2.5 Miles...

Well, I finally did it. I bought myself a treadmill. A really nice one. And I love it!!! For the past few years I have been staying in shape by power walking, which, for me, means walking at a fast pace such that it is difficult to hold a conversation. It is just below breaking into a run. I went out in cool mornings of spring, only to have some birds dive-bomb near my head in an effort to protect their young. I have endured the blazing sun of summer and some days were so hot I simply could not go outside and exert that kind of physical effort without taunting a heat stroke. In the winter time, the fierce winds and bone-chilling temperatures made me want to stay indoors (which began to happen with greater frequency).

Now I can go on my power walk, no matter the weather! I can measure my distance and speed, adjust the incline, program my own workouts, or use any of the nine pre-programmed workouts. There is a hill course, interval training, and a whole bunch of others I can’t remember.

While I don’t get the pleasure of a change in scenery, I am able to use my treadmill time to do some thinking. This morning I thought of a design for a knitted blanket. I mapped out the size, the number of squares, and the motifs I would like to knit into the squares. I though of the bananas I have that are ready to be made into yummy banana nut bread. I also planned our dinner menu for the upcoming week.

So, today I walked 2.5 miles and I feel great. Now I can spend the rest of the day lounging in my La-Z-Lady chair, knit, and watch football. That is how I manage to make myself hop onto the treadmill each morning. I earn my knitting time only after I have had a power walk! Our bodies were meant to move and I hope I have inspired you to do whatever it is that you love for your body. The rewards are tremendous!

Little Fiddler

I came across this photo and fell in love with it. So simple, so delicate, so exquisite. It is perfect. Living in western Canada, along the foothills of the Rocky Mountains, the terrain ranges from two extremes: endless, open prairies to the east and massive, rock-faced mountains to the west. Both are a sharp contrast to the forests of Washington where I grew up. There was green, green, and more green, everywhere. Green of every shape, every shade, and every texture. It even smelled green. Heady, thick, rich, and…well… earthy. It is a smell I shall never forget. This little photo transported me back to that place and time in an instant. I am so grateful that my brain could transport me to this green place and time all these years later. What a beautiful gift.

Hope there is a little green in your life.

The Sea-Limits

The Sea-Limits

by Dante Gabriel Rosetti

Consider the sea's listless chime:

Time's self it is, made audible,--

The murmur of the earth's own shell.

Secret continuance sublime

Is the sea's end: our sight may pass

No furlong farther. Since time was,

This sound hath told the lapse of time.

No quiet, which is death's,--it hath

The mournfulness of ancient life,

Enduring always at dull strife.

As the world's heart of rest and wrath,

Its painful pulse is in the sands.

Last utterly, the whole sky stands,

Grey and not known, along its path.

Listen alone beside the sea,

Listen alone among the woods;

Those voices of twin solitudes

Shall have one sound alike to thee:

Hark where the murmurs of thronged men

Surge and sink back and surge again,--

Still the one voice of wave and tree.

Gather a shell from the strown beach

And listen at its lips: they sigh

The same desire and mystery,

The echo of the whole sea's speech

And all mankind is thus at heart

Not anything but what thou art:

And Earth, Sea, Man, are all in each.

The sheep who couldn't sleep...

Well, another sleepless night. I swear the Sandman has lost my address. I decided to finally write a story of sorts which has been brewing in my mind for quite a long time.

The Sheep Who Couldn't Sleep

Mama Sheep tucked the covers in just right,
And gave Little Sheep a sweet kiss good night.
Little Sheep squirmed to the left, and then to the right
The covers were tucked in just a little too tight.

He threw back the covers and sat up and bleated
He sighed quite loudly and seemed quite defeated.
“It’s time for bed but I’m not sleepy, not one little bit.
Something might happen, and I don’t want to miss it!”

Mama Sheep turned around, and came back to sit down
She reached out to smooth his curls, which were nappy and brown.
“Relax, Little Sheep, I’ll tell you a secret,
But only if you promise me you’ll be sure to keep it.”

Little Sheep nodded his head in agreement
He could keep a secret, of that he was confident.
“When sheep can’t sleep they count, you see
It has worked for your father, your grandmother, and me”.

“What do they count?” asked Little Sheep
She answered "The very same things as people who can’t sleep”.
“Sheep?!” he exclaimed, and he started to laugh
Then he imagined all his sheep friends, one by one, following a path.

Billy was first, very smart and funny
His disposition was friendly, smiley, and sunny

Tucker was next, he was real good at sports
He could play any game and could build the best forts

Tilly was third, she had her rulers and calculator
She was good at science and was a really good baker.

