EVolution

I Love ....

2012-02-14T20:40:00.001-08:00

I Love

Mypeople - past, present & future

My friends – old, new & yet to be

Long ears

W.I.N.G.S.

Sea glass

Spray paint

Naked trees

Christmas

Journals

The right pen

Sunset

Ebb & flow

Morning Coffee

Afternoon Tea

Long Winter Nights

Emotion

Mercury Beads

Red

Seafood

Adventure

Wrinkles

Baby Anything

Passionate people

Cozy Throws

Stories

Colour

Photography

Humour

Old

New

Water

Eyes

Generosity

Gentleness

Living

BUT ...

2012-02-11T11:38:00.002-08:00

I do sometimes wonder aboutit. My constant need, desire, quest for Organization. The last time that I was not actively inpursuit of that state, I was pre-pubescent - I had nothing to organize.

For the thirty seven yearsthat I have been a homeowner it has been paramount in my thoughts, needs anddesires. It has sucked a lot of hours out of my life. Too many.

That’s kind ofpathetic. What has caused that never-ending, overwhelming need? Why have I not actually felt that I have ever achieved it to my satisfaction in almost four decades. Well, actually I know whyI feel like that – because I have NOT achieved it. In spite of spending a great deal of my life entrenched in that activity and accusations of being the ‘Container Queen’. I have lots of containers. Lots. AndLOTS. And I suspect will buy MORE. Ialso cannot throw away a shoe box or any other box with an actual lid, or evena big can … with a lid. I like lids. Ilike containers. I have lots of stuff toCONTAIN. And labels - I like to LABEL the stuff that I contain.

I had a discussion with Jaewhile we were walking on the treadmill at the gym the other day. It was reminiscent of the times Ihad them in the car, as a captive audience – using the opportunity to do someteaching ... or more accurately, preaching. I couldn't escape. Iwas sharing my plans and goals and current activity with her, which was … ofcourse. She was throwing back ‘Is that REALLY your PRIORITY for your time?’ 'How much of your life are you going to SPEND organizing?' Etc. Etc. Etc. I kept ping-ponging back with ‘But…’ ‘But…’ ‘But ….’ 'But I FEEL better when things are organized. But it zaps my energy when I'm in a messy space. But I cannot move ahead or allow myself to create another mess when I already have one.' But, I suppose the real truth is, I am never going to FINISH with organizing.

Indeed, I know the messagevery well. I’ve heard it more than once before, from other sources than my own self. Years ago, my sister asked whatI was working on and I said ‘First I have to get my studio tooled up andorganized.’ Her reply was: “One of these days you are going to have to STOPorganizing and actually get to WORK.”

Is it my need to containstuff or is it a procrastination tactic of avoidance? Perhaps I should see atherapist. I think they would tell me that I simply have Too Much Stuff. To which I will justify with my ‘But’. "BUT I am a Mixed Media Artist, which meansthat I must have much STUFF to MIX. Youcan’t just mix two things, you must MIX LOTS." ‘Get rid of other Stuff then’, to which I would reply: "BUT I am a Keeper – I MUST KEEP stuff. That’swhat us Keepers do. I have Stuff to Keep and I need Stuff to work with."That’sme.

At this point, therapy or not, it’s highly unlikely I am going to change who I am.

BUT I would like to bea little more organized.

Shoes and Sinks

2012-02-10T11:21:00.000-08:00

I am Canadian. I don’t wearshoes in the house. Mine or anyone else’s. (House that is - if the shoe fits... I just might wear it.) Maybe it’s just arural thing, but lots of people I know would never consider walking into someone’shouse or their own, wearing street shoes. Even if you tell people ‘Leave your shoes on.’, you’ll be met with a‘Are you SURE?’ as they step gingerly in. You should see the entryof our houses during a party, or in our case – any given day. It's a big shoecloset.

So when the first instructionsfor an organizational website that I signed up for in 1999 insisted that ‘putting on your shoes’ was atvery top of the list and an ABSOLUTELY MUST DO, I balked. 'But I don’t ‘DO shoes, I’m Canadian.’I protested. Isimply did not, WOULD not wear shoes in the house. I walk in, take off my shoes and put slipperson. Walking around in the house in shoes feels unnatural. It’s a ‘nest’ thing,a comfort thing. Which I suppose was herwhole point. You’re not supposed to becomfortable, you’re supposed to be WORKING. And she just didn’t indicate just any shoes – theycouldn’t be ‘slip on’ ones – they had to be LACE UP, I-mean-BUSINESS-shoes.

I self righteously fought itfor a bit, then begrudgingly decided to give it a try. It was weird to begin with, but I did feelmore ‘business like’, and I was able to run to the basement or carry somethingoutside without having to stop and put my shoes on. Now, it’s the first thing Ido if I’m on a cleaning mission – I simply cannot clean in slippers. She wasright.

