Day 247 After midnight shift, sky dark, no sun, only sleep on the horizon Soooo tired coming home after midnights this morning. The first shift back is usually the hardest, that sudden switch from daytime awakeness to nighttime awakeness. Somehow I resist going to bed early (ie at a ‘decent’ time) when I’m off. Too easy to stumble into bed around 2am after doing nothing of great importance. I choose midnight shifts as they are the only consecutive 10 hour shifts available at my work. But I don’t mind them. I have the office to myself and overall, save a few harried and busy hours, they can be less physically demanding. The work itself that is. The hardest thing about the midnight shift at my work (as a PSW to people with mental and/or physical challenges) is that it is a midnight shift, a time when your body clock (what is that again?) is turned upside down. But, as I mentioned in a previous post, midnight shifts also remind me that time is expansive and fluid and that each day actually does contain 24 hours whether we’re awake for all of them or not. I have dark circles below my eyes that have taken up permanent residence now. As a teenager, this would have devastated me. Not that I’m thrilled with them now but they are what they are and perhaps one day they’ll disappear. More than anything they fascinate me. What are they? I mean, how does lack of sleep create them? Will a period of solid sleep erase them? I keep meaning to google it. I can understand puffy bags more (which I can see hovering on the doorstep) but the dark circles? A mystery. I have found that I can ‘manage’ on very little sleep. Solid snoozes of maybe a couple of hours or a few hours each can get me through although my physical reactions and mental alertness may betray me. Often I wonder how I get through the day with only one or two things actually accomplished yet I feel like I’ve had so many brilliant thoughts and moments or gazing and absorbing. Maybe those are the days that are worth more in the long run actually. But I like having the choice to ‘do’ or ‘be’ and both at the same time is a lovely treat. Whether it’s covid or midnights or a mean combination of both I often feel like I’m wading through molasses in my days. Today though I had a solid sleep, Six to seven hours of deep restful sleep. Strangely I’ve found that I sleep without tossing if I wear earplugs so my earplug sleeps tend to be deeper and more physically restful. Why is that? Another google moment. So interesting. And I had sweet dreams...taking photos of lighthouses with waves crashing foamy and white at their bases; a found elephant stuffie hung on a doorknob for its owner to discover; me dancing dancing dancing in sunlight outside on a wide paved path surrounded by trees and tall swaying grass. And one thing my midnight shift brought me last night as I began to rewatch Schitts Creek on Netflix (quite a bit of ‘down’ time too on the midnight shift at work usually and we’re very fortunate to have Netflix and internet access in the office) was the realisation on a deeper level of how great that show is. How hilarious. Perhaps not until you know about the personalities of Moira’s wigs, do you really get the line in one of the first scenes in the first episode where Moira yells at her maid for putting two wigs together in the same bag—wigs that don’t get on with each other. The laughs, at any time of the day or night, are priceless. Day 4 Artfully Wild Blog Along with Effy Wild
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I have the giggles today. Probably not a good thing as it means I’m likely overtired and I have to work midnights tonight. But things just keep hitting me as funny today. I drove past a sparkling white car earlier and noticed that the brake lights had purposeful red paint oozing out under them like blood. I laughed out loud. Literally. Maybe not funny really. But unexpected and sometimes laughter seems to come from a startle reflex, you know when something isn’t as we expect. Perhaps that’s what humour is after all. The unexpected but not in a horrific kind of way. That would be fear. Lol. Sometimes even fear is disguised by laughter though. One of my co-workers laughs hysterically in emergency situations. She does realise this and tells us between giggles that she’s sorry and knows this is so inappropriate but she can’t help it. A nervous reaction. Luckily we rarely have emergency situations at work. I create artist trading cards (ATCs) and send them to people each month. I started in response to my friend Linda’s request. Tired of only bills and unwelcome mail, she wanted to swap ATCs with me and get something uplifting in her mail instead. Then I joined Willowing Art’s ATC swaps (the last one was this summer unfortunately). Anyway, I keep looking at the ones I made this month and I laugh at one of them. The prompt was flowers and I made one set where a ribbon of daisies hangs down one side of the card. I thought it would look whimsical and I added the word ‘bloom’ underneath to suggest hidden depths. But the daisies themselves were less transparent than I’d thought and one of the cards simply reads ‘loom’ until you move the ribbon out of the way. It makes me giggle every time I see it. I’ll send that one to Linda. She’ll appreciate the humour. My hubby and I used to produce a free humour-filled weekly magazine to distribute around town. I enjoyed trying to find funny jokes and articles to fill it but I soon realised that my sense of a humour is a little skewed. It tends to have a sadistic streak. One of the funniest things we ever printed that I remember was a true report of a Health and Safety Commission somewhere that was educating its employees or potential employees on the potential dangers of the job. But the video they showed was so graphic and disturbing that people started fainting and falling out of their chairs. Trying to leave the room and run to the bathroom, people tripped over table and chair legs in the dark. They had to stop the video because so many people had hurt themselves—the article listed the numbers of broken legs, banged heads and bleeding noses in addition to the fainting casualties. I think it’s the irony that amuses me so much. I love irony. People usually see me as a somewhat kind person so that I find this story funny baffles them and they’ll often start to inch away from me while I laugh uproariously. I’m laughing even typing it out. As a child in Britain, I loved the live (live!) children’s show, Blue Peter, and I still smile remembering an episode where a baby elephant was brought on the show. (I don’t find it as funny any more as I’m more aware of the plight and fear of the baby elephant and I really do feel for the keeper but it was live and I was a kid and oh the responses from the 3 commentators of the show who were live and had to deal with everything). All was fine until the elephant relieved itself. Potty humour did nothing for me even as a kid but as I say, the presenters’ reactions were priceless. The camera shifted away from that. But then the elephant decided to bolt and it dragged the keeper, who never left go of the leash, through all the pee and poop, in and out of the camera shot. One of the presenters started to laugh, one of those belly laughs that just gets you going too, although he was concerned about the keeper too. Another commentator almost stepped in it all, the laughing commentator pushed him away from it and then he glances at his shoes. Just when it seems like the elephant and keeper are headed offstage, you can see them in the background turning around and heading back. Oh my! I’ll try to find the clip to put in here. Despite all the comments about the poor little elephant, I still can’t help but laugh until tears roll down my face. I absolutely love bloopers especially news bloopers. Nothing rehearsed or set up, just real life. Yesterday I walked around, my head and heart spinning with the Texas abortion laws but then on the same newscast I also heard that ABBA were getting back together! ABBA! Seriously just what this world could use right now—a little ABBA. The news mentioned that they would be touring virtually using holographic images of themselves. And they’re calling them…wait for it…ABBAtars! I’m still smiling!
Humour is a funny thing. Day 246 #365daysofsybwriting #365daysofhaiku Chickadee inside feeder flits to the rim, takes one seed at a time Day 3 of Effy Wild's Artfully Wild Blog Along Perhaps you know it, too? That list from Erma Bombeck, “If I Had My Life To Live Over”. I love it. So much wisdom. I’m sure we can each come up with our own list. The one of Erma’s that I always remember is : “I would have burned the pink candle sculpted like a rose before it melted in storage.” I can envision that candle, how beautiful it must have been, baby pink for sure, perhaps even how carefully it had been wrapped to place in storage. My parents had a similar sculpted candle. I think they were all the rage back in the day. They were peeled really to reveal different layers, often several shades of the same colour. Too pretty to burn. In time my parents’ candle faded and I think the outer wax cracked. Years later it was thrown out but it had long lost its beauty before then and had been pushed to the back of the china cabinet. So I left yesterday’s blog pondering whether to use one of my treasured patchouli soaps as my next bathroom hand soap. Could I? I’ve had one in my underwear drawer for 18 months and one on my headboard for a few years. I know that seems unusual but I so love the scent of it. Well, I did it. I chose the Summer of Love one from Arizona and I’ve used it all day. It lathers beautifully and smells divine, leaving a faint scent of patchouli on my hands afterwards. I’ve been home all day so have used it lots and walked around the house and yard sniffing my hands! So many things in my life that I’ve squirreled away, that I deem too pretty/ precious/ unique/ irreplaceable or that I consider myself too unworthy at the moment to use. Ouch. That one hurts but I realise it’s true if I really dig deep. Waiting for the right conditions. Seriously what are the right conditions? Today is as good a day as any simply because I’m here and breathing. I get saving some things, perhaps having a box of comfort things for hard days, but in general, why deny myself the pleasure of using something special on a daily basis?
