers? One human pro clean and tidy(me) vs. four others on the con side of the equation.

I used to joke that I could work like the dickens both Saturday and Sunday, then get up Monday and not be able to discern the hard work I’d done.

That’s not the case any longer of course. But now it takes me the lion’s share of the day to complete what I used to do in a few short hours.

Ah well, I can still cook, producing good meals and the inmates who live here with me make happy tummy sounds as they eat, so there’s that.

Here we are again, my friends, back to those words found in the book of Matthew about wars and rumors of wars. Over the course of the last two days, I have heard three separate explanations for actions taken in the middle east by three separate members of the same political administration. One claims it’s an offensive war that will only take a few weeks; one claims it’s a defensive war that may stretch a bit longer; and one says there is no war at all.

That’s a rather odd and disconcerting example of the saying, “something for everyone”.

In my corner of the world, I prefer to hold on to my sanity and my peace of mind with both hands. The Olympics are over, but certain other television shows are back, so there are diversions to be had. And since a couple of them involve music, well, that’s where I’ve chosen to place my focus.  I’m not ignoring reality. Trust me, I see what’s going on. I have just chosen to face this situation the same way as I’m facing my declining housekeeping abilities.

All I can do is all I can do and that just has to be enough. Anything else surely is the definition of madness, and I prefer to remain sane, thank you very much.

Because really, there are so damn few of us left around here anymore.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

 

Choose wisely.

 February 25, 2026

The snow had melted just enough to get a bit wet and sloppy, and then froze solid once more. The bottom of the stairs from our porch to the front yard is encased in thick ice. I just checked and according to the weather network, our temperature is above freezing, but “feels like” 23 degrees Fahrenheit—which is, of course, below freezing.

Apparently, the out-of-doors area our house is sitting in agrees with that “feels like” assessment as I see no signs of melting or dripping so far. This is the first “traditional” type of winter we’ve had for a long time.

On behalf of us all, I would like to thank Mother Nature for this amazing reminder of just what it is she has spared us from for the last few years. And I would, respectfully, of course, request that she allow that early spring that our two Canadian groundhogs predicted to now come forth.

The Winter Olympics of Milano-Cortina have been consigned to the record books but remain a good memory. For me, it’s not just about the medals earned—although I do take a kind of patriotic pride in the achievement of all of our Canadian teams. They did well and are to a one excellent examples of Canadian can-do spirit.

If it was just all about the hardware one would doubt the event would even take place. These games just completed hosted nearly three thousand athletes—and bestowed but 348 medals (349 if you count the honorary one given the dog who triggered the camera at the Nordic event). Those are some very long odds. If chasing a medal was the point, who would bother?

The point is the humanity. The point is the achievement. The dreaming, the striving. The thousand random acts of kindness and the myriad examples of heroism.  The point is giving it your all and not quitting even knowing you might not win.

We humans are by nature an adventurous lot. We never would have come out of the caves, otherwise. We want to see what’s over the next horizon. We want to know, could I do that? So we try, and when we succeed, we wonder, what else could I do if I just tried?

We were not created to live in caves—nor in isolation. We’re social beings, yearning to have a dream, chase a dream, and make that dream come true.

The best of times, as with the worst of times, never come to stay. They come to pass. Now it’s time to turn our sights fully back onto our own lives, our own paths. Some of us are refreshed, and yes, some of us are resigned. That’s one of the choices right now, isn’t it?

We’re surrounded by hundreds of choices each day, and some are more consequential than others. We don’t even understand, not fully, how special it is for us to be able to see the difference in the degree of choosing we do. Do I have oat cereal or corn cereal for breakfast? Do I wear this outfit or that one to work? Do I hit the drive-thru for a coffee along the way, or take one from home and practice a bit of frugality?

Do I let hate into my life and into my heart, or do I draw a hard line and keep it out?

For those who think that hate is just another thing we do, another random choice we make, I would point you toward the games just past and beg to differ. We saw not only grit and determination on our television screens night after night. We saw hands extended in friendship; we saw diversity, equity and inclusion at its finest. We saw that despite some differences there was more than bound us than that which divided us.

Hate is a choking vine, a crippling weight. Hate takes all the oxygen in the room and demands more. Hate forges shackles of iron around our hearts and our souls so that all we can do, in the end, is feed it.

Spring truly will be here before we know it. It’s time for us to decide what kind of world we want to live in. That sounds like a hard decision but it’s not. Because, you see, just as it is physically impossible for the human body to produce laughter and ulcers at the same time, it can’t grow hate and love simultaneously. 

This is a choice that each of us needs to make, and I believe it’s the most important choice any of us will ever make.

