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Just pencils...

2012-01-15T14:16:00.005-07:00

This sweet parable was sent to me so I thought I would share it with you. If anyone knows the author, please let me know. I would like to thank this wise person.

"A pencil maker told the pencil 5 important lessons just before putting it in the box:

1) Everything you do will always leave a mark.

2) You can always correct the mistakes you make.

3) What is important is what is inside of you.

4) In life, you will undergo painful sharpening, which will only make you better.

5) To be the best pencil, you must allow yourself to be held and guided by the hand that holds you.

We all need to be constantly sharpened. This parable may encourage you to know that you are a special person, with unique God-given talents and abilities. Only you can fulfill the purpose which you were born to accomplish. Never allow yourself to get discouraged and think that your life is insignificant and cannot be changed and, like the pencil, always remember that the most important part of who you are is what's inside of you."

Star Pie...

2012-01-13T17:59:00.006-07:00

When I was a little girl, I absolutely hated leftovers. However, my mother thought leftovers were wonderful. Now that I have grown up, I understand why. The best thing I have ever created using left overs is a "Star Pie".

Following a dinner of a 'Mediterranean' pot roast, which had been cooked in the slow cooker, there was some wonderful left over beef.

I rolled out a rectangle of puff pastry. Then on one side, I placed pieces of the roast beef, roasted garlic, sundried tomatoes, and some fresh spinach. Next, I folded the puff pastry in half and pinched the edges closed. After brushing with a bit of egg yolk, I placed cut out puff pastry stars on top and gave them a little brush with the egg. The 'star pie' was then cooked in a medium hot oven for about 30 minutes, or until browned.

The results were spectacular! Flaky crust, savoury beef, plenty of green spinach with the sophistication of the sundried tomatoes and roasted garlic…. dare I say it was heavenly?!

If you haven't tried puff pastry, be brave, roll it out and get creative!
This is one 'leftover' dish that has become a 'star' in my cooking repertoire!

Less is more...

2012-01-10T19:48:00.004-07:00

The issue of ‘stuff’ has been discussed between my husband and myself quite a lot lately as we are dealing with some end of life issues with my mother who is very ill, but currently stabilized.

We recently visited her where she lives in a nursing home. She shares a room with another resident. Over the past 10 years in various assisted living arrangements, and then nursing homes, she (or rather we) have helped her pare down to the bare essentials. It is amazing that when it gets to the later stages of chronic illness, stuff has little relevance.

Currently, her possessions are the following:

* collection of family photos in frames set along the windowsill (5 in total)
* wall clock which chimes the time of day with a little ‘bird call’ sound
* painting of two brightly coloured parrots (she is legally blind in one eye; other eye was removed years ago)
* personal care items (lotion, toothpaste, comb, etc.) which fit into one drawer
* two drawers which hold her nightgowns
* 1 robe and 3 sweaters
* Kindle Fire (avid Scrabble freak)
* compact DVD player (like small laptop) for listening to audiobooks from local library
* bird feeder outside her window so she can watch the birds
* 1 pair of headphones

She owns no underwear, no shoes, no coat, and no other items. When the time comes, it will take no more than 2 boxes to clear out her room.

We enter the world with nothing and, when we depart, we need nothing.

It was a humbling visit. She is bed-ridden but can feed herself and play Scrabble. She seems happy and at peace. She has finally arrived at a place where less is more. She seems to only ask for two things: chocolate pudding and Oreos. A simple request and we indulge her. Her strength and dignity shine through and she makes a point to make us feel at ease with her smile and her words.

We all go through life growing, dreaming, accumulating, down-sizing, dying. It all just depends where on the “Wheel of Life” you are at any given moment.

Not a judgement, just an observation.

2011-12-15T17:41:00.002-07:00

Dancing Stars...

No matter what happens during any given day...

No matter how many clouds obscure the sun...

No matter how heavy my heart may feel…

It brings me immense comfort knowing there are ten million stars dancing in the sky…

Thank you, God.

Jelly Belly

2011-12-14T18:32:00.004-07:00

Bought my first bag of Jelly Belly's is ages. Ate the entire bag in one sitting. It contained an assortment of 20 flavours. Jalepeno pepper, strawberry daiquiri, lemon, chocolate, tutti-frutti, toasted marshmallow, buttered popcorn, coconut. Need I say more?

But I shall.

On my one-hour train ride home from the big city to my tiny little town, I sat and enjoyed every last little bean of Jelly Belly goodness. I ate them s-l-o-w-l-y. I savoured each morsel of tasty goodness. Each explosion of flavour filled my mouth, awakening my senses. And to think this was all done in public! The people sitting next to me were bone-tired, nodding off, heads flopping forward, backward, and sometimes sideward in rhythm to the movement of the train. I sat there enchanted with my little bag of jellied treasures.

It was a moment in 'moving meditation'. As the train sped northward, carrying me home at the end of long day, I focused my attention on the flavours of the little gems I was steadily devouring. And each one was absolutely, perfectly delicious.

My favourite combination was chocolate + toasted marshmallow… tasted a bit like chocolate cream pie. Followed by peach, cherry, and liquorice.

Hard to believe I ate the entire bag and you know what? I don't feel the least bit guilty.

2011-12-03T10:43:00.002-07:00

The night and I are often at odds. Some nights march slowly toward the endless and infinite reaches of the sky. The distance to the dawn is unbearable. There is a depth and breadth about the night that overwhelms me as I lie in my bed, feeling so small and insignificant.

The pearl-bright moon bathes the world in silver, but I shut out her light and stare into the darkness, seeking elusive Sleep. Hiding in some unfathomable place, beyond my reach, always taunting me, but she never gives me that most longed-for kiss. This leaves me feeling a sense of hunger, like a vagrant seeking a warm meal or a derelict dying for a drink.

Last night Sleep became lazy and careless, covering me with her veil, transporting me to another plane. And while in her care, I became a mermaid.

The ocean was as deep as the night itself. The water was neither cold, nor salty. It was inert, yet supportive. I swam without effort or strain, as if I had always been a mermaid. I felt light, ethereal, and free. I held no worry or want. I swam with a strength I did not know I possessed. Everything seemed possible.

Exploring my watery world brought me a profound sense of peace. I felt confident and sure of myself. It was as if I had been given a secret power with no conditions attached. There was a certain provocativeness about all of this. So much was given to me in this watery, otherworldly plane.

When I awoke, I was quite astonished. There was such a strong sense of well-being that I could hardly believed I had slept though the night. I felt as if I had won some strange battle, waking at dawn feeling calm and rested.

My hope is to carry this mermaid spirit with me during my waking hours. My fantasy is to become the mermaid once again should Sleep provide me the chance. It was a most magical experience.