I understand that it can stem from poverty or scarcity thinking but how many things do I have around the house or hidden away that I don’t actually use or fully appreciate for fear of not ever being able to replace them? Or it not being a special enough occasion to use them? Or me not feeling important enough that day? What are my sculpted rose candles? What are yours? Do you have any? Today using the patchouli soap felt luxurious. It’s rippled like a washboard, too which amuses me no end and feels delightful in my hands. Just the right size. Using it created a small shift in upping my level of self-compassion and self-care and enforcing my faith in the future. The soap is soft, lots of palm and coconut oil I think. It may not last long and I may not be able to replace it for a very long time, if ever. But does that matter? Something else just as luscious can replace it. On my soap dish. Day 2 of Effy Wild’s September Artfully Wild Blogalong Welcome! Effy Wild's daily blog along starts today. I've been looking forward to it all day (well since last week!) and read a few blogs earlier and commented on them. But the day got away and now it's 10:50pm my time and I'm just posting! I think I might try a list tonight as it may be faster. 1. My day got away from me in the loveliest of ways really--a whirligig of connecting with friends, offering rides and arranging lunches, accepting offers of rides together to a retirement party in a couple of weeks, witnessing and giving requested suggestions through email, exchanging messages and an actual physical in person lunch. 2. The lunch was lovely. Ironic but lovely. It had originally been 4 coworker friends but 2 of them couldn't make it at the last minute. So it was Carol and I at the Friendship Gardens (haha!). Carol and I see each other all the time at work as we work in the same building--it's the other two coworkers who we don't see so that was the funny part. But we still had a good chat. 3. We ate at a picnic table in the Chinese pavilion in the Gardens. I love it there. My hubby's parents (from Hong Kong--Rob was born there) and their friends were responsible for building the pavilion which is striking and easily spotted from the main avenue running past the park. When we could get together outside last year, I met friends there for lunches then spent the cold winter driving past the pavilion, warmed by echoes of our summer laughter. 4. While we were chatting, two small birds swooped together close by then one of them flew into the pavilion. It fluttered by the top, trying to escape through the ceiling. Carol and I called directions to it. "Pause. Look. Feel the breeze. Fly lower." It found a perch and we studied it, originally thinking it was a sparrow but it was much smaller, flecked and with greenish wings. It chirped a little differently than a regular house sparrow. Finally it flapped by the ceiling some more before taking a determined low swoop through one of the open sides between two red columns. Carol and I whooped and cheered.
5. The Friendship Gardens is a city park in Thunder Bay, Ontario, Canada which has pretty flower beds, gorgeous shady trees and two small man-made lakes with lots of ducks and dragon flies. It has also has over a dozen statues and monuments erected by different ethnic groups . Every time I'm there, I like to walk around the park and look at the monuments. Today as I walked to one statue, I was amazed at the springiness of the grass and how it dampened my bare toes in my sandals. Refreshing. 6. My friend Jo-Anne and I exchanged many messages today about our lovely day together yesterday (see previous post, my last Wild Musing with Renee Magnusson). She sent me a photo of the wild sunflowers that clustered at the bottom of some wooden steps that we had noticed yesterday. And I sent her my daily picture and haiku which was of her china tea cup and about our time together. (see end of this post) 7. I love it when my haiku and pictures compliment each other. I wrote this yesterday too. It must be true! Lol. 8. Rob brought dinner home from Swiss Chalet. A nice surprise. And since I was sat outside on the back deck when he came home from work, that was where we ate. So peaceful. All the neighbours were quiet and the air lay soft and warm but not too hot. Rob rarely spends time outside, in fact this is the first time he's eaten outside all year so it was quite a monumental moment. And a delicious supper that neither of us had to cook. 9. I've had a nagging, almost pulsating pain in my left side for the past hour. We'll call it gas! Lol! 10. I used the little sliver of Ivory soap in the bathroom to wash my hands and pondered which soap I'd chose to use next. I love having an assortment of different soaps and am thinking maybe i can let go of two of my more special soaps, both strong patchouli. One I keep on my bedside table which I realise is a funny place for soap but I'm so in love with the scent and find it a comfort to sniff it. The other I bought in Arizona when visiting my son Dane last year. It's called Summer of Love and has a hand drawn picture of a VW van with daisies all over it on the sleeve. Maybe I can let go of one of them and actually use it. I can find other deliciously scented soap, I'm sure and i do have a little mountain of LUSH gift cards which may buy me some Karma soap. So maybe, just maybe I can choose one to put in the bathroom to celebrate September. Maybe... Day 244 #100daysofsybwriting #100daysofhaiku Lake breeze tangles hair tea, sharing and laughter summer’s umbrella Day Ten (last day!) Wild Musings with Renee Magnusson What was beautiful today? Today started by me getting out of bed in the morning and will end with me going to bed tonight. This feels so decadent, indulgent and wonderfully ordinary. I work a 10 hour midnight shift 3 times a week usually so to wake up in the morning after a night of sleep and to go to bed when it’s dark pleases me no end. And isn’t something I take for granted. I also love the feeling of working midnights where time is expansive and fluid. Working midnights reminds me that there are 24 hours to every day and each one holds its own uniqueness. And there is a certainly a deliciousness to crawling into bed at a time when many people are facing their work day. But ultimately, it’s the normalcy of days like today that soothe me (even if it’s 2 a.m. when I actually climb into bed, it’s still night). Night sounds of crickets and distant trains rumbling comfort me and remind me that tonight someone else, not me, will be on watch. Because we’re 13 hours apart, my friend Fran in Tasmania and I will sometimes exchange messages as the other is heading to bed: “Sweet dreams. I’ll hold the fort for you. All is well.” I loved my haiku today (I had actually written it last night in response to an incident yesterday) and I felt it matched my photo well, taking a more literal meaning if paired with the photo. I liked the duality. I love it when my haiku can stand separate from my photo but also matches the photo. When I did my usual 3 card Tarot card spread (with the deck I feel is my forever deck, Tarot of Mystical Moments created by Catrin Welz-Stein—I just love everything about this deck, from the intriguing illustrations which speak to me beyond words to their silver gilt edges) I got strong positive cards—the first 2 at least! The 9 of cups, the wish card, to my way of thinking and the Queen of Pentacles and the 7 of cups. A good reading always starts the day off right! I made my favourite breakfast of French toast with cinnamon with fresh peaches and blackberries instead of frozen this morning. A delicious treat. And I packed a lunch of 3 jalapeno cheese sticks (hoping that I liked them!) and a banana for lunch in a park with my dear friend, Jo-Anne. I had a somewhat disturbing insight in an exchange with a Moonshine friend this morning but even what seems like a negative realisation can be beautiful if it leads to illumination so I include it here. My friend had posted lots of her art on facebook and I commented on it saying how lovely to see her art and her journey and she responded saying it was the first time she had posted her work on facebook, usually it was instagram where, for whatever reason, she felt ‘safer’. I replied that I felt the same, more exposed on facebook, and I pondered why. After all, facebook was full of ‘friends’, people I’d actively chosen to see my page whereas instagram was full of strangers who followed me (along with some friends). I put my dishes in the sink and thought some more. Then I realised what it was. When I post on instagram, 30 people could view my post and not comment or ‘like’ and I’d be fine with it but if 30 of my facebook friends saw my post and didn’t comment or ‘like’, it would feel more like rejection. Ouch. I realise this can spiral and some days this wouldn’t bother me, other days it would. But it explained why I only post my daily haiku on instagram everyday and only my favourites on facebook. I don’t like the feeling of being so influenced by other people’s responses but the insight was invaluable and I had dug deeper so basically I’ll take it as a win. If I understand then I can work to change or at least acknowledge when a day may or may not be a good one to post on facebook. Driving to meet Jo-Anne on a beautiful sunny but cooler day, I noticed a hedge of flowering sunflowers, all nodding their heads inward as if sharing secrets. One fence had gladiolus tips peeking over the top like nosy neighbours. And we discovered wild sunflowers at the bottom of a flight of wooden steps. We ate at a picnic table in a park grandstand but moved when a black spider fell into my friend’s lunch! Then we sat and chatted and laughed and commiserated on a bench in the shade facing an ornate but dry fountain. We watched a fuzzy yellow caterpillar safely inch its way through the grass to a flower bed. When we reached my friend’s house, she made earl grey tea for me in a grey china tea cup with a solid yellow inside and a swirling gold pattern around the edge. We carried it outside to her deck and sat under the red umbrella with the lake breeze blowing through our hair. The puffy cushion she gave me for behind my back fitted perfectly and was comfortable. Somehow we got chatting about songs and Jo-Anne shared her favourite songs that she thought I may not be as familiar with. Songs and music create and touch on memories like nothing else in my world. I often feel that a way to gain an insight into someone is to look at their favourite songs and movies. Jo-Anne’s list surprised me in how many of her choices were real heartbreaking, sad sad songs, often bluesy, that burrowed through to my bone. But what a pleasure to share that and she’d play the songs on Spotify on her phone and if I particularly liked any I’d write them down to fit into one of my many many playlists (all mood oriented). As I’ve written this, I have listened to Solomon Burke sing 'Cry to me’ repeatedly. The timbre of his voice makes me shimmy in my seat, the way he sings certain words just speaks to my soul, to a primal part of me that doesn’t emerge very often. I don’t think I’ll ever tire of listening to it! That song will forever remind me of today, sitting at Jo-Anne’s glass table under the red umbrella drinking earl grey tea sharing music with the lake breeze blowing our hair across our faces. A delightful late summer’s day with a treasured friend. Day 243 #365daysofsybwriting #365daysofhaiku Rain and wind battered scorched by heat, mired in mud re-hang the sunshine Day Nine Wild Musings with Renee Magnusson
