My favourite mornings...

Some of my most favourite mornings are those when I wake up with a poem in my mind. Sometimes I think the ideas themselves wake me up. There is no choice but to get out of bed and put pen to paper. Secreted away in each room of my house are blank index cards and pencils so I can capture the words, ideas, and thoughts before they evaporate. I have tried remembering them, the exact turn of phrase that seems so perfect, but sometimes once they are gone, they are gone forever.

Often I place these cards, with their snippets of verse or rhyme, into the book I am currently reading, with the thought that the words will eventually be transformed into the poem they were meant for. But sometimes, with life being as busy as it is, I forget them there and they remain hidden, frozen in place. The words and ideas, not fully fleshed out or finished, remain suspended in time. And then one day, I open the book again and find them there, waiting for me.

This is what happened to me on this winter morning. I picked up a book I had been reading quite some time ago and found within its pages some of my index cards with the earliest beginnings of a children’s poem. The words came rushing back to me and have reignited my desire to write this poem, to give it life and being. So, today I shall spend some time constructing the poem from these ‘word bones’, bringing to life the story and the rhyme. It should be challenging and fun! Perhaps some day I will post the poem here, to share it with you.

What is your heart's desire?

Lately I have been thinking of my list of things I would like to learn, try or experience someday. The more I think about it the longer the list grows. There is so much in life I want to try and to experience. Sometimes it seems like one lifetime is not enough!

My list includes such things as learning to cook. To be able to make a perfect angel food cake, a pan of delicious cinnamon rolls, a loaf of whole wheat bread or a tangy chicken korma with jasmine rice would be a nice accomplishment. Then there is the whole world of herbs… to learn how to cook with them would be grand. Imagine a tart lemonade with a hint of lavender, or tea biscuits with bits of rosemary and chives hidden inside. So far I have already learned to make very yummy soups and some nice meals in the slow cooker, but it is time to expand my horizons.

Gardening is another thing on my list. To grow an herb garden, all one needs is some soil and lots of sunshine. Herbs like it dry and sunny, so they are pretty easy to grow. I would have a medicinal garden, a kitchen garden, and a scented garden filled with lavender, rosemary, and chives. Have you ever smelled scented geraniums (although not herbs, they come to mind)? There are all kinds, but I love the rose-scented ones the best.

Spinning is something else I must try. I have a drop spindle and can make a single ply yarn. It is like a true ‘homespun’ yarn- thick and thin, showing my ‘newness’ to the skill. Someday I will knit something with this yarn. But what I really want to learn is how to spin with a spinning wheel. In fact, I have decided that the coming year is the one in which I shall learn to do this. To transform a pile of fluffy roving into yarn that can be used to knit up a shawl or sweater would be amazing. Spinning is a bit like a moving meditation (as is knitting). There is a rhythm to it; it brings me a sense of calm and solitude.

Another thing I want to learn is how to read the night sky. And to be able read it in each season as the zodiac makes it’s way around our beautiful planet. I want to recognize at least 10 constellations and understand the phases of Venus. I want to see Jupiter and the Galilean moons (Io, Callisto, Ganymede, and Europa) and the rings of Saturn. My telescope is still new to me and I must learn to use it better so I can study more closely the surface of the moon. I want to learn about the different seas there and recognize some of the geography without my moon map.

I wish there was a place for grown-ups, sort of like a summer camp, where we could go for a week and take classes on arts, crafts, dance, or cooking, or whatever strikes our fancy. There could also be time for stories told around the bon fire, music to sing to, and friendships to be developed. Methinks a world where grown-ups could learn in an open, welcoming environment would be a very civilized world. It would let us explore interests that have perhaps become dormant through the hustle and bustle of every day life. We encourage our children to explore what interests them, but somehow we have forgotten to nurture this in ourselves.

What would be on your list of things to try, learn, or experience? Be brave and make a list. Do so without censure. Be bold and daring. And then choose one thing and go for it!

Cloud Appreciation Society...

Every once in awhile, there come along something that just brings on a smile. The Cloud Appreciation Society is one such thing. This site is filled with all things wonderful related to clouds. I recommend you visit and consider becoming a member…

Manifesto of the Cloud Appreciation Society

WE BELIEVE that clouds are unjustly maligned
and that life would be immeasurably poorer without them.

We think that they are Nature’s poetry,
and the most egalitarian of her displays, since
everyone can have a fantastic view of them.

We pledge to fight ‘blue-sky thinking’ wherever we find it.
Life would be dull if we had to look up at
cloudless monotony day after day.

We seek to remind people that clouds are expressions of the
atmosphere’s moods, and can be read like those of
a person’s countenance.

Clouds are so commonplace that their beauty is often overlooked.
They are for dreamers and their contemplation benefits the soul.
Indeed, all who consider the shapes they see in them will save
on psychoanalysis bills.

And so we say to all who’ll listen:
Look up, marvel at the ephemeral beauty, and live life with your head in the clouds!
________________________________________
“I love the clouds… the clouds that pass…
up there… up there… the wonderful clouds!”
[The Stranger, Charles Baudelaire]

To see this site for yourself, here is the link…

http://cloudappreciationsociety.org/

Photo: Mount Rainier, Washington US, Ryan Verwest

The Emerald Tablet...

While the rest of the world went about their usual Sunday doings, I had the pleasure of participating in a little discussion on a ‘spiritual alchemy’ board that I am a member of. Here is a excerpt from this afternoon's discussion…


Topic: Sir Isaac Newton’ Translation of “The Emerald Tablet” (or Secret of Hermes- Hermes Trismegistus).

OM: 'It is true without lying, certain and most true. That which is Below is like that which is Above and that which is Above is like that which is Below to do the miracles of the Only Thing. And as all things have been and arose from One by the mediation of One, so all things have their birth from this One Thing by adaptation. The Sun is its father; the Moon its mother; the Wind hath carried it in its belly; the Earth is its nurse. The father of all perfection in the whole world is here. Its force or power is entire if it be converted into Earth. Separate the Earth from the Fire, the subtle from the gross, sweetly with great industry. It ascends from the Earth to the Heavens and again it descends to the Earth and receives the force of things superior and inferior. By this means you shall have the glory of the whole world and thereby all obscurity shall fly from you. Its force is above all force, for it vanquishes every subtle thing and penetrates every solid thing. So was the world created. From this are and do come admirable adaptations, whereof the process is here in this. Hence am I called Hermes Trismegistus, having the three parts of the philosophy of the whole world. That which I have said of the operation of the Sun is accomplished and ended.'

NL: Thank you, dear Pelican :)

DR: Thank you, OM, for this wonderful translation. Can you tell me, is there more? It is beautiful.

OM: No, this was all, DR! Such a complex man and still considered one of the greatest contributors to science even side by side with giants like Einstein. Surely a neglected feature of his genius is his writings on biblical hermenuetics, although obviously his theory of heliocentrism was the dawning of a 'new', critical age and the emergence from old atrophied ideologies...

DR: Methinks Newton was able to "stand on the shoulders of giants" such as Copernicus, Galileo, and Kepler, all who came before him and gave their own contributions to science. But all were men of God... They never denied the miracles of nature and gave a nod to the divine order of things.

There was a similar 'revolution' of sorts with Einstein and his contemporaries as they probed the smallest inklings of the universe, quantum theory. They looked inward while Newton, et al, looked outward. Indeed, "As above, so below"...Thank you, dear OM.


There are many such conversations in this wonderful forum. There are only a small number of people who participate, but each offers something that begs one to stop and spend time in deep thought and contemplation. It helps me stretch my thinking and has introduced me to many new ideas, concepts, and thinkers. I am grateful for the creator of this forum and for those who participate. It is a wonderful way to spend some free time on a Sunday afternoon, while curled up in front of the fireplace and watching the snow fall.