2011-07-11T20:22:00.007-06:00

Summer Stars

Bend low again, night of summer stars.
So near you are, sky of summer stars,
So near, a long arm man can pick off stars,
Pick off what he wants in the sky bowl,
So near you are, summer stars,
So near, strumming, strumming,
So lazy and hum-strumming.

~Carl Sandburg

Simply charming...

2010-10-02T08:10:00.004-06:00

Today I discovered a ‘new to me’ artist by the name of Julie Paschkis. Her artwork is absolutely stunning. One of my favourite styles of art is folk art. I love the simplicity and the directness. It is a “No fuss, no muss” style. But don’t let this genre fool you! It is often layered with meaning and folklore. This is part of what makes it so very interesting and intriguing. Often it is that which is simple that is the most profound.

What I love about Julie’s work is her eye for whimsy and detail. At first glance, the work seems simple and straightforward, but upon closer inspection, one might find a small mouse, or a little bird hiding in the perfect place, just waiting to be discovered. And then “Voila!”, the magical creature comes alive, adding a little bit more to the wonder of it all.

She has also illustrated many children’s books, including books of poetry. I look forward to reading them all! It does not matter that I have no children of my own. Such stories and poems are for those who are young at heart and still have a sense of wonder about this big beautiful world.

Her works are bright, cheerful, and inspiring. Art does this… it moves us in ways we might not expect. Sometimes it evokes an emotion. Other times it might call us to action. When looking at Julie’s work, it makes me want to become an artist. Oh, to be able to put down onto paper the amazing images I have in my mind’s eye- that would be a most wondrous miracle.

Please be sure to visit her website and take a look around. She has many wonderful paintings, posters, books, black and whites, and textiles. You just might discover something you fall in love with. I know I did.

http://www.juliepaschkis.com/index.html

Time to retreat...

2010-06-11T12:11:00.003-06:00

In this busy life it makes sense to step back every once in awhile and spend some time alone. I guess this would be called a ‘retreat’. It can be an act of withdrawing, as into safety or privacy. A retreat can also be a place of seclusion, privacy, or a refuge. Retreating or going to a retreat can have strong restorative powers. It can help one gain perspective, especially if troubles are being troublesome. It can also help one gather strength needed for going back out into the world again. It will also help one give more time and energy to others once they have been able to recharge their own self.

I am fortunate be have the opportunity this coming weekend to retreat to a place where there will be much silence and solitude; a place surrounded by nature. It will afford some much-needed time to step off this crazy merry-go-round of life. While I will be sharing the space with others, there will be plenty of time for each of us to pursue some time alone. We shall share meals and walks together, but there will be stretches of time where each of us can spend some time alone, recharging our selves so we are better able to handle life once we return back to the real world. It is in this spirit that I offer you the words to a beautiful song by Mary Chapin Carpenter called “I Have a Need For Solitude”.

I have a need for solitude
I’ll never be safe in crowded rooms
I like the sound of silence coming on
I’ll come around when everyone has gone.

I have a need for cool, verdant places
Beneath the trees in secret empty places
Nobody knows so no one will intrude
I have a need for solitude.

But you can find me when the light is changing
At that time of day, when there’s little day remaining
And you can find me, where I’ve been waiting,
Waiting here, for you.

I never was the pretty girl in school,
I never was fast, tough, and cool
All I ever was, for all my life it seems
So hard to love, and harder now to keep.

But you can find me
When the light is changing
At that time of day , when there’s little day remaining
And you can find me, where I’ve been waiting
Waiting here, for you.

I have a need for solitude
I’ll never be safe in crowded rooms
I like the sound of silence coming on
I’ll come around when all the rest have gone

~Mary Chapin Carpenter
“I Have a Need for Solitude”
Age of Miracles

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=13l3w50a65o

Taking stock...

2010-06-02T10:39:00.002-06:00

Every once in awhile it is a good idea to stop and make time to give thanks for what is present in this life. Lately I have had some significant challenges, but have come to realize that they are entirely surmountable. And in the process I have made the time to think about those little things in my life that truly matter to me. Of course, there are my family and friends, whom I love and adore without question. But it was important for me to also think about what is right and perfect in my life, right now, on a much more mundane scale. And while these things listed are certainly not of any greater importance than the family and friends in my life, they are what give my amazing life sweetness and spice.

So, in no particular order, I offer you 100 things that brighten up my life and I would not want to miss for the world. As you read them, I challenge you to think what would be on your list…