What do you know? What is your particular brand of magic and genius? Trigger warning: mentions of death and after life In response to my last post Renee wrote: 'I also know that we know what we know even if there is no explanation for it.' Empowering words. Then the prompt for the next day’s musings was ‘What do you know?’ Lol. I didn’t have time that day (or the following ones!) to do more than take phone notes so this is a mishmash of the last few days but in the same way it’s also timeless. Lately, because of Autumne and the dragonfly, the emphasis has been on visitations (let’s call them that. I never considered that as the word to call them but it does nicely. Thank you, Renee and others who called them that.) They always surprise me. A psychic jolt. Always unexpected and often not people I’d expect to hear from. So that particular brand of magic is front and foremost all the way through these musings. The first one I noticed enough to remember was in 2008 (I just checked a poem I’d written at that time to get the year). One of our clients, Fred, died tragically and accidentally at work. He was mid- to late-twenties. I can’t remember exactly how old he was except far far too young. A bunch of co-workers and myself went to his funeral. But due to a devastating mismanagement of communication and an innate need to blame someone, we were blamed at the funeral if not directly for Fred’s death then for the tardiness in letting his family know. Fred was indigenous and his family lived in a northern fly-in community and they found out about his death from a band member long before our company management reached them. Management’s delay was inexcusable and cast shadows of suspicion but the hurt at the funeral (not from Fred’s immediate family) deflected from the focus on Fred and his life. He had been someone I loved working with, tremendously shy but funny, sensitive and observant. Driving home with another co-worker, in my mind I worried about Fred especially with all the circumstances surrounding his death and family upset. Was he okay? The minute I thought that, a huge crow was buffeted by the wind almost swooping into the windscreen of the car ahead. I gasped and followed the crow’s flight to make sure it was okay. A band of white spanned each wing as it flew up into a birch and nestled there looking down at us. The most amazing sense of calm and peace washed over me. Fred had given me his answer. I shared this with my co-workers, especially the one who had been working when Fred died and who had tried to revive him. Not only did they believe me but it seemed to bring a snippet of healing to everyone. So in a way perhaps that is the magic of my knowing, of reassuring or somehow comforting others as well as myself. When I was about 7 or 8, a favourite ‘aunt’ died. Aunt Mary. She was my Nanna’s best friend, not a blood relation but I saw her fairly often and liked her. She was very traditionally religious and gave me many biblical books. Mam didn’t always agree with Aunt Mary’s forcefulness and degree of devotion but I was always allowed to investigate any religion or belief that interested me. And because of the push in junior school re Christianity and because I loved hymns and because I knew in my soul of souls that there was something somewhere, I called it God. When Aunt Mary died, I felt sad and I needed to know that she was safe in ‘heaven’ so I demanded her to do certain tricks to prove to me that she was in heaven. “Push this ball down the stairs.” “Make the curtain move.” I was a very bossy child! But nothing happened, ever. My faith was shaken and whereas I knew there was something, I just knew, I no longer believed in God and heaven specifically. Today I call that something Spirit. It has only been quite recently that I have linked this memory to the visitations. Sometimes I feel like I only have a baby toehold in this world. For as long as I can remember I’ve been able to sense ghosts/spirits (even though it often terrified me!) and remember when I was 12 or so reading a book at a table in the library about encounters with ghosts. My skin prickled as the sensations listed in the book validated what I had felt and experienced over and over again. In a similar way I can be randomly psychic, knowing for sure when a thing will work out or when I’ll win something. I know that Scotland lives in my bones, as does the wild of the North Yorkshire moors and oh! heather. I know that I’m nervous about visiting the east coast of Canada in case I never return because it has totally bewitched me even though it so often beckons. (I also know the winter weather there would beat me down…those ice storms!) I know I can tell stories and have been able to for forever it feels like. Writing, in particular, is my biggest and strongest connection to others. I also can generally recognise connections with people, sometimes even foretelling who will be important in my life, and can maintain that connection, at least in my part, even if I don’t correspond regularly with that person. I don’t need ‘regular’ touchstones to feel close to someone and can pick up a friendship even decades later as if there’d been no break timewise. I don’t have to physically meet someone to establish a deep and meaningful relationship with them. It is simply enough to know that they are there in this world. I consider writing and mixed media painting as my passions. If something truly interests me, I have to find out as much as I can about it. I remember Dad saying how he envied this trait in Mam and myself. If I’m truly interested in something I can discuss it endlessly (can you tell? Lol) and often catch onto things and understand them quickly but only if I’m interested! When I was pregnant my doctor used to ask me (not sarcastically but in a truly interested way) what I’d learned since our last visit. She was always open to what I’d share. That’s a sweet memory. I loved that doctor. Irony and nudges from the universe fascinate me and I’m forever seeing and seeking associations between things to form reassuring webs. I know that I often appear invisible to others, especially if I don’t want to be noticed, yet I hold their stories. I know I can converse with and usually understand all my pets to a certain degree. Sometimes other animals and others’ pets too. People have said that I’m kind and responsive, especially when others are struggling or in grief. I’m learning to know and trust that I can rely and act on my impulse/instincts in these situations and they generally bring at least momentary comfort. I used to hold myself back and still prefer to be as anonymous as possible. I know how to hear the unsaid things. Day 242 #365daysossybwriting #365daysofhaiku Full night’s sleep at last! Joy and love slip into dreams belly and heart full Thank you for reading. What do YOU know? Instinctively, deep in your marrow? Celebrate YOU! Day Eight Wild Musings with Renee Magnusson
What do you want more/less of? What can you let go of? I want more dragonfly moments but even to write that feels greedy. What I’ve had is magical. I’ve decided to call them that now—dragonfly moments—because of the magical sound to it. And because of the dragonfly my friend Autumne sent recently (two days after she died) to say thank you and to let me know she was okay. I’ve made myself vulnerable several times telling people about them and I know not everyone gets it. I try to listen to my gut as to who might be receptive and I question why would I need/ why do I want to tell them? I know it’s such an honour that it so often happens to me after someone has died. I am acutely aware that many people may crave that connection (and perhaps ‘deserve’ it more ie they’re much closer to the person who died) yet never receive it so I don’t want to isolate or hurt anyone by recounting my experiences. Often it draws out a conversation, almost an admission, that others have had similar experiences. So it becomes validating for us both. One of my poems for my poetry group this month was called ‘Notice’ and was about this dragonfly moment. I emailed it to our group on Tuesday. Yesterday morning one of our members, Mary, emailed me back saying that one of her cousins had died in Ireland a couple of days ago and that Mary appreciated the poem, that it helped her adding ‘no dragonflies (yet)’. I replied suggesting she be on the lookout for ‘things’…feathers, butterflies, dragonflies and I recounted my experience with one friend who sent a hawk complete with prey in its talons. It smacked up against my living room window and I raced to the door to see that it was okay. It was. Then it flew up onto the birdbath, fluffy white prey still in its talons, gathered itself and flew a few feet away to the tangle of lilac branches and began to devour the prey. I felt that familiar twinge in the pit of my stomach and I knew. ‘Lynn’. This was my friend Lynn all over. Dramatic and in my face. I smiled. It was so her. Lynn was actually my dear friend Bethe’s mom but Lynn was one of my biggest fans re writing and we had a good relationship over time. I messaged Bethe and told her that I thought her mom had just sent me a hawk. Bethe immediately messaged back. “Yep. That sounds like her!” As I was messaging with Bethe, the hawk left. I knew this because it smacked into my window again (again totally fine, no recovery time needed this time) before flying away. I had to laugh: Lynn always bigger than life. Anyway, I didn’t tell Mary all that in my email (I get so excited recounting these visits that I got carried away. Sorry!) but just suggested that she may get a nudge from a different creature. Yesterday evening I got another email from her which said that she thought my poem had been her dragonfly as she had carried it around with her all day as it had actually been her cousin’s funeral yesterday. Mary said my poem couldn’t have come on a better day and couldn’t have been more significant. I’m so glad I didn’t hesitate in sending it. Today I had a delicious take out lunch at a picnic table in the Marina with my lovely friend, Lisa. (I realise I want more walks by water and meet ups with friends outside) We hadn’t seen each other since last year so had lots to catch up on. Lisa is a sweetheart who totally takes me as I am. One time we were going to lunch but a counselling session the day before suddenly seemed to hit me hard and when she came to get in my car I was heaving with sobs. But no matter, we had lunch together and both of us ended up crying over missing our moms. (I want more in town friends who let me be me and who get me) Anyway, after lunch Lisa and I sat on a bench facing Lake Superior, a soft breeze blowing our hair, and I told her about Autumne. I was setting the scene with the dragonfly for her: “Dad was sitting beside me.” I pointed to my right. “And Sandy was sitting across the table.” I flapped my hand in front of me. “I got this feeling in the pit of my stomach to notice what was about to happen. And out of the corner of my eye I could see a small dragonfly hovering over there.” I pointed to ‘over there’ and as I did, a beautiful big dragonfly flew in exactly the space I was pointing to and hovered. We both laughed. Then it flew away as I continued with my story. I remembered that others had mentioned Autumne’s terrific sense of humour. I really didn’t know Autumne that well but I call her my friend (and she called me her friend too) because we just had a connection. I have no idea who was messing with Lisa and I today but it was so funny. And I realised that my dragonfly moments could also refer to laughter. I need oh so much more laughter in my world. When I got home after our lovely visit, that moment lingered with me, making me smile. And I still laugh, even writing this. Yes, much more laughter. Whoa! As I was just finishing this up, my computer crashed. Okay, I’ll have much less of that! Even if I didn’t lose anything, that does not classify as funny. Just putting that out there! Day 237 #365daysofsybwriting #365daysofhaiku Fine china, silver she brings to the picnic her friendship priceless *my list is so much longer of wanting more and wanting less but this is where my writings took me today so I take that as the main musing. Day Seven Wild Musings with Renee Magnusson