The other thing that I haveremembered from way back then is that you are to always have a clean and shinysink. ALWAYS. Which, if you do, means that you won’t have a pile of dishes init, which is a great start to a decent kitchen. Two simple things that stuck with me and I have thought of a hundred times over the years. I haven't always accomplished the sink thing, but I've thought about it.

I didn’t keep up with theprogram because they were sending me five or six emails every day – a sort ofcheerleader/keeping you on track thing I suppose. My issue was getting control ofmy time and more mail to read was counter productive so I unsubscribed.

The other day, when I lacedmy shoes up and shined my sink, I once again thought of FlyLady and wondered ifit was still around. Indeed she is. Still the same Shoes & Sink message, and lots of other nuggets ofwisdom too. She not only has the website, but FlyLady TV and Radio, and booksand forums, and of course, Facebook with a quarter million ‘Likes’ and almost30 thousand followers on Twitter. Ibetcha lots of them are Canadians, who have also learned it’s okay to wearshoes in the house.

I signed up for it again. I have a separate email account that I use for things like that - groups, newsletters, offers - a sort of 'junk drawer' that I go through at my convenience that isn't mixed in with my personal mail. If I have kept and used two of her suggestions for the past decade, I am sure she's got some other tidbits that will help me on my mission.

Three Strikes

2012-02-08T16:13:00.000-08:00

Okay … I really am losing it. Third thing I’ve done with paint that was wrong, wrong, wrong.

Even a three year old wouldn’t help with this one. Well, actually – maybe they would. The fact that it looked like a massive candy might have garnered points.

I wantedsomething different than the tiles that I had painted – something not sopredictable. I did a big stripe and two little stripes with masking tape. Ittook me ALL day and into the next by the time I got it measured and paintedthree coats. But OMG. My bathroom paintwas accused of hurting one’s eyes – this not only did that but also causedhallucinations. Once again – NOT the look I was aiming for.

It wasgetting dark; I had ten minutes before I was being picked up ... I sloshed a coatof paint over it to get a start on the next day and basically to make myself feel better. Then I noticed that it was orangey and toned the whole thing down so I left it. Ilike it. The reaction I've gotten is: 'Ireally like the backsplash’ – which is a darn sight better than “It hurts myeyes!!!”

Perhaps I’mmoving back to how I used to be able to paint creatively. I used to painteverything I got my hands on and was relatively successful with it. I just haven’t done much of it lately and I have obviously lost my intuition and colour sense.

Afterregaining a little confidence with the wall, I tackled my ugly, non-descriptmirror.

I spray painted it black – left some gold, then dry brushed the redkitchen paint over it. I like it.

It’s about time.

Colouring

2012-02-04T16:05:00.000-08:00

I lovecolour. My business/profession hasalways revolved around it. Light and colour. It’s what I do. It’s what I am.

But for somereason I am grossly inadequate when it comes to picking out paint for thewalls. That is the truth behind why Irepainted the kitchen basically the same colour that it has been for eightyears. Insecurity.

I see in myhead exactly what I want. Most times when I am finished, I amdisappointed. I am true to form thistime.

My entry wasa kind of taupe/gold on anaglyptic wallpaper. I wanted fresher, brighter – I envisioned it that way. I chose ‘softcream’. The woodwork and doors that take up most of the space are painted ‘Motherof Pearl’. For future reference – there isvirtually no difference between Soft Cream and Mother of Pearl. It’s boring. Nopunch. It's not the answer.

The bathroom has been the same way too long. Some kitchen type border spoke to me and since it didn’t suit my kitchen, that’s where it went. A huge note to myself, and anyone else who doesn’t want to give up three days of their life scraping glue residue with a razor blade … leave the border in the store.as been the same way too long.

I am in a ‘fresh-clean’mode. I picture sea glass. My eye was drawn to one chip amidst thehundreds of other blues. It happened to be called ‘Mystic Sea’. Confirmation that it it was definitely the right choice. It's a big change, which is what I wanted. The response, however, was was less than enthusiastic.

Son & Hubby both, every time they opened the door: “Whoa! That's not the room to be in if you have a hangover.” Hubby: “Mygrandmother had that same exact colour in her house in the 60’s. So did myaunt. EVERY house had it.” Me: Ignore. Son: “Are you going to repaint it?” Me: “I’m not sure – I’m living with it forawhile first.” Son: “Aren’t you going tobe embarrassed when your friends come over?” Friend: “It’s very RETRO.” Me: “That is NOT the look I was going for.” Son acouple days later: “It’s actually not so bad.” Me: “Good – I was thinking we might get used to it.” Son: “Yeah, youjust have to leave the lights off when you go in.” (it’s a room with nowindows). I must say, it did shock me every time I went in; it's a very dramatic change.

Just as I wasgoing through paint samples to figure out what I was going to do with it, I gotthe reaction that I was waiting for. It came from my three and a half year oldgrandson. “Wow!!!!” he yelled when he went in the room for the first time. Iwaited for the rest that I had come to expect: “It hurts my eyes.” But instead, he came running out – throwing hishands up in the air and with great enthusiasm proclaiming: “I WUV IT!!!” Me … tentatively: “Really?” Grandson: stillenthusiastically “YES!! I WUV it!! I want MY bathroom THAT blue. My bathroom ISblue, but I like THAT blue better.”