1. The stars in the sky.
2. The planets in our solar system.
3. Io, Callisto, Ganymede, and Europa (four of the many moons of Jupiter).
4. The sun, our closest star. May such light forever warm my shoulders and offer comfort.
5. Poetry- particularly sonnets.
6. Children’s literature. So many wonderful stories and so many amazing illustrations.
7. The dictionary. I began a love affair with this book in grade 6.
8. Chet Raymo, an astronomer and naturalist, who is an amazing writer.
9. Earth’s moon- fat, round, and ever present, reminding us of the cyclical nature of life.
10. Strawberry-Rhubarb jam. Sweet, tangy, and perfect on a hot buttered English muffin.
11. Camels. Lovely brown eyes with l-o-n-g eyelashes to keep out the desert sand.
12. Children’s laughter- the deep, belly laugh they give when caught up ‘in the moment’ of silliness and fun.
13. A cool gentle breeze coming in the window at night to caress my bare shoulder as I sleep.
14. Any song sung by my favourite singer, Van Morrison.
15. Slow dancing, with a sway to match the movement of grass in the wind, or kelp in the sea.
16. Puppies!
17. Pretty summer dresses that make me feel beautiful and feminine.
18. Dr. Seuss stories.
19. Morning coffee- a perfect start to any day!
20. Capers- little buds of zingy goodness to spark up tuna salad, potato salad, or pasta dishes.
21. The local public library- so many books, so little time! And all for free! Yeah!
22. Sugar cookies- especially when made with a star-shaped cookie cutter.
23. The soft call of a mourning dove…coo…cooo…cooooo….
24. The scent of fresh and growing lavender in the garden on a hot summer day.
25. Rainbows
26. The pitter patting sound of rain falling on leaves.
27. Bumble bees.
28. Colouring with perfect, bright felt tip markers and muted colouring pencils.
29. Pigeon, a loveable story-book character created by Mo Willems.
30. The sensation I get when walking barefooted on healthy grass in the summertime.
31. Shovelling snow- it is physical, outdoors, and works up an appetite!
32. An afternoon spent in an art gallery or museum.
33. Listening to live music performed by friends.
34. Waking up with a great poem in my head, one that is just insisting it be put down on paper.
35. Homemade blueberry cobbler with vanilla bean ice cream.
36. Fuzzy caterpillars. And by extension, butterflies!
37. The smell of a campfire and roasting marshmallows.
38. A good night’s sleep- deep and dreamless.
39. Cooking a special meal to honour and care for my family and friends.
40. Patchouli incense. Melllow and evocative.
41. The potential held within a single blank sheet of paper.
42. John Waterhouse prints.
43. Spying wildlife while out walking in nature.
44. Fiddle head ferns, and edible fiddle heads, too!
45. Using my imagination.
46. Art deco-style architecture and artwork.
47. Watching baby ducklings in the pond in the spring.
48. Black and white photography. Ansel Adams prints in particular.
49. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes stories.
50. The children’s poetry of Shel Silverstein.
51. Owls. Who doesn’t like owls?
52. Sitting under a tree in the summer and reading a book, especially short stories.
53. White tulips.
54. Creative writing.
55. Being trusted with a secret.
56. The smell of cinnamon and vanilla.
57. Orange-spice zucchini bread with orange glaze on top!
58. Claude Debussey’s “Claire de Lune”
59. Apricots.
60. Fresh dates.
61. Fresh figs.
62. Long, slow back rub- both giving and receiving.
63. The sound of a fog horn in the night.
64. Fresh cut flowers at the breakfast table.
65. Comfy slippers to keep my feet warm in the wintertime.
66. The smell of fresh pine needles.
67. The sound of the wind in the trees.
68. Kumquat marmalade- taught myself how to make it and it was delicious.
69. Salad- spinach with little treats such as berries, raisin, or nuts is really fun to eat.
70. Balvenie limited edition single malt scotch. So smooth.
71. Early morning bike rides.
72. Curling up in front of a roaring fire on a cold winter’s evening.
73. My large-brimmed straw hat.
74. The sound of a cat purring while contentedly sleeping in my lap.
75. Sweet peas growing in our garden as they learn to climb the trellis.
76. Grilled veggies- earthy, hearty, and filled with vitamin-y goodness!
77. “Chick-a-dee-dee-dee” song sung by the little black-capped chick-a-dees outside.
78. Fresh linens on the bed, especially after a busy day out in the world.
79. A foot rub.
80. Red vines licorice! And “Good and Plenty” black licorice candies.
81. Dark chocolate and red wine. Mmm.
82. An afternoon spent knitting.
83. The painting of Vincent Van Gogh.
84. The psalms in the bible
85. A walk anytime of the day or night.
86. Reading about the history of science, religion, and philosophy.
87. Key lime pie
88. Cross-country skiing with hot chocolate to follow.
89. My teddy bear.
90. The sound of crickets at night.
91. Hotdogs piled high with saurkraut.
92. Shiny new pennies.
93. Walking along the beach on the wet, firm sand without any shoes on.
94. Freshly ironed shirts
95. Orange juice and champagne…guess that would be a mimosa!
96. Spinning on my drop spindle to transform fleece into yarn.
97. Stained-glass windows whose picture tells a story.
98. The sound of a choir singing in a large, acoustically alive church.
99. Long, slow, deep kisses.
100. Life itself.

2010-05-31T19:25:00.003-06:00

Blossoming…

In the dark soil of winter the flower draws strength and energy from the earth, which is needed to nourish the roots. And then, when the sun shines her own energy and warmth down upon the earth from above, the flower slowly pushes through the dark soil, first exposing one green shoulder, then another. And then, miraculously, there appears a tiny bud. And with more courage, strength, energy, and love, there finally appears a tiny flower, with delicate colours that shine back to the sun, for all the world to see, as if to say “Look, I made it!”. That is how I am beginning to feel.

Daffodils...

2010-04-16T08:18:00.001-06:00

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed---and gazed---but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

~William Wordsworth

Red bicycle...

2010-04-09T07:08:00.002-06:00

The other day I was given the gift of a brand new bicycle. It is really red and it goes really fast. Nothing beats getting outside on an early spring morning to ride along the country roads as the day is just getting started. For the “maiden voyage” on my new bicycle, I was blessed with the perfect morning for such a ride. I donned my ultra-sexy (not!) biking shorts, complete with built-in cushioning to protect my delicate “sit bones”, a jacket, earmuffs, helmet, and gloves. As I pulled out of the driveway, I felt a great sense of joy and anticipation. I love riding a bike. It makes me feel like a kid, as if anything is possible.

As I left the city behind me, heading north along one of the country roads, I noticed a faint mist hugging low along the roadside ditches and ponds. Dried, over-wintered rushes along the waters edge provided the perfect perching place for the first red-winged blackbirds of the season. They were calling to each other with their characteristic song, singing out to all who cared to listen. In fact, the world was teaming with birdsong, complete with robins, blue jays, and even cardinals. There were ducks and geese dotting the farmers fields, along with some cows and horses, who blinked their sleepy brown eyes at me as I whizzed past them at what felt like a very fast pace.

I could hear the wind rushing in my ears and feel the cool morning air on my face and it filled my lungs. My legs felt strong and sure; my hands gripped the handlebars with purpose and determination as I sped along the country road. I felt like I could ride forever. This feeling lasted about 20 minutes. Then, as exhilaration quickly turned to fatigue, I wondered if I might not just simply die right then and there. My lungs suddenly felt hot, as if they might explode. My thighs burned with a red-hot aching and turned to lead. My neck and shoulders felt as if I had been stabbed with a knife in my upper back. My movements became laboured and I felt as if I was moving in slow motion, peddling through molasses. So, I eased up on my speed. After all, I was moving at my fastest ever for the first time in years, so perhaps my body was just not up to the task. It seems the older I get there is a disconnect between what my mind thinks I can do and what my body can actually do.

And after a few minutes, I began to feel more human. My breathing returned to its normal rate, my legs felt less hot and heavy, and my shoulders and back were relieved when I shifted my body to a more upright position. It was then that I realized that it was a pretty good ride for the first one of the season. The days are growing longer and we have been promised a warm summer, so there will be lots of opportunities to get out and explore the world from the seat of my bicycle. It looks like we will have many happy hours together, my new bike and me. This thought makes me very happy, indeed.

Art Credit: Linda Apple

Ancient song...

2010-03-29T10:42:00.006-06:00

The idea of nonsense words and poetry has been very intriguing to me as of late. I recently posted here on my blog “Jabberwocky”, by Lewis Carroll, the master of nonsense poems. Hope you enjoyed it!

Interestingly enough, while unpacking some belongings I came across an old journal that contains some writing exercises I had completed quite some time ago. And to my surprise I found I had completed an exercise in which the goal was to write a poem of nonsense words. So, I had made up some words with some of my favourite sounds. The exercise encouraged the writer to think of the rhythm of language and the rhythm of songs once sung and chanted by ancient peoples.