Pay attention to “Can I say that?” My first “Can I say that?” moment came minutes after I read Renee’s prompt this morning. One of my writer friends had emailed her poems to be critiqued for our poetry group’s upcoming meeting and in it she mentioned her mother’s celebration of life coming up on Saturday. ‘Maybe some day I will share the poem I wrote for the event’ she wrote. My heart went out to her and I immediately wrote her back then I paused at the end of the email. I felt nothing but love for her. But do I sign ‘love’ or not? Ugh. This drives me nuts. I am a love and kisses kind of gal (I am more reserved with men and of course with business stuff). But I know I can come across as overbearingly gushy and mushy. Or I imagine I can. Perhaps inappropriately so. I don’t want to make anyone feel uncomfortable. But it’s hard to rein that in for me. A triple Pisces, my emotions spill out all over the place. Reining in what’s natural and debating over it like this can take up so much energy! A ridiculous amount. I could have taken a bit of a cop out by inserting a heart emoji (always another dilemma for me!) but in the end, fired by Renee’s prompt, I wrote ‘Love, Sue’ at the end of the email. She didn’t write ‘love’ back but her return email brimmed over with appreciation for my concern and love. Writing love although not a usual way of us responding to each other felt right for me this morning and I felt glad that I'd written it. Today I was meeting an old friend for a take out lunch at a park. She is scheduled for a second biopsy on Thursday. As I was eating breakfast, I noticed the two beautiful miniature rose bushes that Rob had brought home the other day. The last few days I’ve been given the roses, house plants, outdoor violets and two pots of mums from various people. My friend would love the rose. But could I give her that, a gift meant for me, a re-gift in a way? Did it seem cheap? All ready to leave to pick up our lunch, I paused with my key in the lock. I hadn’t picked up the rose. I stood on my front step, remembering today’s prompt, thinking “Can I say that?” Words are not the only way to say things. I figured she would understand and I went back inside and brought the rose. Before she even knew what it was, I told her the whole story: Renee’s prompts, Rob’s gift meant for me, pausing at the door. She smiled and shook her head. I enjoyed teasing her with not knowing what it was but when I gave it to her, she had tears in her eyes. And later she sent me a photo of where she’d put it in her apartment. So pleased with it. Again, my emails to her ended with ‘Love, Sue’ and she didn’t end hers with love, but again I could feel her affection and love in every word she wrote and in the thoughtfulness of her photo. Sometimes I feel vulnerable writing ‘love’ especially if it doesn’t seem reciprocated. It feels minuscule to even write that. Boundaries of course. I do my best to observe the boundaries of others and to establish my own but my energy feels so much freer, less sticky and thwarted, if I succumb to the love or hearts or kisses if that is my first impulse. My son Dane and I are very affectionate this way; I love you is a constant end to a text, message or phone call. When we’re together, spontaneous hugs are the norm. Once when I was visiting him I explained how when I was growing up I don’t remember our family being very demonstrative. The first time I remember seeing my parents touch other than dancing was when I was easily 8 or 9 years old, maybe even older, and we were racing across a busy road and Dad grabbed my hand and Mam’s hand and we all ran across together. As soon as we reached the other side of the road, he dropped our hands. Yet, I had stumbled in on them being lovey-dovey towards each other one day. So it was there, just hidden. And ‘I love you’s were never heard although Mam and my Nanna who lived with us (Mam’s Mam) were warm and loving. On hearing all this Dane said, “Oh we weren’t like that at all.” “Exactly,” I replied. “I made sure we weren’t.” Today Dane is one of the most openly demonstrative, warm, loving people I know. It makes me proud that he can be like that, that he can ‘say’ all that so easily. The prompt today reminded me to do something I’d been meaning to do for a while. Rob has had these medical issues lately and whereas I tell everyone in case I/we need support (and because I’m needing support through it as it stands), Rob doesn’t believe in big fusses or worrying people unnecessarily and he hasn’t mentioned any of it to his family. A few days ago he told me that he’d gotten a message from one of his daughters, Nessa, saying that she was checking in on him because she’d had a weird dream that involved his health and getting lots of voice messages on the phone. Rob had reassured her that everything was all right but didn’t validate her intuition. To him that would have involved a more complex conversation and concern and fuss. But I told him that I felt compelled to tell Nessa that her intuition was bang on (I had awakened to a few phone messages last week after Rob had gone to emergency). He shrugged, not really understanding and I wrestled with my thoughts for days, not wanting to alarm Nessa, staying true to Rob’s wishes yet validating her intuition which I feel is incredibly important. Today I asked myself, “Can I say that?” Finally I did in a way that although puzzling to her in its vagueness wasn’t alarmist or betraying to Rob’s wishes. Intuition and finding connections like that are a big source of light in my days and I feel they can be in the lives of others too. So my love language is words. But Rob’s is acts. (I can’t remember the exact name of the categories) I remember expressing to him years and years ago how I didn’t feel his love. I hurt him. He looked shocked. “How can you say that? I do all these things for you…” And he reamed off a huge list of things and I found myself adding more. “But you don’t tell me much,” I lamented. “I show you,” he replied. And when I found that test that tells you your love language and we did it, sure enough mine was verbal/written expressions of love (and oh boy am I a sucker for them!) and his was demonstrating love by actions. It helps so much to realise that. My first husband won me over by leaving fat letters under the wipers of my VW Bug. Letters he wrote to me during his down time at work, poems he penned just for me. Despite friends (mutual friends even) warning me away from him, despite me knowing troubling stuff he’d done and said, his words won me over. In his very first letter he wrote one of the most touching and heartfelt poems I think I’ve ever read. He ended the poem saying not all the words in the poem were his (some were an echo of the song ‘Words’ by the Bee Gees) but he was sincere: words were all he had to give. Were they enough? What could I say? Apparently they were. At least for that time. A memory with no regret. And today, through love written and said and shown, I feel I’ve expressed what needed to be expressed without regret through my day. Perhaps I’m learning. Day 236 #365daysofsybwriting #365daysofhaiku I brought two muffins but leave with plants, books and food arms and heart filled full *Warning: long and rambly. Thank you in advance for attempting to read. Day Six of Wild Musings with Renee Magnusson What did you forget that you need to remember? This morning I woke up clinging to a memory. No idea of my dreams but I knew the memory had emerged from my feelings of being on the inside looking out yesterday afternoon, of feeling excluded even if by choice. While neighbours chatted in the street, I hid myself away behind all the trees in my back yard with a word puzzle book, one of my favourite summer things to do, the thing that gets me out into the fresh air and keeps me there when I’m low on energy. I didn’t want to be visible out on the street. I didn’t want the neighbours to include me in small talk but I envied their ease in doing so as I heard them and peeked out through the front screen door. Guess I took that image to bed with me because the memory I woke up with was from a summer holiday in 1972 when I was 11. Mam and Dad and I were staying in a farmhouse bed and breakfast in Wales. We shared breakfast and dinner/supper with the other people holidaying there at the same time. One family consisted of two parents and a girl, a few years older than me and the dishiest boy I had ever seen. Shiny black hair, long eyelashes and deep brown eyes. Adrian. Even his name made me swoon. Adrian, I discovered, was a year older than me. We shared shy secret smiles that made my stomach flip and sometimes we’d wink at each other. Even as I dreamed about him during the day, my stomach still flipped. Oh that feeling! Sue, his sister, was super friendly but I’m not sure if Adrian and I even talked much. He wore a Tilly-like hat and filled it with badges of everywhere he went. I begged my parents to buy me a similar hat and badges of every town we visited so we had our hats in common and compared badges. One evening, halfway through our week’s stay there, I noticed Sue and Adrian playing in the garden. I sat on a window seat, a floor above them and watched, loving their laughter but when Sue glanced up at our window, I ducked behind a curtain. I knew they had seen me though as their game became silly and they’d ham it up then look up to see if I’d noticed. Sue beckoned and yelled at me to join them but I always shook my head. My parents encouraged me to play with them but I stayed stuck in the room behind the window, watching and laughing along with them night after night. Always too shy and awkward to go into the garden to play. Until our final night there and I did go into the garden. They included me immediately and Sue got permission for us all to go on a walk around the fields and hills behind the farmhouse. We shared secrets and fears and our lives, the three of us as we wandered around. Sue got Adrian to stand guard for us girls as we went pee a few trees apart and Sue instructed me on how to squat so my knickers didn’t get wet. We exchanged addresses and promises to write and keep in touch. On the long drive home the radio broke my heart time and time again by playing “Breaking Up Is Hard To Do” by The Partridge Family. And I wondered why I had waited so long to meet them in the garden. Looking back, I think more evenings with them might have dissolved my crush on Adrian and I loved that stomach flip feeling too much to lose it. We did share letters when we all got home but Adrian mentioned something about a toy box which turned me right off him although I still chose to remember our shy secret smiles and winks. But perhaps the time of year and that feeling of being inside and looking out, feeling excluded even by my own choice, made me remember Sue and Adrian this morning, even before I read Renee’s prompts. After reading Renee’s prompts, another memory surfaced: of a solitary Sunday walk through the streets of my town when I was about 13. I loved walking through the cemetery with its old sandstone walls and tall twisty-trunked trees and eroding gravestones (we had no yard) but I also walked around the streets. This one day a boy walking with an Alsation/German Shepherd somehow caught up with me. He was funny, a year older than me, and we walked for hours around parks and streets and across a bridge over a road which made his dog slink lower and lower until we got safely across. The boy's name was Dave and we talked easily and laughed and laughed. We held hands and kissed and the world swam