With a big yawn, Little Sheep leaned on the pillow and settled back in
He was getting sleepy and Mama Sheep began to grin.

He continued to count each sheep in the land;
His eyes grew heavy and he began to understand.
Counting sheep was lots of work for such a young lad
But the secret was working and for that he was glad.

Again, Mama Sheep tucked the covers in just right
Because Little Sheep was now sleeping with his eyes shut tight.

Curious night...

Some nights are endless. Some nights are filled with dreams. Last night was one such night. While lying awake, waiting desperately for sleep to come, lucid dreams would wrap around my conscious self, refusing to give my brain peace. When sleep did come, infrequent and briefly, my dreams were full and vivid.

These nights of endless dreams are like traversing some curious landscape painted by Salvador Dali. Dreams turn the impossible into the plausible. They make sense of what seems to be nonsensical, even if only for a moment. We mostly keep our dreams to ourselves as they carry meaning only for us. Some people give no thought to their dreams, but they are wonderful conduits for our irrational and baser side, the side that is censored so heavily when awake. Then, when the night has finally passed, in the light of day, our dreams can be examined like a found treasure.

For those who claim it was ‘only a dream’, they are missing out on an entire world that is theirs for the taking, if only they would ‘listen’. It is a dismissive statement and comes from those who are dreamless.

The words of a childhood song suggest ‘…a dream is a wish your heart makes, when you're fast asleep..’. Perhaps our dreaming selves deserve more credit for it is during dreams that we can process stuff that is built up in our waking moments. Researchers can tell us much about our brains and what happens when we sleep in great detail. Sleep is crucial for survival. I believe dreams are crucial for our soul, even when they are difficult and disturbing.

Each night, when the light is turned off, I look at the tiny glow-in-the-dark stars painted on my ceiling and breathe a wish for sweet dreams. Sometimes my wish comes true.

Through his pen...

"God writes the Gospel not in the Bible alone, but also on trees, and in the flowers and clouds and stars” ~Martin Luther

Such beautiful words from such a controversial figure. Martin Luther was a man who challenged the Catholic church and paved the way for the Protestant Reformation. Not only did his theology bring about monumental change, he also had some views which I find to be reprehensible.

In spite of the ugly words he has written, he was responsible for translating the Bible into German and this was ultimately influential in terms of the English translation into what is known as the King James version. Through his pen the word of God was made accessible to the common man.

Words can cut and words can heal. I prefer to think of Martin Luther in terms of the latter.

Incense and white tea...

After a busy week of left-brain thinking, it was time to do something more creative and engage in some right-brain stuff. So, I got out my Ciro Marchetti “Gilded Tarot”, lit some incense, and brewed a mug of white tea. It was time to complete a tarot reading for an on-line friend.

The cards were shuffled, re-shuffled, and then shuffled once more for good measure. The seven of swords was drawn. This can be a challenging card at the best of times, but when drawn for a single-card reading it can be even more daunting. To add a twist to this exercise, the reading was to be given in the form of a poem, a song, a drawing, or painting. Since my favourite form of poetry is a sonnet, I decided to write one for her based on this card.

What I ended up with was something quite amazing. Hopefully my friend will enjoy her reading and consider all the possibilities this card offers as she contemplates her next professional move. It was good to use my creativity and to play with pictures and words. Now my tea is gone and the incense is out, but the satisfaction of this time spent with the tarot still lingers.

Vincent and the felt hat...

Vincent Van Gogh painted many self portraits but this is one of my favourites. When at the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam recently, I had the opportunity to spend an afternoon enjoying his art in its full range, from his first clumsy drawings to the massive paintings which showed how far he had stretched himself.

The Borinage, where he lived and ministered to the miners and their families, gave birth to his early sketches of the working poor with their odd-proportioned limbs. The drawings of the peasants in sombre colours show the hard, difficult side of life, a life shortened by dangerous work. When it was time for him to leave, Vincent sought the invaluable guidance of a mentor.

Over the ten year period in which Vincent painted, his paintings became more colourful and bright, with bold, frenetic strokes, which convey the energy within him as he painted fast and furious before madness set in. He was afraid that it would consume him and he would not get all of his paintings done. Though he studied the dotted Pointillist technique, he added his own flair. His style was of more coarse, broad strokes with a swirling movement to them. He developed a signature style that endures in its beauty to this day. His work was damned when he was alive and then celebrated in his death.

