Little Fiddler

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

Hope there is a little green in your life.

The Sea-Limits

The Sea-Limits

by Dante Gabriel Rosetti

Consider the sea's listless chime:

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

The murmur of the earth's own shell.

Secret continuance sublime

Is the sea's end: our sight may pass

No furlong farther. Since time was,

This sound hath told the lapse of time.

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

The mournfulness of ancient life,

Enduring always at dull strife.

As the world's heart of rest and wrath,

Its painful pulse is in the sands.

Last utterly, the whole sky stands,

Grey and not known, along its path.

Listen alone beside the sea,

Listen alone among the woods;

Those voices of twin solitudes

Shall have one sound alike to thee:

Hark where the murmurs of thronged men

Surge and sink back and surge again,--

Still the one voice of wave and tree.

Gather a shell from the strown beach

And listen at its lips: they sigh

The same desire and mystery,

The echo of the whole sea's speech

And all mankind is thus at heart

Not anything but what thou art:

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

The sheep who couldn't sleep...

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

The Sheep Who Couldn't Sleep

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Curious night...

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

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

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

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

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

Through his pen...

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

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

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

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

Incense and white tea...

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

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

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

Vincent and the felt hat...

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

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

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

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

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

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