and swayed. He went to my school and he asked me out. But I told him no; my dad would kill me for walking around with a boy I didn’t know (Dad, especially was super strict—I realise writing this now it may not appear that he was but my curfews were ridiculous and he really was very strict!). But Dave still went right out of his way to walk me safely home although I wouldn’t let him walk me to the door even when he offered to talk to Dad. Dave and I looked out for each other at school and smiled and said hi but over time the magic disappeared…as I write this I remember purposely passing his house a few times with my friends, thinking maybe I became a little obsessed with what I missed. Despite all that, I have this memory that resurfaced today, this nudge of connection. If I look back without regret the memories sparkle more. Oh! An aha moment. They feel more free. I can accept them easier without cobwebby feelings, the emotion I felt in the actual kernel of the memory is crystal clear. Interesting. I even sat straighter as I wrote that. A memory surfaced too of a moment with Harv, devoid of all that happened after and all that came before, separate from the terrible decision I had to make. Of one night when the woman across the street who everyone was scared of but who had taken a shine to me and my son gave us some freshly caught white fish. And Harv and I, who had no money, fried that fish in a cast iron pan and feasted and all that existed was sharing the delicious fried fish with each other that one moment in time. Nothing else in the world mattered. I sometimes forget that moment, that feeling, but the immediacy of it is important. Again, holding it up and shaking all the regrets of the 5 ½ year relationship off it, make the moment prominent and make it sparkle. If time cannot be wasted, that moment reminds me to treasure the simplicities, that even when things look scary and worry threatens to overwhelm, we can still savour the now, this precise moment. What is right in this moment? What do we have right now in front of us? The feeling of having nothing and then unexpectedly having a delicious meal reminds me that I can be strong, that somehow things can work out, that I can revel in the moment and not always be worrying about tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. Music, emotions and smells are terrific for me for dredging up memories. When I hear “Breaking Up Is Hard To Do” I’m 11 again with my face pressed up against the back window of our car dreaming about Adrian. As I reach the end of my day and I ponder my ‘wasted’ time of being outside doing word puzzles that no one else cares about, I remember the first summer after I graduated from university. I had forgotten that. I actually wanted to read again. I had missed reading for fun during all the college and university days so this summer when all the forced book learning was behind me, I decided to get a slew of books from the library, mainly biographies, and sit in the shade in the backyard and read. Just for fun. Just because I could. Just because nothing else was pressing except the warmth and laziness of a summer afternoon. And I realise now, that in sitting outside doing word puzzles while the rest of the world passes by, I’m honouring that freedom: having choices. No regret and no such thing as wasted time. Day 235 #365daysofsybwriting #365daysofhaiku Favourite tea towel stained red by onion skins reframing love Image description: a cotton tea towel with a printed picture and quote on it. The picture is of a stack of two books, one red and one green with a tea cup full of brown liquid on top. Coming from the cup is a cloud of a red stain which looks exactly like it's coming from the cup. This was accidental but it is what inspired today's haiku. It looks magical. Make a wish!Oh and the quote on the tea towel is from C.S. Lewis and it says: You can never get a cup of tea large enough or a book long enough to suit me. Day Five: One moment at a time
Wild Musings with Renne Magnusson 6:15a.m. I do a double take at the end of my 10 hour midnight shift as a psw to people with mental or physical challenges. Shelly’s mermaid hair is braided down her sweaty bare back as I help her into the shower but one long strand has fallen loose and coiled into a loopy heart. I describe it to Shelley and we talk about how now she’s going into the shower and it’ll be lost without anyone else ever seeing it. “But I did,” I told her. “And I told you so now you know and you can carry that in your heart all day and share it with whoever you want. Or no one at all. But you know it existed.” 7:10a.m. I drive pass a park blanketed with fog. That’s a cliché but really is the best way to describe it. I feel thankful for the moisture it’ll provide. 7:15a.m.ish I check on my Dad and step-mom’s house on my way home to pick up the mail and drop off a new book from a friend and local author while they are out of town. Scraps of mist hide in shady garden pockets. Sandy has highlighted things in silver: a ceramic bird’s beak and tail, birds on an iron sculpture and the top of a lantern hanging from a lilac tree. Silver highlights shimmer in the red sunrise. I pick up a book Dad has left for me. It fits comfortably in my hands, its spine well-creased, its pages soft, almost to the point of furring. 8:00a.m. onwards I chat with my hubby, Rob, who is just waking up on the couch where he always sleeps. He had been to emergency last night for an ever-expanding sore on his shin. He’d waited for 2 weeks for an ‘urgent’ biopsy through the doctor but was told the wait list is taking a month so the doctor recommended he go to emergency. He spent hours at emergency and fills me in on what happened. Bottom line: he had a biopsy and he has medicinal honey slathered on his shin and wrist, wrapped in a bright white netted bandage, startlingly white against his dark Asian skin. He shows me with his thumb and forefinger how much medicinal honey the nurse put on. Twice. “It must be expensive stuff,” he says. He tells me he stopped to pick up eggs and humus. I perk up at humus. He is the grocery shopper and we haven’t had humus in forever. In the kitchen I search for it. He picks up a pumice stone. “See?” “I thought you said humus. That’s disappointing. I was excited for humus.” “Pumice. Exciting for our feet.” He says it Canadian: poomis. My British accent says it pewmis but my humus is hoomus just like Rob’s. I laugh at the mistake, at our talking cross-purposes, and spend the rest of the time before I go to sleep saying humus and pewmis and poomis to myself. And I feel comforted by medicinal honey which sounds earthy and natural and not at all what I expected from the hospital and I imagine it sloughing off all the crusty bits of his sore as he works at his dusty desk in the accounting office. A shin full of medicinal honey. Not the worst way to begin a day. 10:15a.m. I revel in the lightness of the purple sheet over me as I set the alarm for 12:45a.m. and feel the wafts of already warm air from the fan. Trains and planes and neighbourhood chainsaws have already started so I put in my earplugs. 1:15p.m. I wake up and pee, realise I’ve slept through the alarm and even if I could wake up now I’ll have missed most of the live full moon ceremony for Moonshine 2021 cos my computer takes longer to wake up than I do. I slide back under the sheet, careful not to nudge my tortie cat off the bed. I’ll have to catch Effy’s replay. She’s terrific like that. 4:30p.m. I’m angry. Two minutes later! It feels like just two minutes since I snuggled into the pillow. But no, three hours. A good sleep then. Never long enough when I work midnights but then that’s my fault. I fight it, pushing myself beyond feeling sleepy to feeling like I will never need sleep again as long as I live. Phone messages about a specialist appointment for Rob on Monday. The woman’s voice, the timbre, has the kindness of everyone’s favourite grandma and she (her name is Diane) speaks my name as though we’ve been friends forever. I feel, again, comforted by the direction of this unexpected journey. Day 232 #365daysofsybwriting #365daysofhaiku Silver-topped lantern hangs between lilac branches misty morning guide Day Four: Wild Musings with Renee Magnusson
What gives light to the dark places? Yesterday when I was in the kitchen I noticed a sudden flurry of sparrows fly close to the back window. Unusual. I checked it out. Six sparrows were perched on the edge of the cats’ water dish, drinking the water. No cats around. No people around. They didn’t notice me at the screen door so I watched them for several minutes. The dish, a plastic moss-green Tupperware bowl, seemed made for them to perch on. Every so often one or two would fly away and others land or hop up. A couple squabbled, all flapping wings and squawks. One hopped onto the multi-coloured stone in the middle and ruffled its chest in the water even though I have a bird bath out front. When they took a drink and paused, looking around, the water drops on their beaks glistened in sunlight. I could have watched them all day but a neighbour drove into their yard and all the sparrows flew away in a single whoosh. I memorised the details, searching for the right word for the jewel of water from their beaks. A pearl? Maybe but not quite. I’m a poet at heart and knew I’d just witnessed a poem. A Mary Oliver moment. A moment full of light where anything I might have been troubled about didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but being in that moment, watching and absorbing it all. Cementing it into a poem would come later. But how to describe that drop of water? A pearl? Maybe? Later that evening my hubby and I met up with one of his daughters visiting from out of town and his son and two of our grandchildren. We hadn’t seen each other for over a year and Mae who is 8 rushed up to me and gave me the biggest hug. A real adult kind of hug, tight where you don’t let go and give little squeezes throughout. My stepson later described her as ‘an old soul’. Absolutely. But after that hug she again became a little girl in a magenta ruffled skirt wearing a Ninja Turtle mask. At dinner Mae proudly confided to me, “I’m wearing pearls, look.” And indeed she was—a single strand of pearls hung around her neck. Maybe the word pearl would work after all. I imagine a story of birds daring to drink water from the cats’ dish on the hottest day of the year to gather pearls to make a pretty necklace for an old soul of a little girl. And I have moments of light to revisit. I write a haiku everyday with a somewhat accompanying picture, a practice which forces me to look for the little moments in a day that matter. They’re not always light, but overtime they shine a light into my life: day by day by day, moment by moment by moment. I also write a gratitude journal every day: 5 things I’m grateful for that day. Then, because that can become stale and rote, 3 things that made that day unique (these do not necessarily have to be ‘light’ things) and finally a ‘big win’ for that day. If nothing else this practice helps me think about my day and again helps me to notice what is happening throughout the day. Not every day has a big win but again it becomes a practice that forces me to seek out the brighter spots in a day. Sometimes it can be rewatching favourite movies, listening to my Spotify playlists (I swear I have a list for every mood!), reading poetry (writing poetry, haiku or pretty much anything), painting, going for a walk in nature, puzzles under umbrella shade…some days, like yesterday, bring enough light to carry me through prolonged dark. They are the pearls. Day 231 #365daysofsybwriting #365daysofhaiku Pet sitting black cat yellow crescent moon eyes beg me to stay Day three of my Wild Musings with Renee Magnusson.