It is hard to believe that such a tortured soul, who endured such profound melancholy, sadness, and a sense of worthlessness, was able to paint such vivid, brilliant works. Surely inside, deep in his soul, there was a voice that was screaming out “I can do this”, “I can be a success”. Vincent was a bit different: quiet, sullen, private. He felt as if he was a burden to his family, all of whom were successful at their chosen vocation. It was as if no one but his younger brother, Theo, understood him.

It is suspected that Vincent suffered not only from an unusual form of epilepsy, but also from depression. So difficult to live with, and so socially unacceptable, many people with mental illness suffer in silence while their brains work their black magic to alter their lives beyond imagining, sometimes to the point that death is the only way out. Mental illness can also bestow gifts, such as mania, which allows for the creative spirit to soar to such heights, while the depressive episodes that follow can be crippling and paralytic. In this regard, Vincent suffered greatly.

Sweet Vincent, somehow you knew your life would be short. Your irises have brought tears to my eyes. Your starry nights shining above the cypress trees has stirred my imagination. Your works have brought this young woman much joy and cause to reflect on this life. As your brush strokes touched the canvas, your work has touched the lives of millions. It was not all in vain dear, sweet Vincent.

Rainy blueberry morning...

Winds are chasing across the fields and a chilly rain is soaking the gardens. A great morning to stay indoors. For a bit of morning cheer I made one of my famous breakfast smoothies. Just place ½ c. yogurt, a banana, some blueberries, a splash of orange juice, and a teaspoon each of wheat germ, flax seed, and uncooked oatmeal. Whir in a blender until it resembles a milkshake.
I serve it in a thermal mug because it is very frosty and will stay cold while I enjoy it. The bendy straw adds just a touch of fun! The blueberries and banana remind me that summer is just around the corner. After all, without the rain there would be no flowers.

A Dutch fairytale...

I do believe the strawberries in Amsterdam are from heaven. While there recently for business, every morning for breakfast I had fresh fruit, a buttery croissant, and on Sunday even added a splash of champagne to my orange juice to turn it into a mimosa for no reason at all. The waiter was a bit flirty, called me ‘Miss’, and even winked at me. Likely he treats all the ladies this way to make them feel special. It worked!

The conference was amazing, but after sitting and listening for nearly three days I was dying to get outside and see more of Holland. A tour of the countryside was needed, so I travelled to Volendam just north of Amsterdam, which is a picturesque fishing village along the shores of the former Zuiderzee.

Volendam looked like some place out of a Dutch fairytale. Even under pewter skies, a light rain, and bracing North winds, it was absolutely beautiful. The row houses were tidy and the little village seemed suspended in time. The canals and gardens were a palette of broad, vibrant colours, neither washed out nor hidden in shadow as they would have been under a hot, brilliant sun.

While in this fabled village I stopped in at a jewelers shop and bought a silver watch with a mother-of-pearl face and a necklace that seemed to have been made just for me. It was as if it were waiting for me to come along. It is made of a silver hammered rectangle that has within its boundaries a moonstone, as pretty as the moon herself, a grey-black pearl the colour of the sea, and a twinkling blue topaz just as clear and bright as a new day. Topaz is my birthstone, so you see, it was truly meant for me.

Volendam was such a striking contrast to the bawdy, raucous ‘red-light’ district of Amsterdam. I doubt the women in the windows under those red lights, or the men who buy their services, understand that the brain is the largest sex organ. Nor would they understand that a deep, lingering kiss or a touch as light as a whisper can be far more erotic than the hard-core sex that was so explicitly promoted. While the crowds, the smells, and the shocking sites in Amsterdam were too raw for me, I fell in love with the countryside of Holland.

Now it is back to the “everyday ordinariness” of my life, and I must say I am happy to be home.

This knitter grows up...

Tomorrow I have a nine hour journey to Amsterdam, via Frankfurt. I refuse to check any luggage, so my clothes and ‘essentials’ have been packed in my little ‘wheelie bag’, which I usually use to transport my laptop. I can get by with very little as I have done lots of business travel and know how to mix and match, and some items can be hand-washed, so packing for a week in one small bag is no problem. But, my concern is what will I take to knit?? Socks? A shawl? I have some lovely black kid silk haze, but am not sure I will be able to see it in the dim cabin lighting of the overnight flight to make sure the lace pattern is correct. I might make another pair of Fetching, sweet little cabled fingerless gloves, like the ones I made in the photo. That would be easy and fun! Strange to find that my worries about what to knit far outweigh my concerns of dressing professionally (including outfit for gala dinner!). Maybe I have really become a knitter.