Blessings, my friends.

A penny for your thoughts...

The other day I removed all of the loose change from my purse. I had managed to collect $36.68; no wonder it was so heavy! I sorted out all the change as some was Canadian currency and some was US. There were lots of pennies. I wanted to see which coin was the oldest. It turned out that there were two pennies that were the oldest, dating back to 1974. One penny was Canadian, with a little duo of maple leaves on the front; the other was a US penny, with Lincoln still visible on both sides. Those pennies had been around for 35 years!

Of course, I wondered how far and wide these pennies had travelled, only to be collected in the palm of my hand, at this moment in time. I am sure if they could talk, they would have some stories to tell. Perhaps they would tell me that they had greater value, once upon a time. I then wondered about my life, and about how far and wide I had travelled. I agreed with myself that I had travelled far and wide, indeed. But, for a few moments of self-indulgence, I sat there thinking of a time in my life, in 1974. I thought about where we lived as a family, who we knew in our circle of friends, and what was happening at school. Here is a list of things that came to mind, in no particular order. (I have learned the beauty and simplicity of a list from a dear, dear friend, recently):

1974

I was in the fourth grade. I had to wear glasses and I hated them.

This was the year my mother gave my brother and I our own house keys because she would not be at home when we left for or returned from school. She had a friend of hers macrame a beautiful design using fine cord with red beads so we could wear the keys around our necks and not lose them. We wore those keys proudly! We were the original ‘latchkey’ kids in our neighbourhood. I felt so important wearing that key!

Our apartment had bright green shag carpet. I imagined it was grass.

I began my collection of “Raggedy Ann and Andy” books.

Shawn Roach (eewwww!) ran up to me on the playground one day and planted a fat, sloppy kiss on my cheek. I was stunned and the girls then thought I was a pariah because not only had a BOY kissed me, but he was a ROACH! I was mortified. I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me. I have no idea why he did this and I hated him for it.

I was taking swimming lessons at the local YMCA and discovered I cannot float.

My violin playing was improving, but only very slowly. But I didn’t care as it was fun to bug my brother while ‘practicing’. It must have actually hurt him to listen to me; the looks that would cross his face were at once horrifying and mesmerizing. I hope he has forgiven me.

We lived in Bellevue, Washington. Slugs would show up in our garden and on the patio stones. We learned to sprinkle salt on them. Over a period of a day or two, the poor little slugs would shrink into a hard little chip of matter, no longer fat or slimy. I feel bad that I killed so many. But why would God make a creature that is so defenceless? They were creepy and slimy. Thank goodness I am no longer afraid of them.

A stray cat adopted us and fell in love with me. I named him “Tinker”. He came and went as he pleased, but had a real passion for me. Once, when swimming in the apartment complex pool, he wanted to be with me so badly he actually jumped into the water! He used to walk me to the bus stop, and he would be waiting for me when the bus delivered me back home at the end of the day.

My brother and I loved to sing "Kung Fu Fighting" and "I Shot the Sheriff". We would ride our bikes until darkness fell and the street lights came on.

Sometimes we had to go to the lady next door to be ‘babysat’. Her son, Richard, was such a brat. She weighed about 300 pounds and loved to watch professional wrestling. She would make the worst meals. Finally, after much pleading, my mother agreed to leave us on our own when she went out.

Speaking of meals. My mother went through a real ‘health food kick’. Brown rice casserole (perhaps the 70’s was the casserole decade?). She would add onions and zucchini, and cover with some shredded sharp cheddar cheese. It was positively disgusting to my fourth grader sensibilities. But now as an adult, it is one of my favourite comfort foods! Another entry from what you might call the “Gallery of Regrettable Foods” was her goulash. It sounds disgusting, and it was. But then I was only 10 years old. I wanted Cheeze Whiz on white bread. But she insisted on feeding us whole wheat bread (Roman Meal- ugh!). That bread was a dry and as tasteless as a pair of old Roman sandals.

Other foods she liked to make: homemade granola- it did smell wonderful while it was being toasted. She also loved to cook with sesame seeds, honey, and carob. We made Christmas decorations out of marzipan that year... it was weird stuff and tasted like almonds.

This was the year I discovered the poetry of Rod McKuen. I loved his albums “The Sky” and “The Sea”. His voice was so soothing, the music was so beautiful, and the content of his poems was so incredibly romantic. I would listen to these vinyl records for hours on end.

So I suppose 1974 was a pretty good year for me. What would be on your list if you were to spend some time thinking about your life in 1974? I would love to read it sometime…

Vincent Van Gogh...

Much of my time is spent travelling for business. It has its ups and downs, but I try to make the best of it. Sometimes I am very lucky and land in a place where I can make the time to step out of the ordinariness of my life and see something truly amazing. When I found myself in Columbia, Maryland, for an intensive Tinnitus Retraining Therapy course and realized how close I was to Washington DC, I made plans to visit the National Gallery of Art. My main goal was to see the paintings of my art hero, Vincent Van Gogh.

I have been lucky enough to see his Irises at the National Gallery of Canada in Ottawa, Ontario. I have seen his painting, The Bedroom, in the Art Institute of Chicago, and even visited the Van Gogh Museum when in Amsterdam a couple of years ago. And now I was able to see one of his many self portraits at the National Gallery of Art in Washington DC. I had anticipated seeing these works and deliberately made my way through the other areas of interest in the museum, saving his paintings for last. I wanted to have time to look at and reflect upon them, without being rushed. And I was not disappointed.


When I entered the gallery where his paintings were hung, I found it was a shared space with his friend, Paul Gauguin. The entire experience was a bit surreal. The room was paneled in rich, dark wood. Along one side hung Gauguin’s vibrant island girl paintings, those he completed when living in Panama and Martinique. His colours were royal purples, scarlet reds, and deep greens. On the other side of the gallery hung Vincent’s paintings. These particular works were pale and brilliant all at once, if that is possible. His colours were of pale greens, deep blues, a stellium of grays, and light pinks. The two artists could not have been different in their colours, compositions, or subject matter. But at one time, they were friends.

The main painting I was interested in was a self portrait he painted at a very difficult time in his life. I walked up to the Vincent in his self portrait and simply stood there, looking at his eyes. So deep and penetrating was his gaze; he held in his hand a painters palette and his thumb was large and awkward. I am not sure why I feel such a special kinship with Vincent. But standing there, looking at him, the beauty and depth of the colours, the texture of the brush strokes, it all was suddenly too much. I felt my throat tighten; my eyes began to burn as I tried to keep the tears at bay. His paintings always move me so. I wanted to reach out and touch the paint, to travel back in time, to feel what he placed on the canvas. Then I went to each of his other paintings in that gallery, and looked at the colours, the brush strokes, and thought of his difficult life. In the end, the tears came; I could not help it.

The self portrait was painted when he was hospitalized while in Arles, France. He did end up in an asylum in Saint-Remy, where life was not easy. But he could see the stars in the night sky from the small window in his room. He painted many paintings from memory. I believe that Vincent’s life was not ever easy. He was alone and misunderstood. I will never forget standing in the museum in Amsterdam, looking at his very last painting, Wheatfield with Crows. It is massive, filled with intense colours, with an ominous feel, as if the painting were an omen of his last days. And it turns out it was just that. When he shot himself in the hay field, and then died two days later, while in his brother's arms, a light in this world was extinguished forever. How ironic that it is the colours in his paintings that personify his style. For years his internal world was bleak and lonely, yet his later works were bold, alive, beautiful, and filled with passion.