I know where I stand on this: I’ve chosen love. And I hope you do, too.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

 

It's not isolation....

 February 18, 2026

For the moment at least, and knock on wood, it would appear that our visit to the time of ice age-like temperatures has come to an end. As I take a moment to peer out my window, I see that clouds abound and it’s raining. No ordinary rain, that. It’s a freezing rain. The only thing you should be doing during a freezing rain is to shelter in place, and hope that place has warmth, coffee, and maybe a blankety to snuggle under.

I’m optimistic today because the winter of 25-26 is coming to a close. You’ll recall that I consider each winter to last from October to March, inclusive. Six months. We are drawing close to the end of month number five.

Anticipation awakens.

If anyone is interested, I was last out of my house (as in leaving the property and going somewhere—anywhere) on January 12^th. I had thought that if I ever ended up with more than thirty days in a row at home, I might be in danger of going stir-crazy. But I’m not, particularly, and I don’t know what to think about that.

It’s not like I’m living in isolation. Of course, I’m not. I have a lot of interaction with people who are not here in this physical space with me, as well as plenty with those who are. We’ve been purchasing and receiving supplies when needed, and we’ve a custom, lately, of ordering in Friday supper every two weeks.

There have been new and exciting things to watch on the television especially over the last week or so – I really am enjoying the Olympics. And there’s more than enough crazy happening outside to make me happy to stay home where, if there is crazy, it’s generally familiar crazy and I mostly can control it.

There is a certain level of inner peace to be had when one has no “social calendar” to follow.

I don’t tend to get bored. I’ve long ago given up on the idea that anyone or anything has responsibility over keeping my mind engaged. That’s my job and I do it quite well. Those things that I used to enjoy doing while out and about don’t hold appeal for me in the way they once did. This means, of course, that I don’t miss them.

But best of all, I have no interest in or desire to seek instant gratification. I am content to just relax and let things evolve as they will. I long ago discovered that if I had to depend upon others to have my needs or my wants met, I was going to be doing more than just bit of waiting. And waiting as a singular activity for its own sake truly is just a waste of time.

I can’t control the actions of others; I can only control how I react to those actions.

I think there was a short period of time in my younger years when I possessed a short temper. I can’t recall the details—a blessing, that—but I suspect it was related to some challenge we were facing. A short temper is not something that has ever been a major problem for me. In fact, I’ve had it pointed out to me by various friends and family members that they would have “blown their stacks” if they’d had to deal with some of the things that have crossed my path over the years.

I never really knew how to answer comments like that, then. Now I can say that anger has for the most part never been my first response. Hurt (as in hurt feelings) holds that position. It really is how I’m wired.

My 71^st title with my publisher has been out for a couple of weeks now, and I’m nearly ready to begin my 72^nd. This time I’m letting my process have its due course. I’m hoping my active choice to be patient will turn out to be the best decision ever.

Please wish me luck with that.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

The games have begun...

 February 11, 2026

The Winter Olympics have begun!

Now, you wouldn’t necessarily think that anyone in this household would have any joy at the prospect of seeing winter sports played on the world stage and shown on our television. We don’t care for winter, not one bit. We abhor the cold, the ice, and the never-ending struggle to stay warm. We cheer when Ground Hog Day finally arrives and pray for an early spring. All this is true and I will never deny it.

 But what also is true is that we enjoy watching more sports of the Winter Olympics than we do of the summer games.

The ski jumping, the snowboarding, especially the aerials, and the moguls hold endless fascination for both David and me. We’ve never truly aspired to be performers of any of those truly mind-boggling feats. But we are happy to bear witness, to cheer in support of successfully executed derring-do, or groan in commiseration of a wipe-out, as the case may be. Some of the tricks these amazing athletes pull are simply un-fricking-believable.

We’ve always enjoyed watching figure skating events. Now, here I must confess that from the nineteen-nineties to the early-aughts we were traumatized by the spills we witnessed on Olympic figure skating ice. You know you’re on shaky emotional ground when your field of vision is obscured by the splayed-fingers-in-the-fear-of-imminent-disaster. In the years post Albertville and Lillehammer, Salt Lake City and Turin, we drifted away some from watching those events.

And of course, while the fortunes of our own Canadian teams have always been nearest and dearest to our hearts, whatever the discipline, we are eager to watch and cheer greatness and grit regardless of the nationality of any performer with heart and/or talent.

The phrase “Jamaican bobsled team” still brings a smile to my face.

In fact, I think those gentlemen should be celebrated as the kings of the spirit of the Olympics. They had no hope in hell of ever winning, or even medaling, but they gave it their all, regardless.