For my nonsense words and the little poem, I made it all up using some of my favourite sounds and rhythms. They just felt right on my tongue and in my ears. As a writer and listener, I love the low, round sounds. They are like a hug as they envelop your heart and soul. Such sounds are so very comforting. My favourite sound is “oo”, as in moon, spoon, and swoon. Other sounds I like are “ko”, “mah”, “vah”, and “shu”.

Here is my first ever nonsense poem, meant to bring back a sense of feeling one might get when gathered with the clan around a campfire, listening to a chant, and feeling its rhythm rock the soul, while offering peace and protection.

Horum baloo anorum
Kaytango Qouray
Ipsalim honorum salichi
Rapoon harmah koquay

Seepshi chan moshu
Alpovin der havengrad
Tie tan blorum valeri
Kotouro te san solumdad

Nonsensical, to be sure. Lots of world sounds contained, some echo Latin, others echo Eastern tongues. Some sounds are reminiscent of ancient Norse gods, while others evoke spices of the orient. All in all it was a fun exercise. It was hard to creat the words, hard to give them a rhythm, rhyme, and meter, but in the end I am glad I stretched myself. And I am very happy to have found my little writing journal.

Oh frabjous day...

2010-03-26T09:28:00.004-06:00

This spring day is in need of some silliness and some nonsense! Who better to turn to than Lewis Carroll, the grand master of the nonsense poem! Read on, intrepid poets, read on...

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought—
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! and through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!"
He chortled in his joy.

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

Crayons...

2010-03-06T08:13:00.005-07:00

When I was a little girl, one of my favourite things to do was to colour. There was nothing better than an afternoon spent at the kitchen table, or sprawled out on the living room floor, surrounded by the many colouring books I shared with my younger brother. We had felt tip pens, coloured pencils, and crayons.

The felt tip pens were smart, sharp, and full of vibrant, saturated colour. I did my best to always use them with each stroke placed in the same direction, so as not to damage their fragile tips. The coloured pencils were softer and more delicate in the colour they put down. Their effect reminded me of watercolour paintings, all at once both muted and magical.

But the crayons were the most interesting of all. They felt more organic, somehow. I could lay down the colour, soft or intense, depending on how often my strokes would recur. I could set out different effects, which allowed for more shading with a greater vibrancy that the pencil, and more subtle than the felt tip pens. In short, they were most versatile.

Perhaps one of the reasons I liked the crayons the best is because of the wonderful box they came in. One of the greatest pleasures was to receive a brand new box of Crayola crayons. The large yellow and green box held the promise of every colour under the rainbow. Burnt sienna, brick red, cobalt blue, forest green, marigold, and midnight black. I still remember learning there was something called ‘periwinkle’, from the name printed on the label of the pale purple-blue crayon.

When the small perforations of the box were broken, and the folded-hinge lid was held back, there, standing on the small cardboard risers within the box, stood all of the crayons, in neat rows, like singers in a choir, standing at attention with their perfectly sharpened tips pointing to heaven, as if to intuit from God himself the promise of creativity, imagination, and beauty.

It has been a long time since I have had a box of crayons. Now that I have some new colouring books, it is time to go get some. And then I shall spend a Saturday afternoon, sitting in the sunshine, colouring to my heart’s content. I can hardly wait!

Fresh figs...

2010-03-06T07:57:00.002-07:00

Lately I have held a fascination with fresh figs. The reason for this is that an old Greek woman I once knew told me “I should be happy to die eating fresh figs”. She was most sincere and went on to tell me, emphatically, “You have not truly lived until you have had fresh figs”. Since then, I have wondered what they looked like, how they felt, how they smelled, and most of all, how they tasted.

And then one day I was given the gift of three fresh figs from the man that I love. He brought them home to me in his coat pocket. They were beautiful. Each was a dark purple, shaped like a small bell. These particular figs had a beautiful pattern on their delicate skin. From the stem there appeared a pale whisper of yellow-purple star-stripes that fanned out and curved around the most broad part of the fig. They were not very heavy, weighing less than a boiled egg.

When I sliced open the fig, the heart-centre was filled with a muted crimson flesh, filled with a thousand (or more) tiny seeds. It was surrounded by a smooth, white flesh, providing a sharp contrast to the dark purple skin that held this most delectable treasure. The fig tasted mild and sweet, and felt wonderful in my mouth. The seeds added an interesting texture and there seemed to be a bit of creaminess to it all. And then, surprisingly, there seemed to be a bit of a coconut taste that came through at the end. This seemed to me to be very interesting.

So now that I have tasted fresh figs, I want more. They are phenomenal. I have been collecting fig recipes and look forward to including figs in my life. It is as if a whole new portal to fruit has been opened, and I am blessed to have been able to experience such a simple, sweet little treat.

Follow your star...

2010-02-17T12:28:00.002-07:00

When I graduated from high school, among the gifts I received, was a small plaque inscribed with this very simple quote:

“Climb high, climb far. Your goal the sky, your aim the star.”

I fell in love with this sentiment. And for the past 27 years this little plaque has always been hung where I could read these words every single day, regardless of where I lived. In a way, the words offered me comfort and kept me grounded. The words reminded me to never give up, to always move forward, onward toward my goals. And in the end, they helped me meet my goals, no matter the slings and arrows life sometimes threw my way.

It is only now, with a recent major change in my life, I have lost track of this most important treasure. For the first time, the words are not there for me to read and meditate upon for a few moments each day. But, I remember them and call their spirit into my new life. At times I falter. At times I want to give up. But then I remember my favourite words; the words that helped me over the decades. The words that have shaped me into the woman that I am today.

The words are now etched in my heart. So, even without the little plaque, I will continue my life. I will climb high and climb far. My goal is the sky, my aim is the star.

Spidersilk...

2010-01-25T03:45:00.002-07:00

Imagine traveling to a land where, if you are in just the right place, and it just the right season, you might see giant, golden spider webs. This is possible if you go to Antananarivo, the capital of Madagascar, and the surrounding countryside, during the rainy season. This is the only time of the year that the female Golden Orb spider produces a beautiful golden silk. Locally these giant spiders are known as the golden orb weavers, spinning massive, gold-coloured webs, sometimes large enough to span a one lane road, reaching from one telephone pole to another!

Now, imagine collecting these giant spiders to harvest their silk, and then returning them back to the wild, unharmed. This is what a group of 70 people did to collect enough silk to make a piece of rare spider silk fabric. It measures 4x11 feet, and was woven based on the traditional patterns of the Madagascar highlands. Each spider can produce about 80 yards of silk filament. To make the fibres to weave such a cloth, it takes a lot of spider silk. For each individual thread, 96 to 960 spider silk filaments are twisted together. The cloth is a wonderful, lustrous golden colour, featuring stylized birds and flowers.