Earlier in the day, I was feeling very lonely. The kind of lonely one feels in a crowd. Maybe it was the kind of lonely Vincent had felt in his lifetime. It seemed I was the only person traveling solo; each person was paired with another. I was wishing I had someone to share my thoughts and ideas with, someone to talk with while I ate lunch, and someone to share dinner with at the end of such an amazing day. But then, after seeing Vincent, I simply was moved beyond words. I could not have talked if I had wanted to. When I finished viewing his works, I made my way to the garden and fountains where I could sit and simply take in the experience. I sat still for about half an hour, simply thinking about Vincent and his life. I still want to touch the paintings, but I know I never will. And someday before I die, I want to see Starry Night in real life. But for that painting, I will have to visit the Museum of Modern Art in New York City. I can hardly wait…

The Secret of Kells...

When was the last time you were enchanted? When was the last time you looked at a film through the eyes of a child, with wonder and awe? I was fortunate enough to see such a film at the National Gallery of Art while in Washington DC recently. The Secret of Kells is a story about a boy named Brendan who is growing up in Kells Abbey under the supervision of his stern uncle, Abbot Callach. The Abbot is interested in building walls to keep the people safe from the invading Vikings. But Brendan has no interest in building walls; he has fallen under the spell of a legend of a famous illuminator, Aidan from Iona, who once worked with St. Colmcille.

One day there arrives at the gate of the walled Kells Abbey an old man with a white cat. The cat has one blue eye and one green eye. Brendan is beside himself with curiosity when he learns that the old man is Aidan, who has fled Iona which had been taken over by the Vikings. He has brought with him the illuminated book and is looking for someone to help him finish the key pages as his eyes are old and his hand is no longer steady. Through a turn of events, he enlists the help of Brendan to get the job done.

The animation style of this enchanting film was overwhelming at first. The characters were large, ill-proportioned, and very stylized, but soon they became familiar and upon closer inspection, juxtaposed against graphics of the Celtic figures in illuminated texts that were shown, it was easy to see where the shapes of the characters came from. The artwork looked to be watercolour or perhaps coloured pencil technique, so there was a soft, ethereal quality to the film. It was a sharp contrast to the Vikings, who were bold and black, with evil red eyes and lolling tongues. I imagine if I were a young girl of five or six these dark creatures would be most frightening.

What I enjoyed as much as the visual aspect was the bold soundtrack. It was rhythmic and visceral. The recorders, the flutes, and the drums were mesmerizing. When added to the visual animation, the music simply swept me along this fantastic tale. When this magical film ended, I went to the gift shop, hoping to purchase a copy to take home with me so I could relive the magic, but alas, there were no copies for sale. I hope to someday find a copy of this film for my private library; it is one I would like to see several times over. I have long been fascinated by Celtic history and this little animated film has rekindled my interest in this time period of history, so it looks like I will need to do a bit of research and see what I can learn.

Someting sparkly...

For a very long time now I have been in love with the moon and the stars. I love to read poems, stories, and folklore about these heavenly bodies. I also love to read scientific articles about them as well. And for a very long time, I have wanted a piece of jewelry that sparkled as brightly as the stars themselves.

While travelling to Maryland on business recently, I finally found a few pieces that I fell in love with. And of course, I could not decide which pendant necklace to get: the moon or the star. So, I decided to get them both. And of course, I had to get the star earrings. I reasoned that a girl can never have too much sparkle, especially when it comes to the moon and the stars.

So, if you see a little sparkle from across the room, it is only me. Of course, I could never compare with the light and brilliance of the moon and the stars themselves. God has done a fine job with his wonderful celestial creations. I am just happy that I can see them each day and night. And now I have captured them in a special way, to wear around my neck and to adorn my ears. I am very, very lucky.

The sun never says...

The Sun Never Says

Even
After
All this time
The sun never says to the earth

“You owe me”

Look
What happens
With a love like that,
It lights the
Whole
Sky

~Hafiz

(translated by Daniel Lashisky, from Love Poems from God

Galileo mittens...

Sometimes there comes into your life something that makes you smile; something that lifts your spirits and gives you inspiration. For me it was discovering a pattern for a pair of mittens that I am going to knit! And the timing could not have been better. I live in Canada and winter has arrived early this year. Lately it has been cold, wet, and snowy. Perfect mitten-wearing weather.

So, to accentuate the positive, I have decided to embrace winter and make myself a pair of Galileo Mittens. Designed by Laura Chau, of Cosmic Pluto Knits, these beautiful mittens are sure to keep my hands warm throughout our long, long winter. I am sure Galileo himself would have loved such a wonderful pair of toasty mittens like these to wear on those cold February nights in 1610 when he sat outside for hours on end, watching the moons of Jupiter through his spyglass, as they travelled along their orbits.

When these mittens are done, I will be sure to post a picture, but for now, please enjoy these which were made by the designer herself. Thanks, Laura, for these heavenly mittens!

To Stir the Stars

I want to stir the stars
Shake up the heavens
And upset the orbits

I want to keep bees
And live on a lavender farm
And sleep on the moss under willow trees

I want to run away
And be someone else…
With red curly hair
And blue eyes

I want to dance
And sing
And paint

I want to stir up the stars
Shake up the heavens
And upset the orbits

In the next few weeks there will arrive in my mailbox a most interesting book I have ordered. I can hardly wait! It is called “The Alchemy of Paint: Art, Science, and Secrets from the Middle Ages”. Here is the description from Amazon.com:

“The Alchemy of Paint is a critique of the modern world, which Spike Bucklow sees as the product of seventeenth-century ideas about science. In modern times, we have divorced color from its origins, using it for commercial advantage. Spike Bucklow shows us how in medieval times, color had mystical significance far beyond the enjoyment of shade and hue.

Each chapter demonstrates the mindset of medieval Europe and is devoted to just one color, acknowledging its connections with life in the pre-modern world. Colors examined and explained in detail include a midnight blue called ultramarine, an opaque red called vermilion, a multitude of colors made from metals, a transparent red called dragonsblood, and, finally, gold.

Today, “scarlet” describes a color, but it was originally a type of cloth. Henry VI's wardrobe accounts from 1438 to 1489 show that his cheapest scarlet was £14.2s.6d. and that scarlets could fetch up to twice that price. In the fifteenth century, a mid-priced scarlet cost more than two thousand kilos of cheese or one thousand liters of wine. This expense accounts for the custom of giving important visitors the "red carpet treatment."

The book looks at how color was “read” in the Middle Ages and returns to materials to look at the hidden meaning of the artists' version of the philosopher's stone. The penultimate chapter considers why everyone has always loved gold.
And about the author:

”Spike Bucklow trained as a chemist. He worked in the film industry, creating puppets using prosthetics, including Ronald Reagan in Spitting Image and Jabba the Hut in Return of the Jedi. He became an art conservator, at the Hamilton Kerr Institute in Cambridge where he restores mediaeval art. He is an expert in craquelure, fixing the cracks in oil paintings”.

I will do my best to wait patiently, but it will be very, very hard.

A little bit of jingle...

For the past few years I have dabbled in belly dancing off and on. Lately I have been trying to take it a bit more seriously because it is such a beautiful art form. Currently I have been trying to learn Oriental style which is quite different than the Egyptian style I tried to learn in the past. It is far more feminine. And far more difficult.

For me, it is like learning a new language. When I learned basic ASL, or American Sign Language, while in university, I remember attending a local lecture and watching the interpreter. Her signs were unfamiliar to me; I could not understand her as easily as I could my own sign language teacher. This was because for the first time I was seeing a different sign language- that of SEE sign, or “Signing Exact English”. It had a more staccato look and seemed harsh. ASL is beautiful. It flows and looks like music to my eyes. The new sign language I was seeing somehow jarred my visual sense, and surprisingly, it touched me at a more visceral level. I never knew it could be like this. But there is was before my very eyes. I had learned there were different languages and different dialects even, but to experience it took me to a place of understanding that went beyond the weekly lessons.