Making time...

Sometimes it is important to take a break from life and do something fun. Well, my idea of fun is knitting! It is also relaxing. I belong to a group called “Chicks with Sticks” and the members are awesome people who are bright, articulate, and uber-creative. We meet regularly at a local coffee house and spend the afternoon knitting and talking. Well, I guess technically we spend our time talking and knitting.

It is amazing how the conversation can meander from such simple things as planning our summer BBQ get together to how many months must one go without sex to be considered a ‘born-again virgin’. The group consensus was that the BBQ would be held the last Saturday in June; and apparently it takes 12 months without sex to be considered a born again virgin.

That’s one of the many things I love about this group- we have been together for nearly a year and it is so easy-going and everyone has a voice. In this busy world, it is nice to know that you can count on the simple pleasure of getting together with friends and gabbing. Oh, and there really is a little knitting thrown it, just to make it an official meeting!

Grrr...

Tigger is one of the cats in my life. He is orange, overweight, and a bit of a bully. No one loves him but me. He has moments when he looks so innocent, but they occur only when he is fast asleep (note his "Royal Bigness" sleeping on my desk). He is kind of like the heavy-set bully that blusters around the playground, terrorizing the other kids, but is the first one to hide under the covers at the first sign of a thunderstorm. Or so I thought.

Today he decided to sit on the window ledge above my desk and watch the weather. After awhile he began to growl at something, but I ignored him. After a few moments, he growled again, so I got up to look outside to see what he was growling at but found nothing. I resumed my work and then again, he growled. It was at that point that I heard the low, distant rumble of thunder. When the thunder stopped, that darn cat growled again. Thunder rumbled louder, announcing a storm was coming, and again, there was the growling of Tigger. His growl was growing more menacing the louder the thunder sounded.

Then, without warning, there was a flash of lightning and a clap of thunder! Tigger bounded off the ledge as if he had been struck. Papers and books went flying off my desk as he ran down the hall and into the bedroom to hide under the bed. My brave, growly cat was suddenly nothing more than a fraidy cat. But I love him anyway.

Half way there...

Happy May Day! A whole day to celebrate the coming of spring! It is a cross-quarter day and marks the sun’s midpoint journey between the vernal equinox and the summer solstice. There is much to celebrate, give thanks for, and to look forward to as the earth is slowly warmed by the sun (at least for those living in the northern hemisphere!). Due to city fire regulations, there will be no bonfire here tonight, only a small, private prayer ceremony to commemorate this day. Part of the celebration tonight includes making an ‘Oatmeal Honey Applesauce Cake’!

Jazz serenade...

Well, spring is finally peeking out! These garden frogs are playing a tune to the small green shoots which will grow up to be tulips. If the rabbits leave them alone, I might get another photo once the flowers bloom.

Speaking of spring, I had a few days off from work and decided (on the spur of the moment) to reorganize my entire stash of yarn following a recent moth scare. What a big pile of fluff; I found stuff I had long forgotten about. Instead of keeping the yarn on shelves in the closet it has all been moved to two cedar chests. I think it is time to suggest to the knitting group that perhaps a yarn swap would be a good idea.

Of course, all of the spring cleaning is merely a diversion because what really needs attention are my studies and I am getting behind on several important projects and way behind on the readings. But, at least spring is here and my stash is (mostly) organized.

New moves...

I learned a new move today. It was a big moment. It was big because it moved me forward as a knitter. It was big because I ‘figgered it out by myself (with a little help from the authors of “Knitting for Dummies”). It was big because I had tried to work the row with the ‘new move’ six times before my “Aha!” moment finally kicked in. And it was at that point that I felt like I had accomplished something just short of a miracle.

Likely everyone else in the knitting universe was able to do this move when they first encountered it. But for me, with a memory that has not been cooperating, and visualization skills that are less than stellar, it was great to be able to create a piece of fabric (Lattice Lace) that looks complicated, and I thought it was, but once I learned how to do it, it was a snap!

The project at hand is an 24-square afghan. Each square is a different pattern, designed specifically to help new knitters like me learn new moves (or skills). I am learning, alright! Now, only 23 more squares to go!

(Yarn: Lionbrand’s “Vanna’s Choice”, 100% acrylic, color: Honey)

Little flying monsters...

Oh the horror! It has been happening off and on these past few weeks. Usually at night. The kitties were alert and tried their best. They moved this way and jumped that way,while the moths flitted that way and flotted another. I tried to kill the little monstrs with the ‘hand-clapping’ method as it is known to be quick and painless. Apparently my vision and coordination are no longer what they once were. Those *bleepity bleep* moths were darn hard to catch!