Most of the world’s silk comes from silkworm moth cocoons. However, unlike silkworms, who are relatively easy to keep in captivity, spiders present unique challenges, namely their cannibalistic nature, so they are hard to keep in captivity. Fortunately, spiders can be collected, placed in a special device to keep them still so the silk can be drawn, and then released back into the wild again.

For its weight, spider silk is stronger than steel, but unlike steel, it can stretch up to 40% of its normal length! These properties make this material something scientists would like to mimic artificially for use in areas such as the military, in surgery, and even for space exploration. The trick lies in replicating the material so there is no need to harvest the silk from the spiders. The challenge for researchers is that this unique filament begins as a liquid in the spider’s gland. It then becomes a remarkably strong, water-resistant solid after following a complicated course through the spider’s interior. It is this process which has been the most difficult to replicate.

Currently, there is an amazing exhibit at the American Museum of Natural History in New York titled “Travelling the Silk Road”. I wish I could go see this exhibit as it takes one on a journey across Asia, following one of the trade routes from ancient times, stretching from Xi’n to Baghdad.

Apache Blessing

2010-01-23T06:52:00.002-07:00

In order to help deal with some of the recent stress in my personal life, I finally broke down and shared my difficulties with some of my online friends. I am so glad I did. They have shown great compassion and support. One of the women passed along this beautiful blessing. I share it here with the hope that these lovely words will touch your life.

"May the sun
bring you new energy by day
May the moon
softly restore you by night
May the rain
wash away your worries
May the breeze
blow new strength into your being
May you walk
gently through the world and know
its beauty all the days of your life."

~ Apache Blessing

Porcupine musings...

2010-01-16T20:25:00.005-07:00

The other night before heading off to bed, I decided to go outside into my yard and say goodnight to the stars. As I walked along the brick path beside the house, into the yard, I heard a most curious scratching sound. When I looked closely for the source, I spied a beautiful, but very frightened, porcupine clinging to the base of one of the spruce trees. Her soft rounded nose was searching for my scent (I have since learned porcupines have very poor vision). Her delicate paws were clutching the bark of the tree. Her magnificent coat of quills undulated like an anemone under water. I was stunned, and so was she. We each regarded the other. In the quiet and unseasonable warmth of the January night, we momentarily connected with each other. She was only about a metre away and I found her presence to be something very special. I had never seen a porcupine in an urban area. My house backs onto a large park, where deer, rabbits, and racoons have been seen, but never, ever had I seen a porcupine.

What seemed auspicious about this sighting was the fact that I saw this lovely creature at the end of what had been a most difficult day. I had spent the afternoon in a meeting of great importance, where matters, both great and small, were discussed. Decisions which will profoundly affect my future were reached and I was feeling sad, vulnerable, and very depressed. I was left feeling like much of my own life force was slowly ebbing from my body. But seeing this porcupine made me wonder if perhaps her presence was a sign of some sort. There had to be some reason she appeared in my yard, on this night, of all nights, in my entire life. I believe in synchronicity, and I believed she had a message for me, so I went in search of the symbolic meaning of the porcupine. I wanted to know the merits of this animal in the totem world of the Amerindian culture. And what I learned was of great comfort to me.

There is much we can learn from the porcupine. This gentle animal lives a simple life, treading a distinct path each day from her den to the feeding area. Her life is uncomplicated and she lives without fear. Curiosity and savouring of the moment seem to be the porcupine nature. The power of the porcupine lies in the sense of innocence, wonder, and joy these animals display; they have been described as having a child-like quality about them. They use this sense of wonder and curiosity in their everyday lives. Porcupines offer, symbolically, faith, humility, intelligence and the adventure of discovery.

They are also described as the animal totem associated with self-determination, trust, solidarity, nocturnal magic, and regeneration. Porcupines delight in the simple pleasure of the world. They are independent and solitary (although they will share a den with others during cold winter months). They display a sense of virtue, incorruptibility, humility, self-reflection, self-defence, and protection. Porcupines also show a sense of self-empowerment.

Like the otter, my favourite animal, the porcupine is loving, gentle and non-aggressive. Her quills, as many as 30,000 of them, are interspersed among the dark, coarse hairs of her back and tail, allowing her to protect herself from harm. She offers a warning before defending herself and when provoked, will curve her body inward by bringing her delicate snout into her soft underbelly. This posture fully exposes her sharp quills, and allows her to flail her tail, making it impossible for the attacker to grab her without considerable harm. Her quills are symbolic of the brave warrior and are considered by Amerindians to ward off evil. These people would often weave the quills with fiber to make cloth for protection.

It has been said that the porcupine totem reminds one to not get caught up in the chaos of the world, where fear, greed, and suffering are commonplace. In fact, quite the opposite is what the porcupine is all about. The porcupine reminds us of the joys of childhood and the wonder of discovery. There is an Amerindian legend that tells of how porcupine taught bear to trust and how to play again. I give this legend to you, to pass along the gift of the story.

Porcupine and Bear – Amerindian Legend
Porcupine was looking at a hollow log. She was full of wonder as she tried to think of what she could do with it. Could it be a playhouse that nature made for her? Maybe she should climb on top of it and roll back and forth or scratch her back on the outer bark. Perhaps, she should look inside to see if there was any vegetation for her dinner.

While she was pondering what to do, Bear was approaching her. She was excited. A playmate to share her log with! She greeted him and asked him if he wanted share the log and play.

Bear snorted, “Porcupine, I’m too old to play. I’m looking for honey, so get out of my way.”

Porcupine told him he was never too old to play. She said that if he forgot what it was like to be a cub, he would always be grumpy and crotchety.

Bear was stunned and thought about what Porcupine said. All of the other animals ran away from him. Brothers and sister Bears ignored him when he growled at them. Maybe Porcupine was right. She trusted him not to eat her. She offered to be his friend.
He looked at her and felt something stirring inside him. Bear remembered the games of the days when he was a cub. He began to feel joy.

“Porcupine, you reminded me of the joy I had when I was a cub. In becoming strong, I became too logical. I was scared of what others might think if I dropped my gruff façade. I feared that others wouldn’t treat me with respect. You taught me that when I was being a stuffed shirt, I caused others not to like me. Thank you. I’d love to join you in playing with the log.”

Bear remembered how to play again and learned Porcupine’s innocence.

This tale serves to remind usof what the Porcupine symbolizes: innocence and wonder.

No stars for sale...