And so it is with dance. My body loves to move in rhythm to music. Truth be told, I am not a strong dancer by any stretch of the imagination. I can only do one thing, one move at a time. But nevertheless, I so love to dance. So learning this new style of Oriental belly dancing has been a great challenge. I am aware of what my body feels it wants to do, but in order to stay true to the style, I must do other things that feel a bit awkward. But slowly, with time and patience, I am retraining the large and small muscles of my body to move in a new fashion. I love this new language, that lets me speak with my body. And if you are ever thinking of trying this form of dance, splurge and get yourself a coin scarf! They are fun to wear and even when you move a little bit, they make a sweet jingling sound that encourages you to keep on trying. Plus, as you move to work both sides of your body, they give good auditory and kinaesthetic feedback to ensure your movements are developing symmetrically.

Some bunny loves you...

This bunny came into my life recently in a most unexpected way. I was travelling for business and was once again sleeping in one of hundreds of hotels as I have done thousands of times over the past 10 years. But this particular night was different. I had a dream that brought to my soul the deep love a mother feels for a child. This is quite remarkable as I have no children of my own and have never felt the call to be a mother. I love and enjoy others children, and have devoted a significant portion of my professional life working with children, but there are no children of my own to love.

However, the dream I had while sleeping in this hotel, the one I wrote of here in this blog under a post titled “The girl from nowhere…” was a most amazing experience. The love I felt was so profound, unlike any feeling of love I have ever experienced before. When I awoke, I had to write down this most remarkable dream, so I pulled out my laptop and searched for an outlet to plug the power supply into. When I moved a chair out of the corner of the room in search for the outlet, I found this long-forgotten white bunny rabbit. This discovery made me come to a complete stop. How odd… a white rabbit. This discovery brought tears to my eyes, those which I had been holding back all morning. And so for a some time I wept for the child I never had.

After pulling myself together, I thought of the child who had left this rabbit behind… and wondered how much this floppy toy might be missed. I contemplated turning the rabbit in to the “lost and found” but selfishly decided I needed this rabbit more than the child who had lost it. I was going through a difficult time and took the rabbit as a symbol of promise, rebirth, and balance. Long associated with fertility, I found it remarkable that the rabbit appeared to me the morning after my dream which evoked such maternal longings. I have never felt that way before. I hope I never feel that way again. It was lovely and painful all at once. I wish it had never happened. Because now there is the sense of emptiness.

Set me like a seal...

“We stumbled on in the darkness, over big stones and through large puddles, along the road leading from the camp. The accompanying guards kept shouting at us and driving us with the butts of their rifles. Anyone with sore feet supported himself on his neighbour’s arm. Hardly a word was spoken; the icy wind did not encourage talk. Hiding his mouth behind his upturned collar, the man marching next to me whispered suddenly “If our wives could see us now! I do hope they are better off in their camps and don’t know what is happening to us.”

That brought thoughts of my own wife to mind. And as we stumbled on for miles, slipping on icy spots, supporting each other time and again, dragging one another up and onward, nothing was said, but we both knew: each of us was thinking of his wife. Occasionally I looked at the sky, where the stars were fading and the pink light of the morning was beginning to spread behind a dark bank of clouds. But my mind clung to my wife’s image, imagining it with an uncanny acuteness. I heard her answering me, saw her smile, her frank and encouraging look. Real or not, her look was then more luminous than the sun which was beginning to rise.

A thought transfixed me: for the first time in my life I saw the truth as it is set into song by so many poets, proclaimed as the final wisdom by so many thinkers. The truth- that love is the ultimate and the highest goal to which man can aspire. Then I grasped the meaning of the greatest secret that human poetry and human thought and belief have to impart: The salvation of man is through love and in love. I understand how a man who has nothing left in this world still may know bliss, be it only for a brief moment, in the contemplation of his beloved. In a position of utter desolation, when man cannot express himself in positive action, when his only achievement may consist in enduring his sufferings in the right way – an honourable way- in such a position man can, through loving contemplation of the image he carries of his beloved, achieve fulfillment. For the first time in my life I was able to understand the meaning of the words, “The angels are lost in perpetual contemplation of an infinite glory”.

In front of me a man stumbled and those following fell on top of him. The guard rushed over and used his whip on them all. Thus my thoughts were interrupted for a few minutes. But soon my soul found its way back from the prisoners existence to another world, and I resumed talk with my loved one: I asked her questions and she answered; she questioned me in return, and I answered.

“Stop!” We had arrived at our work site. Everybody rushed into the dark hut in the hope of getting a fairly decent tool. Each prisoner got a spade or a pickaxe.

“Can’t you hurry up, you pigs?” Soon we had resumed the previous day’s positions in the ditch. The frozen ground cracked under the point of the pickaxes, and sparks flew. The men were silent, their brains numb.

My mind still clung to the image of my wife. A thought crossed my mind: I didn’t even know if she were still alive. I knew only one thing- which I have learned well by now: Love goes very far beyond the physical person of the beloved. It finds its deepest meaning in his spiritual being, his inner self. Whether or not he is actually present, whether or not he is still alive at all, ceases somehow to be of importance.

I did not know whether my wife was alive, and I had no means of finding out (during all my prison life there was no outgoing or incoming mail); but at that moment it ceased to matter. There was no need for me to know; nothing could touch the strength of my beloved. Had I known then that my wife was dead, I think that I would still have given myself, undisturbed by that knowledge, to the contemplation of her image, and that my mental conversation with her would have been just as vivid and just as satisfying. “Set me like a seal upon thy heart, love is as strong as death”.”

~Viktor E. Frankl “Man’s Search for Meaning”


Image: Artist Scott Church, http://www.churchcreative.com/

The girl from nowhere...

Her hair was golden blonde, wispy and fine, falling across her slender shoulders. Her laugh was genuine and her eyes were brown. From within her came a spirit and love of life that was impossible to ignore and radiated outward, touching me in a profound way. She was of the age when a young girl is budding into a woman. She was the daughter of someone I knew. And for one wonderful weekend I spent time with this amazing young woman, learning about her and sharing some about me.

We hit it off like two long-lost friends, despite our age difference. We spent time talking, as all girls do. We shared our hopes and fears. We spoke of our dreams and planned our respective futures. We walked in the afternoon sun, rode bicycles, explored the garden at her home, and all the while I marveled at her kindness, her compassion, her intelligence, and sense of hope.

When our time was over it was hard to say goodbye. I vowed not to cry. I wanted her to remember our time together with happiness. We had bonded like sisters but I had grown to love her as a mother would love her own child. Saying goodbye was so very hard. Luckily, I did not have to do it. I awoke before I had to let her go.

My shoes and me...

As I often do, I took a very long walk the other day. Autumn mornings are among my favourite times to walk as the sky is a brilliant blue, the air is cool, and a bright sun brings warmth and a promise that the day will be beautiful. As I laced up my hiking shoes I reminded myself how very lucky I am to have endless trails just beyond my back fence. I can choose to walk through the parks and neighbourhoods of my suburban home, or I can make my way down to the bottom of the coulee and walk along the river, or I can go into the forest, sheltered by a canopy of trees, full of the ever-changing wonder of the seasons.

As I laced up my hiking shoes I decided I would make my way down to the river and then into the forest. I was in no rush and felt like a long, long walk. The morning air settled on my bare arms and I wondered briefly if I should return to get a jacket, but I reasoned I would soon warm up. In the shade, I could feel the cool on my skin; it was even a bit tingly and quite refreshing.
When I stepped from the shade into the sunshine, my arms were warmed by first rays of the day.

