Write all the rumbling, tumbling, rambling words in your head and build a fire. After all, it's a very grey day. Greyer than yesterday. Greyer than aged trees with peeling bark, weathered barns or grey clouds lingering, or the last sweater of my father's still on the same hook at my mother's house.
When the flames become orange and blue, feed the woodstove with all of the words, one at a time, until Canada becomes as small as a used pencil eraser.
Instead of decorating barren walls for Easter, hang all of your necklaces on painted-over empty nails, your earrings on curtains or anywhere bereft.
Sing until your voice is silent.
Learn all of the dances in the universe and dance until your arms and legs are no longer shy; until you can make warm blueberry muffins fall from the skies or you can sit still and mostly enjoy being purple.
Or remember a day when you sat on a worn wicker porch chair, the cushion too thin and the flowered fabric fading, holding an old grey cat as you whispered the words of her life, she slowly dying in your arms, eyes gazing into eyes, and you thanked her for being who she was, even though she was a grouchy cat and ruined one of your favorite chairs with her kitten claws.