2010-01-12T07:14:00.009-07:00

"The stars, the stars... oh how they shine!"

As a lover of stars, I was disappointed to learn that most stars are not given a unique name, but rather, they are identified by a number. I wanted to find out why, so I went to the source that has the authority over the stars. No, I did not speak with God himself. Rather, I googled the International Astronomical Union. For decades stars have been discovered, numbered, and then added to an enormous database. Not very romantic, to be sure. But then again, the sheer number of stars dictates that numbering them is the only way to ensure we can find them again.

In addition to the numerical naming of stars, I found out that it is not possible to have a star named after someone you love. While there are companies out there that promote such services, the IAU clearly notes on their website that this practice is just not done. It is a matter of "buyer beware", regardless of the claims made by these companies. Simply put, the stars are not for sale. This makes me very happy. It means the entire universe of stars is there for us to enjoy. All of the stars belong to you and to me. And on any clear night, we can go out, look up, and marvel at their beauty.

If you want to learn more about the naming of stars, or about why they are not for sale, visit the International Astronomical Union site yourself.

In spite of the fact that stars are numbered, it does not take away from their magic or beauty. Many stars do have names, as do star clusters and constellations. If you look in the literature, there are many myths and legends about the stars and how the constellations got their names.

So, for you romantic star-lovers, there is much to learn about the stars. While the scientists continue to learn and teach us about the technical aspects of stars, I prefer to think of the stars in a most heavenly context while enjoying their stories across all cultures and times. Their magic and mystery will always hold a special place in my heart.

Tarot: Talisman or Taboo?

2010-01-11T19:53:00.004-07:00

Imagine... a book about the tarot written by a Benedictine monk. I have discovered such a book. And I look forward to reading it. It is written by Mark Patrick Hederman, the Abbott of Glenstal Abbey in Limerick, Ireland. He is a well-known philosopher and the editor of a cultural journal, The Crane Bag. How did I come to discover such an interesting tome? Well, it was through a most lively discussion about pentagrams and pentacles, and their symbolism as it relates to various traditions, ranging from Christianity to Wicca, to agnosticism and atheism. Of course, this topic merits a blog post all its own, which I shall do some day, but for now, this book has captured my attention. It looks to be a most interesting book. Here is an excerpt from the author himself:

“The last century was a hell for many people, a hell of our own creation. In many cases, those of us in charge of others, whether in concentration camps, schools, parishes, orphanages, families, had lost touch with ourselves, had failed to tap into our unconscious lives. Many of the great monsters we can now parade in public with the clarity and courage of hindsight, are no more than the rest of us writ large. Every one of us was potentially an oppressor. And why? Because we had repressed the Mr Hyde in us and were living the Dr Jeckyl, which is what happens when we neglect the major part of ourselves: our unconscious.

At the most basic and almost negative level, we are required to do something about this untapped source in ourselves. It is almost a matter of hygiene and health. But there is another more pressing reason why we should get in touch with our unconscious. Because this is also where the springs of our creativity are hidden, and where God can enter our lives. Most of us are related to this subcontinent in a passive way, through our dreams. This book suggests that there are active ways to engage with this area. One such way is through the Tarot cards.

Getting in touch with the unconscious can be difficult and dangerous. Our ordinary approach to life, our trained and cultivated ways of thinking, are allergic to this swampy unknown. We lose our bearings, we panic. The Tarot cards are like 'an idiots guide' to the unconscious, an easy way to subvert the rational and allow the energies beneath to creep up through the floorboards. If you learn to shuffle and to deal the twenty-two major cards of this ancient museum of the unconscious, it will help you to familiarise yourself with a symbolic way of thinking and domesticate an underworld of otherwise meaningless shadows and shapes.

This book gives an introduction to the Tarot, a history of its uses and abuses, a practical guide to its value as an underground map. It also provides a meditation on each one of the twenty-two major arcana which can help the reader to undertake their own spiritual journey.

The important books in life are not the ones which we read; they are the ones which read us. That is the way the Tarot should be read.”

Wow! I look forward to the meditations and hope to spend time exploring the tarot through the eyes and mind of Mark Patrick Hederman. It should be an interesting exploration on many levels. I can hardly wait!

Oh yeah... Happy New Year!

2010-01-10T19:48:00.004-07:00

Just imagine... a whole new year lies ahead! There are lots of opportunities to make the most of it. I love to make resolutions, and usually they involve learning something new. Here are my resolutions for 2010 (in no particular order):

Learn to knit with two (or more) colours.
Learn to spin on a spinning wheel.
Love with absolute honesty and wild abandon.

That's it. Simple, doable, and life-enriching.

What are your resolutions? What do you hope to learn? What do you hope to bring into your life? My hope for you is that you have a wonderful new year and are able to accomplish all you set out to do. Be sure to look back on this year at regular intervals to make sure you are on track. I will do the same.

What matters most...

2010-01-10T14:08:00.003-07:00

Poised on the eve of a major life change, I have had to come to terms with some difficult emotional aspects that this change will bring. While this change is voluntary, and of my own making, it has not been without its stressors. It has brought great moments of joy and anticipation. These have then been eclipsed by moments of sorrow, fear, and sadness. It is a giving up of one life in return for another. As part of this change, I need to sift through a lifetime of possessions, making a decision of what to keep, and what to donate to charity. Most of it will be given away. It is time to pare down my life, and this is a perfect opportunity to determine what is most important.

Even as I write this post, with my laptop perched on my knees, my kitty, Fiona, is curled up on my lap, nestled deep in my arms. Her reassuring purr eases my saddened heart. She looks up at me with her beautiful green eyes, softly blinking, telling me she understands I am hurting. I wonder if she is trying to tell me to be sure to take her with me. Wherever I move in this house, she is at my heels. When I sit down for a moment, she jumps up into my arms, insisting I give her attention. I have never had an animal who is so perceptive, or so interested in offering comfort. Perhaps she senses I am in great turmoil during this transition. I am trying to keep my life on track, but truly, this change is taking a toll on my emotions.

As I sort through the many drawers, shelves, and boxes of my possessions, flashes of my life come to mind with great clarity. Each trinket and token bring back a special memory. A magnolia flower made of fine bone china reminds me of a trip with a dear friend to Mississippi one hot summer. A palette of water colours reminds me of time spent on the veranda at the Banff Spring hotel while I tried my best to paint the roses I saw in the garden. A book of fairy tales purchased when in Copenhagen reminds me of the time spent there. It is almost too much to bear. I know I have the memories of all my experiences in my mind and in my heart. But these physical reminders underscore the magnificent life I have lived so far.