There are many runners in this city. Some of them are pretty hard-core. They have all the latest in running gear and are very dedicated to their sport. I admire these athletes as training for their half and full marathon goals is not easy. They must not only log the miles, but they must work on their techniques and timing. Some runs are LSD (long slow distance) while others are tempo runs, where the timing is varied with the distance. There are the fartleks, a fun sort of play with running where one runner chases another (or runs against the stopwatch), catching up and then trading who is the next to take off as the leader, a little like being “it” in a game of chase. All of these techniques help them fine tune their bodies so they can successfully complete what has for many become the Holy Grail of running: the full marathon. Having been a former competitive runner myself, I can appreciate all of this.

But I am happy to be me just as I am. Sure, someday I hope to run a half or full marathon, but only if these knees of mine can take it. For now, I simply slip on my shoes and I am out the door. There is no heart rate monitor strapped to my chest with its accompanying wrist watch to record the beat of my heart, only to signal back to me if I have slowed too much to be below my ‘target zone’. I do not wear a personal stereo with a play list of music specially selected at some pre-determined beats per minute to get my heart rate into the target zone, then move to the anaerobic zone, then back out again. It is just my shoes and me.

It is so simple, really. All that is needed is to just go outside and experience all that nature has to offer with all my senses on any given day. I like to feel the hilly terrain as it challenges my leg muscles to use their power to move me up and down the hills. I like to feel the crunch of the gravel path under my feet. Sometimes I like to walk on the prairie itself, through the ankle-high grass, listening to the soft thud as I strike the earth; it is a nice contrast to how my feet sound on the rolling paved trails. I love to hear the sound of the river, the wind in the trees, and the birdsong all around me. These are the sounds that remind me that the earth is alive, with a rhythm and pulse all her own. Best of all is when I walk fast and my heart beats its own rhythm, reminding me that I am alive. A simple walk, begun with just one step out the door, can bring much joy and optimism.

Some good advice...

Just the other day someone gave me some good advice. I had asked for it. While this individual does not know me in real life, she understands my passion for the tarot. Through the tarot she was able to tell me what I most needed to hear: it is time to step outside of my comfort zone if I expect to grow.

For years I have been motoring along, doing what is right, what is expected, answering the ‘corporate call’, and being responsible. In spite of all the ‘good girl’ things I have managed to accomplish, what I am most proud of is my discovery of the passions in my life: poetry, stories, philosophy, art, and science. Magically, all of these things, (and more), are wrapped up in a wonderful package called the tarot. Used for self-exploration and insight, the tarot can offer a glimpse of what is possible, especially if one is willing to consider an alternate ending to the story.

The tarot is filled with pictures which represent archetypes and energies. When we call upon these energies, they can infuse our lives with color and purpose. The energy and power of Earth helps us stay grounded so we have a sense of stability and a place to begin. The energy of Air can bring in a breath of freshness to inspire us with new ideas and dreams as it sweeps out old thoughts and limitations we have outgrown. Sometimes wonderful things can happen when we combine energy. The energies of Fire and Water can combine to make steam, which can be very powerful. It can move us forward with passion and emotion as we use our gifts to create what has been lying dormant in our imagination.

So if you are enjoying your comfort zone, revel in it. If you are feeling it is time to step beyond this place, time to stretch yourself and grow, be prepared for some amazing things to happen. But don’t forget to look back every once in awhile just to admire the view and see how far you have come.

The Cracked Pot...

An elderly Chinese woman had two large pots, each hung on the ends of a pole which she carried across her neck. One of the pots had a crack in it while the other pot was perfect and always delivered a full portion of water. At the end of the long walks from the stream to the house, the cracked pot arrived only half full.

For a full two years this went on daily, with the woman bringing home only one and a half pots of water. Of course, the perfect pot was proud of its accomplishments. But the poor cracked pot was ashamed of its own imperfection, and miserable that it could only do half of what it had been made to do.

After two years of what it perceived to be bitter failure, it spoke to the woman one day by the stream. 'I am ashamed of myself, because this crack in my side causes water to leak out all the way back to your house.' The old woman smiled, 'Did you notice that there are flowers on your side of the path, but not on the other pot's side?' 'That's because I have always known about your flaw, so I planted flower seeds on your side of the path, and every day while we walk back, you water them.' 'For two years I have been able to pick these beautiful flowers to decorate the table. Without you being just the way you are, there would not be this beauty to grace the house.'

Each of us has our own unique flaw. But it's the cracks and flaws we each have that make our lives together so very interesting and rewarding. You've just got to take each person for what they are and look for the good in them.

~ A Chinese proverb

Love does that...

All day long a little burro labours, sometimes with heavy loads on her back and sometimes just with worries about things that bother only burros. And worries, as we know, can be more exhausting than physical labour. Once in awhile a kind monk comes to her stable and brings a pear, but more than that, he looks into the burro’s eyes and touches her ears and for a few seconds the burro is free and even seems to laugh, because love does that. Love frees.

Author: Daniel Ladinsky, from “Love Poems from God”, published 2002.

Deviant art...

Late on night, while working in the morgue, as I was finishing up the last autopsy, I heard a groan.

This was the lead sentence for a short story assignment I completed in grade four. Instead of earning me a grade for my work which was completed on time, contained proper sentence structure, punctuation, and spelling, and was an original story idea, it earned me a trip to the principal’s office. I learned that day that he is not really your ‘pal’ as the teachers had told us when we were learning to spell the word principal. He decided that the best course of action for such an outlandish story was a trip to see the school-board psychiatrist. Apparently a young child should not be preoccupied with death. Who among us has not been fascinated by a dead bird found in the cemetery? Of course, when I expressed this I was told that "most kids don’t play in cemeteries”. Well, I did. The entire “inappropriate story” experience with the principal, the psychiatrist, and the horrified teacher was my first introduction to censorship at its finest.

Fast forward to grade seven. In art class we were studying ‘still life’ drawings. Our assignment was to draw a ‘still life’ and the entire class would have their pictures displayed in the glass cabinets in the main hall of the school for Parents Night. My interest in all things macabre had not waned, but I had managed to keep it in check for so many years. However, this assignment was begging for something unique. There are only so many bowls of oranges one can draw.

I set out to draw a still life. I drew a table, using proper perspective, with a flowered cloth draped across and falling artfully to the side, to show I could draw ‘folds’. I drew a vase slightly off center of the table. It was tall, slightly ovoid in shape, with a wide-brimmed mouth. In the vase I drew a variety of limbs. It was perhaps this that got me into trouble. For you see, my limbs were not dead or wooden, from some ancient tree.

My limbs were various arms, hands, legs, and feet. One arm extended up, and, bent at the elbow, the fingers pointed to the flowers on the table. It looked like a broken flower itself. My limbs were not bloody, gory, or otherwise shocking. My limbs were healthy, pink, tan, brown, and yellow. All nationalities of skin color were represented. Fingers and toes were softly splayed like the petals on flowers; the nail beds showed a healthy glow. After all, this was a drawing about life; my limbs were alive. They were just ‘still’ as in ‘not moving’. My limbs were arranged to look like a bouquet of flowers, that ubiquitous form from which I had drawn my inspiration.

Again, my creativity and curiosity earned me a trip to the psychologists office for another ‘assessment’. Mine was the only drawing not included in the show-case in the main hall of the school. Censored yet again, I went underground. I was still fascinated with all things odd. I wanted to push the boundaries and think outside the box. I was curious. I wanted to learn, to experiment, and to try new things. But, it seemed the adults around me were more interested in having me remain in the box. They thought my interests made me somehow ‘deviant’. I saw it as a healthy curiosity for someone who wanted to be a forensic pathologist.

The path to alchemy...

