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...

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...

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...

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...

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...

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...

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.