Over the decades I have created an interesting library of books. I love books and find leaving them behind, or giving them away, to be the most difficult job of all. I love the words, the ideas, and the passion with which the various authors have poured into these works. I love knowing I can take any book off the shelf and spend an afternoon lost in another world. But, there are far too many books to make the journey from my old life to my new life. I will give most of them to the local used bookseller. I know he will enjoy them, and some day, a book lover just like myself will purchase and bring the books home, giving them new shelves to sit upon. And once again, their words will inspire and enchant someone else’s spirit.

While I am mourning the ‘loss’ of my current life, and all the wonderful possessions that have inhabited my world, there is much to look forward to. As a snake sheds her skin, there emerges a brighter, more vibrant being. This is the same process that I am going through. I am shedding the old, and will emerge brighter. This entire process has changed me at a most fundamental level. I look forward to the new chapter in my life. I look forward to all that I will learn, not only about myself, but about others as well.

It is true, as the saying goes: “Life is what we make it”. Our lives are not tied up in possessions, or belongings. While it hurts to willingly give up a lifetime of possessions, the memories will remain. I will bring into my new life only those things which matter most. I have no plans to replace what I am giving up. My goal is to look forward and create a new life. Eventually my new life will fill up with memories and mementos of a life lived. It will simply take time.

My favourite mornings...

2009-12-20T08:47:00.003-07:00

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?

2009-12-14T07:44:00.004-07:00

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...

2009-12-06T16:37:00.004-07:00

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...

2009-12-06T16:18:00.005-07:00

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...

2009-11-29T08:17:00.002-07:00

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...

2009-11-08T19:47:00.004-07:00

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...

2009-11-08T18:59:00.003-07:00

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...

2009-11-06T18:26:00.000-07:00

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...

2009-10-19T16:07:00.002-06:00

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...

2009-10-14T17:35:00.005-06:00

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!

2009-10-12T09:46:00.001-06:00

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

2009-09-30T20:28:00.002-06:00

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...

2009-09-29T20:58:00.001-06:00

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...

2009-09-26T21:31:00.002-06:00

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...

2009-09-24T12:06:00.004-06:00

“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...

2009-09-22T05:57:00.002-06:00

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...

2009-09-20T20:09:00.002-06:00

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...

2009-08-15T09:42:00.002-06:00

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...

2009-08-07T08:11:00.004-06:00

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...

2009-08-06T03:43:00.002-06:00

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...

2009-08-04T04:58:00.003-06:00

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...

2009-07-31T19:53:00.004-06:00

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...

2009-07-08T04:48:00.003-06:00

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...

2009-07-03T06:12:00.005-06:00

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...

2009-07-01T22:00:00.005-06:00

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...

2009-06-30T10:08:00.004-06:00

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

2009-06-23T06:14:00.004-06:00

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...

2009-06-22T07:23:00.007-06:00

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...

2009-06-04T06:35:00.002-06:00

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.

2009-05-20T08:22:00.000-06:00

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...

2009-03-31T20:13:00.005-06:00

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!

Feeling a little Irish today...

2009-03-17T16:14:00.006-06:00

Feeling a little bit Irish…

Newfoundland is one of the most beautiful provinces in all of Canada. Along her coastline are soaring cliffs that offer endless views of the sea. The ceaseless tide ensures she is demurely ensconced in a frilly white petticoat where her solid rock base meets the deep blue sea. If you ever have the good luck to visit, beware! Her tides will enchant you, placing you under a spell that is impossible to shake off, and her winds will echo in your heart, no matter how long or how far away you go.

Her people have a friendliness about them that is warm and welcoming, even if you are “from away”. Their sing-song voices have an accent that is unmistakable. And their music is unforgettable. It is all at once bold, bawdy, beautiful, and unmistakeably Irish to it’s very soul. Her “East Coast” music has it’s roots in Ireland, which lies just across the Atlantic ocean to the east. Cape Spear, situated along her shores is the eastern most point of North America. It is the closest to Ireland I have ever been.

I have been to this unforgettable Rock many times, and each time it grows harder to leave. The last time I was there I took a piece of her with me. In a jar on my desk is some sand and rocks from her beaches. On my wall hangs a watercolor painting from a local artist. In my memory the salty sea air hangs, pungent and sharp. In my ears I can still hear that wonderful music. It must have been fate that compelled me to buy a bodhran on my very first trip. I fell instantly in love with her music and wanted to play a part in it. My bodhran is a work of art in itself. It is a beautiful Irish frame drum, covered in goatskin and decorated with Celtic artwork of musicians playing the harp, the fiddle, the flute, and the drum. For years I have been trying to learn how to play this drum. I am getting better, but have a long way to go. I hope that someday the drumming will be as easy as breathing.

As today is St. Patrick’s Day, I plan to celebrate in my own little way. I will put on my “East Coast” music, turn it up so it fills the room, and I will once again play my drum. I will play it loud, fast, and furious. I will play it until my wrist is sore and I can no longer sit still. As always, it will feel good to get lost in the music, if only for a little while. I will be transported back to Newfoundland, a magical place that has captured my heart and imagination.

Libra moon...

2009-03-10T22:18:00.001-06:00

Each night before I go to bed, I take a moment to find the moon in the sky. Not only do I watch her, but I like to think she watches over me. Long ago she cast her spell on me with her rhythm and mystery. Like the never ending pull of the tides, she continues to inspire in me a sense of wonder and curiosity. Tonight there will be another glorious full moon. With a forecast of clear skies, she will light up the winter sky and shine into my bedroom, bathing it in an ethereal silver light. Everything will be transformed and will take on a look that is otherworldly; once again I will offer thanks for the eternal guardianship given by earth’s only moon.

This particular full moon is special because I learned something about myself today. The moon was in the constellation of Libra on the day I was born. Libra is represented in the stars as ‘the Scales’. Among other things, this means that the moon’s influence on my personality is such that the desire for harmonious relationships and surroundings is so strong that I avoid personal confrontations or any expression of intense, unpleasant emotions. As an idealist, living in peace and harmony with others is of paramount importance. Inwardly I am often torn with indecision and am much more at odds with myself that others would ever guess, given my relatively even disposition.

I happen to appreciate the basic tenant of astrology, the “as above, so below” influence of the planets and the stars. I count myself fortunate to be the recipient of the gifts the natal Libra moon brings to my life.

Image by Josephine Wall as featured at www.mystical-art/com

Our dreaming selves...

2009-03-05T07:30:00.001-07:00

While reading about our dreaming selves I came across the concept of ‘dream appreciation’ which I believe is a perfect term. Less scientific than ‘dream theory’, or ‘dream analysis’ or ‘dream interpretation’. Our dreams speak the truth, uncensored. We can appreciate our dreams as one would appreciate a work of art. Our dreams are works of art, usually visual images. As a poet uses the language of metaphor, a dreamer will dream in images, an entire world of visual metaphors is created, rich and deep. Our dreams speak the truth, uncensored. Of course, these observations barely scratch the surface, but I have time to go deeper with my books. Last night there arrived in my dream in box a trio of dreams. In one of them I felt like I had fallen in love.