The other day I was asked how I got interested in alchemy…

My path towards an interest in the philosophy and science of alchemy has come from a rather eclectic background. It was through an interest in the history of science and art of the Middle Ages and the Renaissance that lead me to an exploration of the concept of the “Music of the Spheres”. When I read about Copernicus, Kepler, Galileo, and Brahe and their work, set against the context of the political and religious times, I was fascinated. These men, and others, struggled to find the answers to their questions about the macrocosm at the dawn of the scientific method, when the Inquisition was sweeping across Europe and one could easily be labelled a heretic or a witch with a simple accusation. They found their answers, published their findings, and some even paid with their freedom.

Then, in a very similar ‘scientific revolution’ of sorts, at the beginning of the 20th century, with the rise of atomic physics and the contributions of the ‘quantum ten’, people such as Einstein, Bohr, Pauli and his mentor Sommerfeld, his friend and colleague, Heisenberg,etc., struggled to find the answers to their questions about the microcosm.

Both groups of men were pioneers of science and many were deeply religious. Both groups considered the metaphysical and the alchemical realm as they used not only their intelligence and calculations, but also their imagination and intuition to help them divine the answers of the physical universe using the litmus test of the scientific method as it developed, and later, theoretical physics.

The common thread among many of them was their interest in alchemy and the metaphysical realm. In light of the fact all of them worked so hard to prove what was happening in the physical realm, the beauty of what they learned was seen as somehow perfect, divine, and from some source beyond the physical realm. As Kepler noted in his work, he was trying to ‘touch the mind of God’. He did this not out of ego, but out of a profound reverence and respect for God. He was convinced there was a perfect order to the universe.

It has been fascinating to learn about all of this and I will continue my studies to learn more of the history of science, art, religion, and alchemy. Some day I hope to meet like-minded people to learn from and share ideas with as there is no one in my real life circle of friends who share this interest. As I see it, my path is open and the journey is just beginning.

Artwork: Aeterna Saltatus, cAndrew Gonzales,http://www.sublimatrix.com/

Sonnet for Seven of Swords...

With a backwards glance, dancing across the lawn
Hoarding swords, disappearing into thin air
Tip toe, out you go, Thief of Thought moves on
Avoiding obligations with flourish and flair

Withdrawn and alone, hiding from truth
A world of dishonesty is then created
Keeping others at arm’s length, feeling aloof
The wisdom of such actions are debated

Dare to face the music with shoulders squared
Release secrets and open arms to embrace
Draw strength from others with thoughts that are shared
Join in the circle with honour and grace

When seeking independence and solitude
Do so with honesty, rightness and graceful attitude

Dear reader...

I am a bit of a letter junkie and love to read what others have written, especially their personal letters and diaries. I have a book that is a collection of letters shared between Carl Jung and Sigmund Freud, that chronicles their friendship and its eventual decline as they parted ways over professional differences. There is my collection of letters between Vincent Van Gogh and his brother, Theo. Vincent was financially dependent on Theo and often wrote to ask for money, but he also poured out his most secret desires and fears, his feelings of inadequacy to his loving brother. I recently found a book that is a collection of letters written by Galileo’s daughter, Suor Maria Celeste. They are presented in Italian with the English translation immediately following. There are 124 letters from her to him; he did answer them, but his letters to her have not survived. She predeceased him by a number of years, but while she was living, she was a most loving daughter, and he cared for her a great deal. C.S. Lewis is another intriguing character who was a prolific letter writer. He corresponded with hundreds of people over the years, eventually recruiting Warren, his brother, to help him answer them all.

All of these people lived in an age when one would sit down and pen a letter to the person who was foremost in their mind at the time. Lucky for us there are so many collections that have survived across the centuries. Reading letters written by someone gives you a glimpse inside their heart and their mind. Reading diaries kept by someone takes you further, sometimes into their very soul. Anais Nin and Anne Frank are two diarists that come to mind, yet each is so very different. Anne went back to edit her diary once she learned she would like to have them submitted for publication. Anais wrote with wild abandon; hers was a life so colourful and lusty.

I wonder about our digital age and how those who come after us will find our most profound thoughts, musings, and fears, if they find them at all. I keep mine in my computer. There is no collection of letters under my bed, there are only a few paper journals, mostly musings about science. My intensely personal journals that were in paper format have been destroyed long ago, as part of a purging process, a letting go of past hurts.

The biographers of those who have gone before us, before the computer age, as it were, have access to piles of letters that can be sifted through, organized chronologically, or organized by type. My letters and writings are electronically held, reduced to “1”s and “0”s. I suppose with the right passwords and access to an entire hard drive one could mine for gold, but it is just not the same. But, having said that, I don’t feel compelled to get out my pen and paper. Knowing I could hit the ‘print’ button at any time gives me a sense of security. I could print everything out, then I would have an entire box of letters, ones I could touch and read, over and over again, without the need to sit with a computer on my lap.

The Story Box...

For the sake of simplicity, most of my writings are kept in a special folder on my computer titled “The Story Box”. Every year or so I make the time to go through the contents of the Story Box and am surprised at what treasures I find. Among the unfinished stories, poems, and prose are fragments of story ideas, some better than others. There are snippets of poems, lists of words, and brief descriptions of characters and circumstances that hopefully will find their way into something larger some day.

Here are just a few of the unfinished stories in my Story Box, all of which are in various states of completion:

The Holly Berry: A tale about ill-fated lovers who find that the cruellest of spells cannot be broken by true love’s kiss.

A Mermaid Tail: In which a mermaid, a magician, and a magic flute must discover the answer to a great mystery.

The Deep South: An attempt at erotica, but with the realization that this is perhaps the most difficult genre of all.

Frog-n-Socks: A tale of one nervous frog who finds himself in the competition of a lifetime.

A Certain Exile: In which I try my hand at a novel.

Mahsa and the Desert Sage: A Persian tale of a young girl who discovers her true strength as she heals her broken heart.

I also found many completed works, which brings great satisfaction, even though most of what I write is for my eyes only. It was an interesting journey to read through the unfinished stories, poems and prose. In some instances, my written thoughts and musings have no general sense of direction other than from my heart to the page. But someday they will be put to use.

It was nice to spend some time reflecting on how far I have come as a writer. This exercise has inspired me to select one or two items to work on in the more immediate future; others just need to percolate a little bit longer.

If you were to look into your Story Box, Paint Box, Music Box, or whatever creative outlet you hold dear, what would you find? More importantly, what will you do with it?

An interesting path...

Recently I took a course that focused on Renaissance art and the history of the tarot. The instructor is an art historian, jewellery designer, and artist. His name is Robert M. Place and he is also a well-respected tarot historian and deck designer. I came to know him in a round about way.

While browsing in a used book store, I came across an intriguing tarot deck. It was bound only by a single rubber band, with no box or ‘little white book’ to indicate the title of the deck, but I fell in love with the artwork. The images were unfamiliar and seemed to resonate with me, so I bought the deck and managed to track down the name after all. It turned out to be the Alchemical Tarot, illustrated by none other than Robert M. Place. Funny how things in life like that happen. It turns out he is a warm, compassionate person and has even granted me permission to use his images in my tarot readings. His artwork has a simplicity in design that I enjoy from an aesthetic view and it reminds me of the woodcut printing style from the middle ages. And as always with the tarot, each card is replete with symbolism, and his deck is no exception.

The two-part course focused on the historical aspects of the art in the tarot and the influence of the art movement as the Renaissance was beginning. And the wonderful thing about this course is that where I started is not where I ended up at all! I love when that happens. We covered the true history of the tarot and compared the images from the earliest decks and managed to end the first night looking at a picture of the ‘heavenly spheres’, and the philosophical aspects of this construct. It was during the Hellenistic period that the concept of these spheres was posited- much like the layers of an onion. The layers encased the earth. Each sphere was a step on the ladder. Seven steps up, or seven steps down, depending on one’s direction. The goal was to move from vice to virtue.