Normally such occurrences would be classified as a “Meh, just a minor annoyance”. But this abode is anything but normal. This house has a stash of yarn from some of the most amazing yarn shops in North America (I can say that ‘cause I bought yarn in Chicago and Portland once!). It is all waiting to be knit into beautiful garments. Someday. That is what makes these moth sightings so disturbing. My stash is at risk. Red level alert risk!

So… I started the process of checking each ball, skein, hank, and cake carefully, looking for evidence of moths. The sock yarn was the first to undergo the scrutiny. Luckily, no moth evidence was found. It was so amazing to see all the sock yarn laid out in one place. I had no idea I had collected so much sock yarn! It was worthy of a photo (see above!).

I will be checking all the other stash later today to ensure there has not been a moth infestation.
As I don’t have a wide-angle lens for my little digital camera, there may not be any other pictures to post. But you can bet I will be spending this weekend on ‘Moth Patrol’. Be sure to check your stash to make certain all is well.

Queen of Cups...

Queen of Cups
Coffee cup…Measuring cup…Cupcake… the Holy Grail…and now Socks!

My ‘Queen of Cups’ moment was inspired by a pattern on Knitty.com for a pair of beautiful socks, designed by Nathania Apple, called “Queen of Cups”. For any of you who think this is a familiar story, it might be because I posted it on a message board some time ago and it was quickly locked down. We are all different and I do respect the views and fee!ings of others. This blog is a place where I can express myself, uncensored, and if you are not comfortable with the tarot, please turn back now!

A tarot deck contains 78 cards. Each card depicts a particular aspect of our life at any given time. The cards are divided into two groups: the majors, which signify aspects or times of our lives that are of great importance or noteworthiness while the minors signify the ordinary, mundane, everyday aspects of our lives. It is interesting to note that the majors are 22 in number, while the minors are 56. This numerical difference is interesting as it reminds us that most of our lives are made up of the little, every day things. The Queen of Cups is technically in the minor category, but she is also what is called a court card. This type of card generally signifies a person or a type of energy. You will begin to understand this as you read further.

Cups can be used to hold things like water, or wine. They can be used to measure things. Cups are a part of our everyday lives. There are just always there, ready for use, often in the background. We give cups very little thought, but when one is missing from the cupboard, there is an immediate disruption in our routine. We reach for the cup to fill…and if it is not there, everything just simply stops. Those of us who are Mother’s may sometimes feel as if we are in the background. But, if we are not there, everything simply stops.

Perhaps the Queen of Cups can be a card of meditation for this day…a chance to try on all that the Queen of Cups is about. Like a cup of tea infused with the essence of the plant which yields it energy in the form of flavour and scent, the energy from this card is empowering and affirming.

The Queen of Cups in the tarot symbolizes mature feminine energy. This energy can be put forward in many ways and can come to mean much more than meets the eye. It can be manifested in the inspiration from a muse, the desire to create and bring an aesthetic sensibility to the world in which the Queen of Cups resides. This includes art, crafts, music, poetry, other creative endeavours, and a life of purpose. These pursuits are possible because this feminine energy is directed and purposeful.

This card is more than aesthetic beauty; it is also about an inner beauty that emanates from a place of confidence, caring, and a sense of order in the home. The Queen of Cups is a mediator, an organizer, an empathic being, and a listener. The feminine energy is channelled to bring about order, peace, and mediation in family matters. Sometimes she must listen to the voice of reason, but also to the stillness of her heart, whose language is intuitive.

Also a Healer, a counsellor, a psychic or otherworldly being, The Queen of Cups can bring spirituality, tranquility, mystery, and emotional sensitivity to any situation. She is inspiring, receptive, warm-hearted, and kind. Her goal is personal satisfaction in all pursuits, regardless of the material outcome. In spite of all her giving to others, she keeps her cup full as her reserves of strength are buttressed by a network of friends, family, and acquaintances, from which she is not afraid to draw.

As with all aspects of ourselves, or the card we draw for a meditation or reading, there is a continuum. There are the gifts and there are the challenges. This image of the Queen of Cups is no exception. While her gifts are numerous, there is a shadow side which can teach us more about ourselves; we just need to open our hearts, open our minds, and truly listen.