Here is something for you to think about: When we perceive images, independent of physical input, while awake, they are described as an hallucination. When we perceive these independent images while sleeping, they are called dreams. How strange that the perceived image can move from the ‘abnormal’ to the ‘normal’ simply as a function of one’s state of consciousness. The line indeed, is very thin…

“Dreaming permits each and every one of us to be quietly and safely insane every night of our lives.” ~William C. Dement

Image: Nap Time by Terri Windling, Endicott Studio

Heart song...

2009-02-27T04:49:00.002-07:00

If you could have one special talent that brought you great pleasure, what would it be? If you could follow your heart’s desire, what would you do, or where would you go?

The special talent I wish were inside of me would be the ability to paint. I imagine the most amazing things in my mind’s eye, but they remain locked in my head; I long to paint what I see. The images in my dreams, in my waking mind, in my heart, they remain mine alone. I want to paint them to bring them to life, to give me the pleasure of seeing them again and again. As long as they remain within, they are eventually forgotten, never to be seen again, as if they are locked away in a box. I forget what is there. If I could have them as paintings, I could take them out, one by one, and enjoy their beauty all over again.

I have some watercolours and I have been painting, but my paintings are that of a child, or less so. The strokes are hazardous, coarse, and have no recognizable form. They fall far short of expressing what I so desperately want to bring out of me. It is so frustrating. I cannot make my hand and brush create on paper what is in my head, even though they are all physically connected during the act of painting. It is as if they are not able to speak the same language. I cannot make the imagined real. I feel mute, helpless, and frustrated, as if I want to say something important, but just cannot talk. I think I will keep trying, though. I just have to.

So I ask you again- what is your heart’s desire?

Delicious and delectable...

2009-02-25T06:58:00.003-07:00

Have you ever made a simple discovery while going through your day that made you stop and smile? It is a wonderful thing. I recently discovered Edam cheese. It is so gentle, mild, and has a little bit of a sour kick that is a nice surprise. How have I gone all of my life without knowing this cheese? I have certainly attended many corporate ‘wine and cheese’ functions over the years, but I think the closest I may have come to Edam cheese in terms of taste and texture is the Gouda cheese. While it may seem inconsequential, discovering this cheese has reminded me that it is the simple experiences that bring beauty and colour to our lives.

From the top of the moon...

2009-02-17T08:20:00.003-07:00

Looking down at the earth from the top of the moon,
Her blue-green mantle created from a magical loom.
Emerald and sapphire adorn her face,
She looks to the sun with such beauty and grace.

Tilting and turning, our blue planet does spin,
The celestial jackpot of life we did win.
From the shores of the Sea of Tranquility
A more beautiful planet we shall never see.

Serendipty under the madrona tree...

2009-02-16T19:48:00.006-07:00

Recently I happened to be at the airport in Seattle where I met a knitter. She was sitting and knitting a long blue scarf while waiting for the arrival of her friend. I had just arrived and was waiting to meet my sister for a much-needed ‘girls weekend’. I sat next to the knitter and admired her scarf.

“Are you a knitter?” she asked me.
“Yes”, I answered.
“Are you here for the Madrona?” she inquired.
“I could be” I replied, “what is it?”.

She went on to tell me it is an annual winter fiber retreat being held over the weekend. Suddenly, I had a mission: attend the Madrona Fiber Festival! So, my sister and I carved out some time and went. While we were there we saw the knitter from the airport and spent a few minutes talking with her and her friend. It was a terrific recommendation and I am so happy I went. I think I will plan on attending next year.

Paulina Tarot

2009-02-11T11:33:00.003-07:00

While surfing the internet today I came across a new tarot deck that has captivated me. It is called the Paulina Tarot. Created by Paulina Cassidy, this deck is absolutely enchanting. The colours are soft with a sort of faerie feel. The intricate details give several layers to these cards and it seems that each time I go back and view a card again I find something new. It is a full 78 card deck and each one is as beautiful as the last. I am going to Seattle for the weekend to visit my sister, so I hope to get out to a local metaphysical shop to pick up one of these amazing decks. I can hardly wait!

Be sure to see more of her work here: http://www.paulina.ws/tarot/

The Magician's Sonnet

2009-01-01T08:41:00.007-07:00

Happy New Year!

One of my favourite forms of poetry is the sonnet. For the past year I have been working on my “Tarot Project”, which is to write 78 sonnets. No small task. It can take quite awhile to write one, because I try to distil all that a card can bring, with it’s nuances, into the form of the English sonnet.

Since this is the first day of the New Year, I offer to you my “Magician’s Sonnet”. May the energy and power of this archetype be yours to bring forth many good things.

The Magician’s Sonnet

With lemniscate halo, poised to respond
One hand to heaven, the other points below
With tools spread out: cup and coin, sword and wand,
All is ready to create and bestow
Concentration and purpose flowing,
The magic time of transforming dreams is here
Drawing from spirit and imagination,
Life is breathed into wishes without fear

Wizard, Trickster, or Shaman, who is this Mage?
Beware the power of this energy,
Harsh judgement and fear shall not be waged
Past hurts and lies released for synergy
Bring forth the purpose and essence of being
For dreams made real are well worth seeing.

2.5 Miles...

2008-12-28T11:16:00.003-07:00

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

2008-08-01T19:14:00.003-06:00

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

2008-07-08T21:52:00.002-06:00

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...

2008-06-11T04:53:00.002-06:00

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...

2008-06-04T07:44:00.004-06:00

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...

2008-06-02T21:25:00.002-06:00

"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...

2008-05-30T20:16:00.002-06:00

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...

2008-05-28T08:31:00.009-06:00

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...

2008-05-22T08:26:00.001-06:00

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...

2008-05-21T06:54:00.003-06:00

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...

2008-05-12T20:12:00.002-06:00

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...

2008-05-11T08:24:00.003-06:00

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...

2008-05-08T21:28:00.003-06:00

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...

2008-05-01T11:02:00.002-06:00

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...

2008-04-30T16:01:00.002-06:00

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...

2008-04-23T08:27:00.001-06:00

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...

2008-04-19T13:13:00.003-06:00

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...

2008-04-18T20:23:00.002-06:00

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...

2008-04-17T06:55:00.000-06:00

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....

2008-04-16T07:52:00.001-06:00

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...

2008-04-15T20:31:00.001-06:00

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.