The sheep who couldn't sleep...

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

The Sheep Who Couldn't Sleep

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Curious night...

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

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

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

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

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

Through his pen...

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

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

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

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

Incense and white tea...

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

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

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

Vincent and the felt hat...

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rainy blueberry morning...

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

A Dutch fairytale...

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

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

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

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

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

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