What an enlightening day! I miss many of the usual things and people but I found my 'missings' kept returning to my paternal Nanna and Grandpop's house: the little green-painted stool in their back hallway, painted so many times with thick paint over thicker paint that the little grab hole in the centre became smaller and smaller each time; reading cross-legged on the floor on their upstairs landing in front of the floor to ceiling airing cupboard piled high with musty old comic books and annuals that my dad read as a boy; crawling under the floor length net/lace curtains to gaze out the landing window and look down at my white-haired Nanna standing by the black wrought iron gate gossiping with head-scarved neighbourhood women ; at Nanna and Grandpop's playing with Judy, my aunt's childhood doll. I always had to ask specially to play with her as she was very old, even older than my aunt, and she was a delicate doll with a porcelain head and and hands and feet but with a delightfully soft body made of sawdust perhaps? Something lovely and soft. I loved all dolls but especially Judy. Her hands and feet curled like a baby's so she could never stand up or walk but she could be cuddled endlessly, a pleasing, droopy weight in my arms which made me feel immediately protective towards her. I always wanted to take Judy home to play with her but I never could. She was old and I was young and I was told that I had to leave her there for my other much younger cousins and especially my aunt's children. But looks had passed between adults over my head and I sensed there was something more to it all, something I was missing. I felt excluded I guess although I had no idea why. The reasons were given were reasonable and logical to my child's mind but my child's senses had picked up on something murky. So today, thinking about things I missed, my thoughts and feelings returned continually to my Nanna and Grandpop's house. Puzzling. Why? Some things that popped up, that stool for instance, hadn't crossed my mind in decades. I puzzled over it for hours as I went about my day, trying to be open to what was surfacing. Finally I understood. Seven years ago when I was 53 and Mam had been dead for 9 months, I found out completely out of the blue and 'by accident' that my dad was not my biological father as I had believed and been told all these years. I felt stupid--that was my first reaction. How could I not have known? I'd had suspicions from time to time but was always convinced otherwise. Of course my dad was still my dad, moreso really--he had wanted and accepted me--and his story with Mam was touching and full of love. But when I told him that I knew, we rode a highly emotionally charged roller coaster for several days. He was furious that I had found out the truth. I understood why the lie and had immense compassion for Mam especially but my world was deeply shaken. And I understood that look. Judy belonged in the bloodline family. So today, when my thoughts kept returning to Nanna and Grandpop's house, Dad's parents, and I finally understood why, I realised what I was missing: I miss what I thought was the rock solid security of my childhood, of not knowing what I now know about my birth. I miss not knowing that I was being lied to and misled for all those years. Day two of my Wild Musings with Renee Magnusson.
I am obsessed with corgis. I just love them. They make my heart sing. I haven't had any in my adult life (opting for rescues and not finding corgi-crosses) but I grew up with two and, as an only child, considered them, along with our Siamese cat, as siblings. Their floofy butts. Their smiling faces. Their waddling walk. The eldest of the two we had, Kim (male), was completely loyal to me unless there was food handy. He was a plump ginger and white corgi and he sat by me for endless hours as I crouched on the stairs weeping and wailing, "No-one loves me except Kim!" This usually after I hadn't gotten my own way for something. When he left if he thought he heard food, my lament became "No-one loves me. Not even Kim!" But Kim always returned so I could hug him and bury my head in his short fur. On walks up the hills with my parents he used to corral me by running quick circles around my feet so I couldn't walk if I went out of sight of my parents. Kim lived to be 13, he'd been with me since I was 2 and my heart broke when we had to let him go. Decades later I visited a psychic who told me that I had a spirit guide, a mutli-coloured dog who I once knew. Kim! I immediately wanted it to be Kim. So why not? I felt protected and reassured. Another decade or more later and a different medium told me that a dog had come running as soon as I sat down. She had trouble describing his colour...not really brown, not reddish, some white...could it be like a ginger colour? I asked. "Yes! Ginger. You know this dog?" I explained about Kim being a spirit guide. "A dog as a spirit guide? Hhmm...why not?" Why not indeed. Rainbows that dance across my ceilings and floors fascinate me and lift my spirits. A kind woman I once knew had rainbows all across her living room when the sun shone in and I resolved to create that atmosphere in my own home. Crystals hang from all my windows. Lately I'm obsessed with the dragonfly Autumne sent, the gift of its visit, that jolt in the pit of my stomach before it landed on me, "Notice this!" Why me? Simply as a thank you for being there for her and her family? To let me know she's okay? My hope is that her family and close friends can be similarly reassured. Then I ponder all the other 'afterlife' reassurances I've had, relive each one. I'm obsessed with haiku, with recording my life in little snippets each day, a moment, a pause, a thought. My form of a daily journal. And reading haiku. I gobble it up unabashedly. Moment after moment after moment. I have cupboards and cupboards full of tea of all sorts. Yep. A wee bit obsessed there! I love the act of tea making even though I drink mine super weak and the comforting smell of it (all kinds) and how tea equals care for me. When I was growing up if ever someone needed to chat, the kettle always went on and a cuppa was shared. But I am also obsessed with my turquoise water bottle. And I carry it with me everywhere. It's the same style and colour as the one my son loaned me when we visited him in Arizona last year. I bought it from Amazon as soon as we got home: turquoise for me and purple for my hubby. Apart from that link, it resembles self care to me, makes me feel like I'm doing something nurturing for myself by drinking at least 2 bottles full each day. I had gotten super sick before that trip and a friend recommended drinking lots of water so I link the beginning to feel almost human again with drinking water. Then there's incense, especially nap champa, and fancy soaps (patchouli but also florals and Karma from Lush) and violet scented things like those violet candies (permaviolet? Am I making that up?) from when I was a kid. So many obsessions! So many rabbit holes! What are YOUR obsessions? Indulge them! As promised, this is day one of my Wild Musings with Renee Magnusson. I wish for open windows with salt air breezes and thin cotton curtains wafting over flowering geraniums and African violets--the tall and the short and the joy of differences. I long for open log fireplaces and heavy wooden beams in winter and a deep mantel with a gleaming carriage clock with twirling parts and chimes every hour. I want wooden plank floors worn smooth by years of bare foot walking. I want to walk along winding paths through wild flowers and a wooden swing from the strongest branch of the tallest oak. I want a porch swing...hell, even the porch for it to sit on. I want kitchen cupboards that smell of tea or rosemary and windchimes and bells inside and out. (I actually already have the windchimes and bells inside and out and delight in accidentally brushing up against them and hearing Rob (my hubby) sometimes say, "Another angel has its wings." But I'll always take more!) I want (need!) an upstairs bathroom and a cleaned-out basement and after reading Renee's list I realise I desperately want useful upstairs closets so I can move the cumbersome clothes rack draped in memories of finding out the truth about my birth out of sight and into the closet! I wish for skylights, starry nights and hideaway lofts. I want to visit Dane and Jonathan (my son and his husband) in Tucson Arizona for the month of March without the threat of a pandemic cancelling or changing our plans. I want to get the pond liner out of my car trunk and clear the brush and revitalise the pond in my back yard. I want to not be overwhelmed by the amount of work I envision in doing this. I want to build a fence where the garage was. I want more of my writing published and to be a well-known and well-respected, even well-loved, author. (There I said it for all to read. Gulp.) And I also dream of this. I want more pairs of tai chi shoes as soft as the ones I already have. And YOU, my dear friend, what do YOU want? 1. For the last two weeks of August, I've enrolled in a course called Wild Musings by the wildly inspiring Renee Magusson ( http://www.reneemagnusson.com/). I'm so excited. I love Renee's unabashed honesty and depth. She will often post 10 things for her blogs (also Effy Wild does this) so I thought I would do this too for my July blog. In August, through the course, I'm hoping to put my 'wild musings' here on my blog. It'll depend what comes up and how public it wants to be. Lol 2. In grabbing Effy's website url, I noted that she lists herself as a soul number 9. I'm a 9 too. Old souls, I think. Been around a while. I was once told by a palm reader that I was an old soul because I have a star on my palm. I like the idea of being an old soul so I look at that star sometimes and remember. 