Within this construct also arose the notion of ‘music of the spheres’, which was not really music at all, not like we know music today. No, this ‘music of the spheres’, of the sun, the moon, and the planets was a mystical, mathematical, and philosophical construct. It was based on how the planets moved about the earth and how they were geometrically related and perfect, all seven heavenly bodies in a celestial song, with a mathematical resonance that was at once perfect and divine.

Here is the interesting part- a sort of ‘synchronicity’ in my studies: At the time I took the class, I had also been reading Johannes Kepler’s biography and how he had been working to prove the earth was in motion around the sun and mathematically he knew the movements were elliptical instead of spherical. And eventually he wrote “Harmonice Mundi”, or “Music of the World”. He understood the original theory of harmony based on Pythagorean mathematics (as described in a book written by Galileo Galilei’s musician father, Vincenzo). There was a harmony to the universe and the planets themselves- known as the “Harmony of the Spheres”. I was so intrigued by this concept I found a copy of Kepler’s work (a translation with introduction by Stephen Hawking) but I could not understand much of it for the mathematics were far beyond my reach. It was incredibly frustrating. Since I don’t understand the language of math it felt like I was missing out on something mysterious and incredible.

So you see, the path was one from art and symbolism, to ‘music’, to mathematics. How interesting that these things are interwoven, especially when one looks at all aspects of a particular era of history. Each history includes philosophy, politics, religion, the arts, the sciences, all of which are juxtaposed against the backdrop of the social fabric of the time. Of course, the more I read, the more I learn. But with this comes the realization that really, I know so very little, which simply spurs me on to continue my own independent study.


Image: by William Cunningham, The Cosmographicall Glasse, London 1559.

The Ocelot

Earlier this year I took a vestibular rehabilitation course. We were discussing clinical indicators as they relate to the visual system which is neurologically tied to the vestibular apparatus. When the professor discussed "oscillopsia" my mind went off on a tanget all its own! Oscillopsia is a condition where the eyes cannot focus and everything in the visual field appears to oscillate, the effects of which can be mild to severe. It is not the least bit fun. But, from this lecture arose this silly poem.

The Ocelot

Hidden in the wild lives a shy Ocelot
With big yellow eyes, he is covered in spots a lot.
He lives and plays beneath the sweet melilot,
This is a tale of how he became quite distraught.

Ocelot noticed his vision was not quite right
Everything looked blurry and bouncy- what was wrong with his sight?
He had trouble seeing by day, and even more so by night
With everything doubled and trebled, it gave him quite a fright.

Ocelot travelled to consult with the smartest and best
He underwent tests in the east and in the west
Enduring each procedure in the name of his quest
When it was all over, he quietly curled up and took a long rest.

The doctors convened, wearing crisp white coats
They scratched their heads and cleared their throats
They had listened and looked with their specialty scopes
But finding the cause of the problem seemed beyond all hope

Ocelot tried to remain cheerful, and carefully crept out of the room
Desperate and despondent, he had to find a cure, and soon
So he set out for the jungle under light of the moon
But with his vision in treble, his ship was marooned

Morning dawned bright, making Ocelot blink,
He had to get his bearings, he had to stand up to think
There was no time for sorrow; he had to get his vision in sync
Besides, as he stood there, he realized there was a terrible stink!

He followed his nose, taking small steps to steady himself
And there, under the flowers and leaves, near a low wooden shelf
Ocelot spied what looked like a wobbly, crinkly, wrinkly old elf
Who took one look at Ocelot and knew he needed help.

“Frenzel’s my name, and I know quite a lot.
There is magic and mystery in my potions and pots.
To figure it out I will examine your eyes and check out your spots,
I will cure your condition, of which the doctors learned naught”.

“Well, I can rule out chlamydia, eclampsia, and diarrhea (!)
It’s not dropsey or hydrops, or even tospy turvia,
What you have is special, so let me share with you my idea:
You, my dear Ocelot, have a clear case of oscillopsia!
“The syndrome you have is named after Dandy
For cases like yours, I have a modus operandi
I will give you the treatment, which is really quite handy
But the best news of all is we can treat it with candy!”

His troubles are now over, which means quite a lot
Remembering to take his once daily 'oscillopsipop'
Ocelot has sprung back to shape and is feeling tip top
He spends his days playing, and pouncing, and purring a lot!

~DR

An exchange of ideas...

Recently I had a brief email exchange with a scientist friend of mine. He is a computational physicist and I am a dreamer, so you can imagine the questions I have for him. We were discussing symmetry and perfection as it relates to the ideas of the Greeks. Plato saw symmetry as a reflection of perfection. This comment came from my questions as to why the Greeks held the Platonic solids to a near mystical status. It was becaus of symmetry and beauty. Then it made me think of the beauty and design of our universe.

Then my friend commented that "advances in fractal mathematics and chaos theory have rejuvenated the concept of magnificent order in the universe. Even in the most chaotic of systems there is mathematical predictability. Order implies intention or design. Design requires a Designer". I wrote back and told him his comment of ‘Design requires a Designer’ is so apt with many of the historical (and current!) ideas waiting for us to explore. Like the celestial crystal spheres of the Ptolemaic times, eventually shattered by Copernicus, Galileo, and Kepler, the atomic theory of Bohr is a perfect example of the “As above, so below” principle. His atomic model of the atom was the macrocosm in microcosm. A perfectly ordered world at the atomic level.

Like the scientific revolution that occurred near the time of the Renaissance, there was another revolution that occurred at the beginning of the twentieth century of equal importance. Sommerfeld, Pauli, Heinrich, Einstein, Bohr, et. al. were discovering an ever smaller universe at the atomic level. Pauli postulated the neutrino 30 years before it was proven. He believed there to be a fourth quantum number, but could not visualize it. He likened himself to be similar to Kepler. Both shared what was newly termed by Jung in 1913 the “collective unconscious” and each had an intuitive sense that there was more than they were able to prove. For Kepler, it was the force of gravity (or the ‘fifth element’), but his work laid the path for Newton. Pauli was obsessed with the fine structure constant his mentor Sommerfeld had discovered. This obsession lead him into treatment with Carl Jung, in whom he found a soul of similar light and passion, but with the intuitive aspects that he had been missing, but suspected were there in his work.

Wolfgang Pauli was very unlucky in love. By day he was a brilliant physicist, admired by his colleagues, and celebrated by Einstein. Pauli made huge contributions to his field, challenged his contemporaries (Niels Bohr among them), and worked relentlessly to solve some of the most intriguing mysteries of the universe. By night he caroused the bars, haunted the red light districts, and fell into the arms of dance hall women. He was so tormented at his lack of success with women he eventually became a patient of Carl Jung. As they got to know each other, they became friends and eventually collaborated on a book. Both were fascinated by the number 137, the fine structure constant of the universe. A number without dimension. A number, that if changed by even four percent, life as we know it could not exist. This slight change could destroy all of the carbon and oxygen in every star of the universe and life on our planet could not exist or would be dramatically different.

How amazing it all is, really. The term Elegant Universe definitely applies.

Here is a secret wish of mine. I want to go study at the University of Toronto. They offer a degree called the “History and Philosophy of Science and Technology”. I have wanted to take that course of study for the past 15 years, but it is not in the cards for me. So, I just read a lot about it all. It would be nice to have someone to talk about these things with to hear other opinions outside of my own. Plus, need someone to help me understand the importance of numbers and why the work they way they do.

Confessions of a bibliophile...