The Queen of Cups can teach us to not become overly sensitive to criticism. She reminds us not to be so easily distracted, disorganized, unrealistic, or irrational. She cautions against self-centeredness, moodiness, inconsistencies, and general lack of focus. We are reminded to be aware of other people and to not let them easily influence us, as we may be wont to do.

When this card is drawn, as an independent card for a daily meditation, or one that is part of a larger tarot spread, we need to consider following our intuition. It can signify a need to go with the flow. It can be viewed as a dare to daydream. The Queen of Cups encourages us to focus on nurturing our families and creating an environment that is harmonious. It suggests that we offer our heart to the one we love. It also reminds us that, at times, we need to replenish this cup in order to sustain our energy.

This pattern that has grabbed my attention is for a pair of socks. At it’s most base form, a sock it like a cup. It holds something. Whether it holds fruit and nuts as a Christmas stocking, or whether it is a simple, everyday sock, that holds the foot, the form and shape are undeniably cup-like. This leads to an interesting parallel… the sock cups our foot. The Queen of Cups sock is an object of beauty. Perhaps these special socks, worn on our feet, can keep us grounded; they can remind us to stay centered and divine the feminine energy that this symbol of cups embodies.

Poem in Your Pocket...

April is National Poetry Month and April 17th is “Poem in Your Pocket” Day.
Here is a poem sure to make you smile…


Growing Smiles

A smile is quite a funny thing,
It wrinkles up your face,
And when it’s gone, you never find
Its secret hiding place.

But far more wonderful it is
To see what smiles can do;
You smile at one, he smiles at you,
And so one smile makes two

He smiles at someone since you smiled,
And then that one smiles back;
And that one smiles, until in truth
You fail in keeping track.

Now since a smile can do great good
By cheering hearts of care,
Let’s smile and smile, and not forget
That smiles go everywhere!

~Unknown

Spy dreams....

When I was a little girl my heart’s desire was to grow up and become a spy. I even wrote to the FBI to ask what the qualifications were for becoming a spy. The letter I received from them told me that strengths in languages and mathematics were very important. I thought I had it nailed as my idea of a spy was someone who was good at sneaking around. A spy had to be creative, shifty, and daring! Sneaking was my specialty, my gift, not math! I imagined a job that was exciting, exotic, and even dangerous. I wanted to be mysterious and elusive.

But of course, well-meaning adults suggested I consider something a bit more traditional, like teaching or nursing. They told me how unlikely it would be that I could ever become a spy.

Somewhere along the way, maybe it was late childhood, my passionate, brave ‘creative soul’ began to die as it was censored into submission. I learned to give acceptable answers to the questions silly grown-ups would ask like “What do you want to be when you grow up?” In my heart I still wanted to be a spy, but I would tell them something less adventuresome and this seemed to keep them happy. Saddest of all, though, is that eventually I believed what I told them and began to make preparations to study something that was ‘sensible’.

Then, when I discovered all that university had to offer, there came a time when my heart’s desire was to become a ‘professional’. More than anything I wanted to be able to take my education and use it in a role that would let me practice the art and science of my chosen discipline while helping others. It was the Holy Grail of my early 20’s. The degree obtained would open new worlds of challenge and satisfaction. It would allow me to support myself without relying on anyone else. It was only through the federal financial aid program, the holding down of two jobs for 8 years, and student loans that I was finally able to make that dream come true. While the skill sets learned were not the least bit spy-like, I am so very glad I did it.

Now, 18 years later, with a full ‘professional’ life behind me, and many more years of practice ahead, my heart’s desire has changed once again. Now my heart’s desire is to become a ‘creative soul’. The idea of becoming a spy still holds a special place in my memory, but sneaking about and derring-do are a bit more adventuresome than I can handle these days. However, I do love to wear black as it is so slimming!

More than anything I want to be able to take the ideas from my dreams and from my imaginings and paint beautiful pictures, or spin fleece into yarn for knitting, or tell a tarot tale so compelling it leaves the listener breathless. I would spend my mornings painting, my afternoons spinning, and my evenings telling stories while knitting. Maybe I could finally learn to play the piano.

Perhaps any or all of these things are possible. I just have to silence that censor within who has had such a hold on me for decades. I need to try, to experiment, to make mistakes, to see what works and what doesn’t. I need to learn to play again. Most of all, I need to believe in myself.

Maybe we all do.

My little spot...

Finally, I have created a little spot to give a voice to my musings, wonderings, opinions, hopes, dreams, and fears. And probably a little poetry. Of course, now that I have this spot, I have been struck with Writer’s Block.

Oh the irony.

I am sure it will pass.