3. Thinking about the number 9 made me think of my house number. This month (as in many months!) the focus has been on my home and yard. I was very conscious of the number of my home in drawing my house for the new moon in July but it wasn't until this moment that I realised that if i take away the 9 that's already there in the house number that leaves 1+2+6=9. Ha! And if I add that 9 to the pre-existing 9 then I get 18. Which of course is 1+8=9! Triple 9 house (in Britain 999 is equivalent to 911 in Canada!) appeals to my triple Pisces soul somehow. My old triple Pisces soul. I've cheated a little on that by removing the original 9 but that's OK. Lol! Below are my new and full moon paintings for July. I actually got them both done this month so that's wonderful. 4. I long to be outside at the moment. The sun is shining and a warm summer breeze is wafting through the open windows, waving the prayer flags that Linda and I made and shared. Once I'm finished this blog, I'll take my puzzle book and sit outside under the umbrella for a while before Rob comes home. Then i have ParaTactics, our poetry group meeting before I go to work for midnights (9pm to 7am--the first of 4 in a row) 5. Speaking of poetry, please take time to check out the incredible poem by Tom Hirons that i copied and stole from Effy on facebook. It's long but it certainly stirred something inside me. It made me cry. It's at the end of this post. 6. Also on the vein of poetry, here are some photos and haiku from my instagram daily post #365daysofsybwriting. Today was day 210. I think you have to click on the haiku and pictures to see them separately. Sorry (at least on my computer!) 7 & 8. Also haiku and pictures. Enjoy. I hope you can read the haiku okay. I wish i knew how to link to my haiku in instagram so you could see it without having an account. 9. This is what I really wanted to write about in my blog this month. I had some sad news a couple of days ago. A writer friend is dying of cancer and her condition recently worsened. No doubt I will write more about her another time. I consider her a dear friend even though we were never friends in a more typical sense. But I don't believe there's such a thing as typical when you have a connection to someone. She has a young family so all of this is even more heartbreaking. The other night, lateish around 11 or midnight, I was trying to process my grief, my sadness. All I wanted to do really was run downstairs and grab the bag of Party Mix i knew Rob had bought me for work and stuff my face with it, stuff all the feelings down that wouldn't really come out anyway, the ones that lodged a tad lower than my throat, my heart probably. Stuff them down even further, bury them beneath all those pretzels, cheesies and chip-like salty things, How many times have I done that in my life? So much loneliness under spoonfuls of peanut butter. I could read and stuff my face and well not forget but deaden or smother those awkward feelings. I didn't go downstairs and get the Party Mix (think that's what it's called. I DO love them!). Instead I sat with my feelings, drank a delicious cup of tea (can't remember what kind now, and ate two sugar free mint toffees before sleep. When i woke up the next morning I felt good that I hadn't succumbed to eating out of wishing to suppress my feelings. And then the tears flowed. Rob gave me a huge hug before work. Don't get me wrong, if I want to eat junk food then i will. This was about recognising what i would be trying to do with the junk food. This relationship with food is something I want to uncover further. I plan to investigate my teen years where my food abuse started. So many changes in general during those years but lots going on for me with emigrating etc. I have a wonderful gentle oracle deck, Gentle Wisdom of the Faerie Realms by Sasha St John, to help me with that. 10. Last thing! This has taken me a lot longer than i anticipated but here we are. The last one is also a haiku and a gorgeous lily from the International Friendship Gardens. Take care of yourself, dear soul. Let your wildness claw itself out and make the most of all your days. SOMETIMES A WILD GOD
by Tom Hirons Sometimes a wild god comes to the table. He is awkward and does not know the ways Of porcelain, of fork and mustard and silver. His voice makes vinegar from wine. When the wild god arrives at the door, You will probably fear him. He reminds you of something dark That you might have dreamt, Or the secret you do not wish to be shared. He will not ring the doorbell; Instead he scrapes with his fingers Leaving blood on the paintwork, Though primroses grow In circles round his feet. You do not want to let him in. You are very busy. It is late, or early, and besides… You cannot look at him straight Because he makes you want to cry. The dog barks. The wild god smiles, Holds out his hand. The dog licks his wounds And leads him inside. The wild god stands in your kitchen. Ivy is taking over your sideboard; Mistletoe has moved into the lampshades And wrens have begun to sing An old song in the mouth of your kettle. ‘I haven’t much,’ you say And give him the worst of your food. He sits at the table, bleeding. He coughs up foxes. There are otters in his eyes. When your wife calls down, You close the door and Tell her it’s fine. You will not let her see The strange guest at your table. The wild god asks for whiskey And you pour a glass for him, Then a glass for yourself. Three snakes are beginning to nest In your voicebox. You cough. Oh, limitless space. Oh, eternal mystery. Oh, endless cycles of death and birth. Oh, miracle of life. Oh, the wondrous dance of it all. You cough again, Expectorate the snakes and Water down the whiskey, Wondering how you got so old And where your passion went. The wild god reaches into a bag Made of moles and nightingale-skin. He pulls out a two-reeded pipe, Raises an eyebrow And all the birds begin to sing. The fox leaps into your eyes. Otters rush from the darkness. The snakes pour through your body. Your dog howls and upstairs Your wife both exults and weeps at once. The wild god dances with your dog. You dance with the sparrows. A white stag pulls up a stool And bellows hymns to enchantments. A pelican leaps from chair to chair. In the distance, warriors pour from their tombs. Ancient gold grows like grass in the fields. Everyone dreams the words to long-forgotten songs. The hills echo and the grey stones ring With laughter and madness and pain. In the middle of the dance, The house takes off from the ground. Clouds climb through the windows; Lightning pounds its fists on the table. The moon leans in through the window. The wild god points to your side. You are bleeding heavily. You have been bleeding for a long time, Possibly since you were born. There is a bear in the wound. ‘Why did you leave me to die?’ Asks the wild god and you say: ‘I was busy surviving. The shops were all closed; I didn’t know how. I’m sorry.’ Listen to them: The fox in your neck and The snakes in your arms and The wren and the sparrow and the deer… The great un-nameable beasts In your liver and your kidneys and your heart… There is a symphony of howling. A cacophony of dissent. The wild god nods his head and You wake on the floor holding a knife, A bottle and a handful of black fur. Your dog is asleep on the table. Your wife is stirring, far above. Your cheeks are wet with tears; Your mouth aches from laughter or shouting. A black bear is sitting by the fire. Sometimes a wild god comes to the table. He is awkward and does not know the ways Of porcelain, of fork and mustard and silver. His voice makes vinegar from wine And brings the dead to life. by Tom Hirons www.tomhirons.com I just want to fill this blog with flowers. Canada has been under a veil of sadness all through June, still absorbing the shock, sorrow and anger of the discovery of 215 plus remains of indigenous children at one of Saskatchewan's residential schools. Plus the more recent news of over 700 unmarked graves of children and adults by another residential school. I like to think that we are listening and learning what we as a nation and individually can do to support our indigenious people, not just today but on a continued basis as we all face this truth together. CBC Radio has dedicated all of today to indigenous artists and activists and elders and speakers and suggests going here https://downiewenjack.ca/ to find out how we can constructively help. Gord Downie was the lead singer of the Canadian band The Tragically Hip and he brought huge awareness to the plight of children in residential schools through his music and work. Chanie Wenjack was a young boy who ran away from a residential school with (I believe) 7 matches and the clothes on his back. In his effort to reach his home, he died. Tomorrow many people and organisations are not celebrating Canada Day in the realisation that the celebration is of colonisation and that Canada, to become a more unifed country, needs to do lots of healing. Effy Wild, for instance, is having two indigenous speakers at 1pm Eastern. The conversations will be hard but the idea is to move beyond the shame and sadness we feel to be called into action or some sort, even if that action is holding space and listening to our indigenous people. There will be a replay of this event too. Time for a beautiful pause (hahaha. My mind typed flower--that is what I meant but my subconscious typed pause) so we can remember to breathe. This incredible peony was in Sandy's garden. Yesterday a boy aged 16 was stabbed to death close to my home, about a 10 minute walk away, the way i always drive home from anywhere, the way i usually drive to anywhere. He died in hospital as a result of his injuries and his 17 year old friend is still in hospital seriously injured (as far as i know). The police arrested the 31 year old man responsible. The whole area was cordoned off yesterday and the city, and especially our neighbourhood grieved. Personally I'm grappling with the feelings that a senseless murder so close to home shakes me up more than a senseless murder across town or in another province or in another country or 215 murders not so long ago. Perhaps we are truly enlightened when we are equally affected by all these instances. In my mind, I know them to be equal and my heart knows this on some level too. Perhaps i just feel more personally responsible for a murder that happens around the corner than one that happens around the world. But again, with true enlightenment, I suggest this isn't so. 