In every room of our home there are shelves lined with books. It is a collection that continues to grow and represents a lifetime of a love affair with books. There are easily thousands of books; I counted them once. But as I sat one Sunday morning, enjoying a mug of peppermint tea, I began to wonder. I wondered how many hours were spent writing the millions of words in the books that line the shelves in our home. Hundreds of hours, easily; thousands, certainly. Millions? Perhaps. How much time was spent dreaming, scheming, plotting, sketching, writing, re-writing, editing, and reading? Certainly writing a book is a labour of love.

The books that line our shelves tell many stories… some true, some imaginary. The books also tell the story of our life- first separate and then together. Collectively, our books have become mingled and are nicely no longer ‘yours’ or ‘mine’; they are ‘ours’. What a wonderful transition. They tell of our interests, our passions, our wonderings, and our longings. They represent the many stages of our lives and give us a visual inventory of the many things that have crossed our minds. Our interests are diverse yet the books have sparked many hours of intriguing discussion and respectful debate.

There are the books about travel… when I had a wanderlust for countries other than my own. There are books of adventure… for the armchair mountain climbing enthusiast I had become. There are books on science and nature… to fulfill my curiosity of the world around me, at the microscopic and macroscopic level. Quantum physics and string theory are fascinating topics and sit proudly on the shelves, right next to the philosophical tomes pondering the reason for all things. There are books about stars and the cosmos; books about men who were imprisoned for their ideals and books about how the Flat Earth Society fell from grace.

There are books about God, books about the afterlife, about angels, about prayer, about civilization long before Jesus was born. There are even some bibles. There are bibles in English and Russian; there is even an illustrated Children’s Bible. Depending on my mood, I can revel in the formal beauty of the King James Version, or I can read the lessons in the New International Version language, which is more informal and quite contemporary. There are encyclopaedias about life in biblical times, books about biblical geography; a biography of Sarah, and one of Moses. The collection of these books reads more like a bibliography held by a religious scholar than for a curious reader who was encouraged to not get involved in religion when growing up.

There are books about pyramids and the magical number Pi. There are tales of wonder and beauty… from the Great Wonders of the World, to the Illuminated Book of Kells. Books of calligraphy are shelved near books on the Japanese art of origami. There are books of fairy tales, tall tales, folk tales, and an Encyclopaedia of Imaginary Places! Ghost stories from modern times and from Victorian times reside there; as do stories of science fiction from the 1930’s. Horror is there also, juxtaposed by stories of true crime. Sometimes what is fiction and what is fact are not as clearly drawn as real and imaginary characters are capable of things beyond our wildest imaginings.

On the shelves are books that will tell you how to make money and invest it. Books that tell what trends are coming and books that tell us how to simplify and give up what the mass marketing gurus have convinced us to buy. Keep it Simple, and Simple Abundance reminds us of how little we really need. When we have had enough of the fast-paced, hectic world, we can stop and read stories that are like old-fashioned chicken soup; these stories offer a cup of comfort and nourishment for the soul.

When we feel like it, we can go back in history and read famous letters and speeches. We can read treatises from some of the world’s most powerful leaders and the greatest cowards. We can glimpse into the past through a biography of a young girl who remained hidden within the walls of a neighbours home while she blossomed into a young woman, only to be betrayed and then die before her freedom was granted. We can cheer for the troops as we read about their bittersweet homecoming. They were glad to be home while at the same time heartbroken that they were forced to bury their comrades on foreign soil. They remind us of the beautiful feeling of the warmth and comfort a woman’s body can give when held pressed close while fighting off the cold sweats that come with the nightmares as they are haunted by the memory of those they left behind. There is wisdom in the written word shared by a woman who learned the ways of the world, who shares the richness of her experience through eyes that could not see and ears that could not hear.

There are books of poems and sonnets and plays. They are filled with words written to give our hearts a voice. There are words to describe the indescribable: joy, sorrow, hunger, pain, longing and lust. Heavy words of leaden moments offer searing truth. Other words of ethereal gossamer encourage our imaginations to drift to places as gentle as the mists that cling to the craggy mountain-tops in an imaginary land, free to ebb and flow on the currents of the winds of imagination. There are alliterations and illusions, tricks of imagery and sorcery to take us beyond the everyday mundane to places of dizzying heights and then safely back down again.

There are books that can tell us how to make things and fix things, how to buy things, and how to sell things. Some of these books give us the history of everyday things, and there are even books that explain seemingly unexplainable things. Miles of lists and piles of trivia keep us entertained and give interesting glimpses into the biggest, the tallest, the largest, the smallest, the oldest, the youngest of any person, place, or thing. These books contain the most obscure, and useless facts which have been painstakingly researched, organized, and catalogued.

Some books show us how to improve on our hobbies, chock full of creative ideas and interesting perspectives on topics ranging from gambling on cards and horses, to how to deconstruct a massive crossword puzzle, to how to string beads and knit fabric. We have spent many happy hours reading about our favourite activities which bring a greater sense of satisfaction to our everyday lives.

These many books have been collected over the decades, both before and since our lives came together. They are now a record of us. We have spent time browsing through dusty, disorganized bookstores, seeking treasures in the wildest places. We have also browsed through bookstores that are neatly organized, like ‘used-book libraries’, so meticulous and lovingly have the owners paid homage to the written word. We have had the good fortune to travel to bookstores across the country, in big and small towns, always finding something that we just had to bring home and add to our personal library.

The books we have collected have now become part of our family… our own little library we visit time and time again. They are lined up on the shelves, ready to share their riches. They keep us company on cold winter nights with topics for warm conversation as a perfect accompaniment to a whiskey served neat and a gently puffed pipe. The hours spent writing them are given back ten-fold by the hours we spend enjoying them.
Without them our lives would somehow be very empty indeed.

A very dear friend of mine, whom I seldom see, mentioned how nice it would be to have lunch together. We mused we could catch up on so many things and simply enjoy one another’s company. As we both live in different countries and getting together for lunch is impossible, I created an “imaginary lunch” which will have to do until we can meet again in person some day.

Our Little Lunch

A table for two, right by the window, please.
What a spectacular view of the park and the trees.
It’s so nice to see you ‘cause it’s been awhile;
Your face is so bright when lit with your smile.

Carrot soup for a starter, with rustic French bread
We’ll talk of the books we’ve recently read.
Our conversation meanders to everyday news
As we catch up and linger at our table for two.

Fat berries from market, tossed in a jumble
Arrive at our table in a fresh berry crumble.
We nibble the berries, the oats, and the cream
While we safely confess of that which we dream.

Too soon it arrives, the tea at the end
Such a wonderful meal, shared with you, my friend.
You are busy, I know, but thanks a bunch
For joining me in our imaginary lunch.

~DR

Feeling creative...

In the town where I live there is a lovely old brick building that used to be a school at the turn of the century. Now it is the Bowman Arts Centre, where painting, pottery, stained glass, and drawing classes are held. It is filled with works of art from all these media, and there is even a dance studio where ballet and bellydancing classes are held. I went there last nigh as I have enrolled in an 8-week drawing class. It was inspiring and uplifting to begin a class that lets me tap into the creative side of my brain. After spending the past 3 years working on my doctoral degree, it was a much needed change.

It was fun to draw on paper clipped to a much-loved wooden easel. There was every imaginable type of pencil to draw with: charcoal, willow charcoal, graphite, conte crayons, colored pencils, smudgers, and even kneaded erasers to fix mistakes. I learned about white charcoal and how it can be used on colored paper. I would love to try this sometime!

We worked through lots of exercises. My drawings of my hands were rough and crude. But, I learned about outside lines and inside lines. I learned about proportion and different ways to draw. Sometimes we used ‘shape searching’, other times we used a technique where the pencil was never lifted from the page. Some exercises even included drawing without looking at the paper. The goal was to train the eye and the hand to work together. It was a terrific evening!


I am already looking forward to next week!