We watch news casts each night that we’ve taped—mainly because we’re not ready to watch when they are actually airing. And then, because the winter Olympics have indeed begun, we turn to a Canadian network where we can be assured of discovering the results for most of the events of the day, regardless of the nationality of the medal winners.

In 1998, at the Nagano games, was the first year that curling became a medal event. And we discovered that sport as we sat and watched our Canadian Women’s team, skipped by the late Sandra Schmirler, play excellent ends on their march toward the gold medal. We’d never actually watched curling before, but we were hooked before that first game ended. Now it’s a must-see event for us—even in non-Olympic years.

We have nearly two weeks left to enjoy this wonderful change of pace programming each evening. The competition is fierce, especially from those who are not athletes nor, at this time, the focus of the world’s attention. Not an unexpected bit of noise amid the true-life drama of honest athletic competition. That’s all right. I’m a mother, a grandmother and a great-grandmother.

I know how to handle the tantrums/distractions of jealous toddlers.

And I am getting better, day by day, at living in the moment. I celebrate this moment, this day, for the joy, and for the heart and determination that is on display, the show itself a truly international achievement.

I’m reminded of the time back in 2000, I think it was when my eldest grandson was eight. His family visited during the Olympics, and I asked him if he’d seen one of our Canadian gymnasts performing in particular event I knew to be one of his favorites. He sighed and said, “yes, but he only came in fourth.” He made the word “fourth” sound like the most disappointing substance, ever.

I waited until he was looking at me, and I gave him another perspective. I said, “Wow, out of all the boys or men in the world who are gymnasts, he came in fourth! The fourth best in the world! That’s great!”

I recall that at the time, he went with it and immediately seemed to feel happier than he had. I have no idea if any of that change in perspective stayed with him, but I like to think that down deep, it has.

So, let the games continue—and let us all continue to keep hope alive!

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

I can adapt...

 February 4, 2026

I don’t know about all y’all, but I am having very fond memories right about now of the January thaw that took place nearly a month ago. The last few winters sure as hell spoiled us, didn’t they? This season we are now in is more like what the ubiquitous “they” refer to as a “traditional winter” than what we’ve had in the past several years.

It’s very wise of them to call it a “traditional” rather than a “normal” winter, because honestly very little seems normal anymore.

Today marks the 23^rd straight day that I have not left my house. That is due almost but not entirely to the weather. It’s too damn cold for me outside, period. There’s too much snow and ice, as well, for me to navigate. That’s the weather.

Here is one more factor: Do you recall that I was delighted when the road construction crew, on their last day, put down some asphalt to connect what used to be my walkway (and which they had torn up all to hell) from my porch to the road? Well, I’m still grateful, although there is a teeny-tiny problem with it. Turned out, it’s not a nice, gentle slope. It’s a steepish slope with a big bump and dip at the end.

And with the ice and the snow, even after safety salt, I cannot navigate it alone. My daughter asked for and received my promise that I wouldn’t even try. I’m not an idiot. The first time she helped me from the base of my porch steps to the road, I knew that I would not be able to manage it without help.

Now, this isn’t a permanent problem. Come the spring there will be a landscaping crew here who will remove the asphalt and then reconstruct the walkway base that the crew had destroyed. Then there will be a new walkway, and we will install proper railing, and then all will be well.

I was able to navigate the journey from road to house quite well, year-round, before the disruption of this construction, and I will be able to do so again once it is complete.

In the meantime, you’re likely thinking how lucky I am that our daughter is here. She can fetch and carry what needs to be fetched and carried. And you’re more than half right, there. However, there is a limit to the number of items she can bring home on any given day. Oh, she manages that asphalt, but it’s not easy for her, either.

Bringing home a full grocery order is a lot easier done when she has her two pre-teen grandchildren there with her to lug and carry.

Of course, we don’t want to overtax them. And on other days she will bring what we need after work, but I don’t want to overtax her.

So just recently we’ve found, tried, and adopted another tool for our toolbox. We have a restaurant delivery service here in Canada called Skip the Dishes. And lately they’ve extended their services to include certain grocery stores and other places like pharmacies and even convenience stores. There are four places we shop for groceries on a regular basis, and another store where we shop occasionally, and Skip covers two of the five. Our main go-to for groceries uses a different service, and we now have an account with the company that covers that store as well.

Some members of my family might be surprised at the speed with which I’ve changed my routine and way of doing things. (The people closest to you never really see you clearly.) The truth is, I’ve never been against change.

I just don’t like change for change’s sake. But show me a solid, good reason to adapt, and I’m there.

That trait and my sense of humor haven’t saved my life. But they have saved my sanity.

 

P. S. My 71^st title for my publisher, which is also the 49^th title in the Lusty, Texas Collection is out today! You’ll find it at the second link below.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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