'Ask not for whom the bell tolls', right? Through all of this, I still write a haiku a day. It helps ground me and keeps me, a triple Pisces, from drowning in my feelings. Posting some haiku and leaving us with an embroidery I did as a teeenager or in my early 20s. 'Love knows no season.' And now, ironic as it is, I'm off to get my second vaccination. Take good care of yourself so you can take good care of your neighbour. I've gone from a blog post a day to squeezing May's in at 11:30pm on 31st May! To get it posted in time, it'll be mostly pictures. When i finished the blog-along with Effy Wild for April, I missed it. I missed reading the blogs of others and missed writing my own, pondering about it and pulling it all together in my mind. I almost wrote a post halfway through just to use reading others' as a reward. But something else came up. How was your month of May? Mine had some beautiful highs, ending on a heartbreaking note with the discovery of over 200 children's remains from a residental school in Kamloops BC. Effy Wild had a journal jam today and she dedicated the energy raised in the painting to go to healing those directly affected by this sad find, and to all suffering because of residental schools. I did the same, writing in the hair a release and pouring my feelings out. I had forgotten how therapeutic art can be in that way, helping to process hard emotions while also presenting a permenant reminder. This is my Journal Jam painting. I had contemplated the words' Bear Witness' but will probably leave her like this. Brighter notes included Mother's Day and lots of love from my son and step-children, even some of my grandkids got in on the act. Ollie drew a heart and wrote his name on a gift and Maggie drew a lovely card to accompany another gift delivered late at night in our driveway. I love the sentiment: 'Your hart is bigger than a elaphant'. Mid-May also brought the NOWW awards (an annual writing contest that I reguarly enter. It originates here but is an international contest. This year I had 'spectacular wins' as someone told me and I was thrilled. In celebration my stepdaughter Crystal sent the beautiful blue journal and keychain below. The journal came the day before I needed a new gratitude journal. Perfect timing! 23rd Annual Writing Contest Award Winners The Northwestern Ontario Writers’ Workshop is pleased to announce the winners of the 23rd Annual Writing Contest. Short Fiction – Judged by Emily St. John Mandel Sue Blott – “Pretending” Tina Petrick – “Escape from Slugbrook Academy” Cindy Matthews – “The Roach Family” Creative Nonfiction – Judged by Niigan Sinclair Cindy Matthews – “Lost Innocence” Robyn Stronge – “What If” Vera Constantineau – “He and I” Poetry – Judged by Sheri-D Wilson Siobhan Farrell “Winter Thoughts” Morgan Thomas – “Histrionics” Kevin Bezanson (tie) Tanis MacDonald (tie) Haiku – Judged by KJ Munro Sue Blott – “Relationship” Sue Blott – “Nature” Michael Dudley Bill MacDonald Prize for Prose (Fiction) – Judged by Waub Rice JF Foulds – “Beyond Tears” Sue Blott – “Kin” Dorothea Belanger – “Signs” Of course May had many more moods and shades of moods and magical moments and sadder moments but this is my May in a nutshell to try to make the midnight deadline.
Celebrate and embrace your many moods! Today is the last day for April's Artfully Wild Blog Along with Effy Wild. For each blog posted in the facebook group, we read and commented upon 3 other blogs. What a treat! I rarely limited it to 3 comments a day. To have the blogs all laid out was a lovely treat--pick and choose. Time consuming but an amazing experience. I will miss my daily dose of blogging and blog reading. My second time doing this and making it all the way through so very pleased about that. Thank you all for reading and commenting. I'm sorry I didn't reply to your comments. In time I might but the way weebly has it set up for me, it becomes quite ridiculously time-consuming and I often just ran out of time but I appreciated every single comment and read. Thank you! And thank you for sharing your blogs and yourselves and your lives so readily. Your blogs and comments often made it into the pages of my gratitude journal during April. I know gratitude journals aren't for everyone but I love them. They give me focus and a full heart at the end of the day. I've kept them for years...well over a decade...now and have evolved them to include: 5 things I'm grateful for that day; 3 things from the day (FTD) which make that day particularly unique (not always positive things); one word (starred) to help sum up the whole day, the overriiding thing I'm grateful for that day. This all works for me although it may sound tedious. But the deeper delving stops it all from trite and the same old same old. My gratitude journals are always beautiful books that generally have been gifted to me although some I have bought myself and I always use the same lovely book mark that my cherished childhood friend Maggie sent me. We call each other Souley. The other day, my dear friend Teresa from intown, snail mailed me a friendship card and a note. She'll often do this throughout the year even during those times when we can get together. A terrific day brightener and instant mood lifter. Of course gratitude for Teresa, her friendship, presence in my life and the lovely card itself all made it into my gratitude journal for that day. I wanted to share the card's face with you in gratitude to you for reading and for journeying with me. I've felt your presence, love, support and validation and I hope you've felt mine in return. May your heart be filled with love and gratitude. Yesterday we had summer in northwestern Ontario. Plus 17 degrees Celcius. I took it and ran with it. I had to pick up pet supplies from the vets so continued along the highway to Centennial Park on the other side of town. There I chose to walk along the railway tracks, lured by their proximity to the raging river, the sound of rushing water, the sparkling glimpses of churning eddies through the trees. Plus less people walked there. Except for an older man with his old black dog who I surprised after I'd detoured close to the river's edge and discovered curling birch bark which excites me no end. I apologised to the man and the dog and stood back to let them pass and go ahead of me. Then I ambled along at a good distance behind them. I had passed the man sitting with his dog in the shade of a tall pine at the edge of the park when I entered. What a gift they were giving each other on this gloriously sunny warm day. When I left the park, there they were again, sitting in the shade, the man resting his old dog, sitting in a cloud of bluish cigarette smoke. As I walked along the tracks, I realised I was devouring the experience. I couldn't get enough of it. Despite wearing a jacket, I felt like all my pores were wide open, absorbing these surroundings and the gorgeous day. I swear at one point my mouth hung open, drinking in the warm fresh air. A greedy guzzling of the day and the park, so starved for spring. The experience will nourish me for days to come.
Wishing you a day that feeds your soul. I really needed to hear my own haiku this morning. The hope in it. Yesterday seemed like a swirl of emotions for no real reason. My neighbours across the street look like they're moving. I consider them an anchor in the neighbourhood yet here I don't even know if they're really moving---just Andre has been clearing out the garage for over a week now and yesterday a mini U-Haul truck was in their driveway. Moved by a writer friend's post on facebook I wrote a heartfelt message then found out I'd somewhat misinterpreted the situation. Sigh. Well, I think she still felt the love. But I carried the burden of what I believed to be true until I realised my mistake. Then I carried the burden of my mistake. Lol. Sometimes I don't know what to do with myself! I needed to remind myself of one of my favourite Buddhist teachings: Two monks came to a raging river. A woman stood on the same side as them, unable to cross. One of the monks picked her up and carried her across, let her down on the other side. Then the monks carried on their journey. The monk who had witnessed the woman being carried across finally said, "Brother, you know what you did back there? Well, you think it was a noble thing to do but I'm not so sure. We're not supposed to touch women." The other monk replied, "I carried her across the river then forgot about her. Why are you still carrying her?" Wish I could have remembered this yesterday! Lol. But I moved myself out of my mood, my feeling of not getting things done, of being hard on myself, of fretting that I couldn't be close to people if I didn't even really know what was going on in their lives and I watched a great movie ('A Call to Spy' on Netflix. Based on true stories during WW2. Made me realise that while that war was a call to action, this pandemic war is a call for non-action. ) I also went for a short walk to my den. (woods close to home) And took some pictures. I fell asleep last night wondering what my daily haiku, haiku picture and resultant blog would be about today. Maybe the wall colour (teal) and wallpaper border (reminds me of heather) in my bedroom? When I woke up this morning, this haiku arrived fully formed. Exactly what I needed to hear. I love it when our creativity heals ourselves most of all. Perhaps you needed to hear it too today? Even when we think nothing is happening, when we're feeling stuck in muddy feelings or a place of non-action, something could be seeding and growing. Below is a photo of the woods yesterday. Spring here seems to be stalled. I had to search low for the little tree and green growth. But they were there. May your load be light today. |
AuthorWelcome! I'm Sue Blott: a writer of all things, a poet at heart, mom, wife, daughter, step-mom, grandma, tea drinker, tai chi-er, mystic, artist, dreamer...and now a blogger! This is my world. Categories |