And hence, Ihave discovered the secret of painting – two things. #1 Be patient until you find someone whogives you the reaction and opinion you were hoping for. #2 Invite a three year old over.

Strategy

2012-02-02T15:40:00.000-08:00

I have astrategy for Focus that has been in place for a couple years now that actuallyworks wonderfully.

Myself andtwo friends who have the same burning desire to take control of their life andzero in on what we need/want to accomplish and get ‘er done, formed a … forlack of a better word … ‘support group’.

We choose aneutral spot, not some someone’s home and a specific time frame. We divide the time up with each on having theopportunity to present their goals/plans and strategy for how we’re going totackle that.

It works. Ifonly in the fact that it makes us take the time before the meeting to putthought into our intention. It’s helpingus prioritize. Yes … helping us Focus.

We have peopleto report to. People holding us accountable. People who will say: “What help doyou need to be successful.” We havecheerleaders. We have a bouncing board. It’saffordable, self-directed Life Coaching.

We use andshare different strategies – mind mapping, vision boards – we’re always open tonew techniques. We are also flexible. Wehave watched our plans, so carefully crafted, go totally off in an unexpecteddirection because Life. We’re cool withthat too. We just switch to ‘re-calibrating’ and start planning the new route.

FOCUS

2012-01-31T15:34:00.000-08:00

I did it. Iam DONE. I have, perhaps for the first time ever, rode the train directly tothe station.

Well, I dohave a few little odds and ends – pictures, some furniture, pillows, a fewaccessories – but that doesn’t count - that’s ‘hunting’.

The bones aredone for my three January Rooms.

My missionfor 2012 is to go through every single room in my house and clear the excess. Purgeand edit. Let go. WHOA! Back up. Rewind. Completely unreasonable,unattainable. That would be a full twelve month job - I need to do other stuffthis year too. I only play ‘HOUSE’ untilthe end of March, if it’s not done by then it has to wait until the followingJanuary. I’m going to have to break itup over a few years. There are 15 rooms in this house; I will do one third ayear, which makes it a three year project. Considering my tiny little problemof staying on task, that makes it much more realistic.

That’s what Ihave to get better at – pacing myself while maintaining my focus. Slow & steady. As Keith Kochner said at a seminar I attendedrecently: “Little step. Little step. Little step. Watch for the opportunity.”

So, that hasbecome my WORD for 2012. FOCUS. It’sbeen riding around with me for a while now and it feels like the time is right.
I will focus on focusing on FOCUS.

Old Business

2012-01-30T15:25:00.000-08:00

I may as welladmit it. Brian drives me nuts at times. Having been with him for over 40years, I suppose that’s bound to happen. Who am I kidding – there were times hedrove me nuts after six months.

It’s actuallya little miracle that our marriage has lasted so long. We are polar oppositesfor the most part. If someone asks himfor a 7/16^th wrench, he goes to his toolbox and there it is – in thesame spot it has for over three decades. Same wrench. If someone asked me for a pair of scissors, Isay … ‘Okay – give me a minute.’, while I root through drawers and eventuallycome up with one of three dozen pairs of scissors I have strategically placedthroughout the house.

Once I wasrushing with something on a deadline and somehow lost my good fabric scissors,mid-stream – I had been using them all morning. I searched for an hour & finally had to have one of the girls go tothe fabric store in town to get me another pair. They were sold out. A fabric store out ofscissors – what’s the chances? I was forced to institute St. Anthony. As I wasstanding there, giving him a few minutes to work his magic, the UPS truck drovein. It was delivering a huge box ofstuff that I had won at the Creative Needlework Show in Toronto - $800worth. Sure enough – there were scissorsin there – three pair. True story.Thanks Saint Anthony. I found the scissors a year later, in between layers offabric

But Idigress. The issue is not that I getpulled through by some miracle, but that Brian never has to rely on that. Hecan put his hands on every single thing he owns at any given moment. It bugs me. When I need to borrow something from him, he makes me turn my back so Idon’t see where he keeps it. That bugs me too.

And yetanother thing that irritates me is his unswaying focus. When he determines a task, he keeps his eyeon it and does not waiver. He basically becomes obsessed with seeing it tocompletion. Me … one task is just alittle blip on the road to anotherone. I like to kind of think about mytasks – have a cup of tea, mull it over awhile in my head, see if anything better comesup. Him … full steam ahead til he getsto the station. Me … oh well, anothertrain will come along. Or I may I decide to take the bus – there might benew and different scenery.

Take hisproject of stripping the hardwood floors in the kitchen. The plan was to take everything out, then do theoutside by hand on one day, use the orbital sander the next and then get onto the three coats of finish. On Day 1, the girlsand I were out until 11 pm. The comment was “Knowing Dad, he’ll have startedthe floor today.’ My response was “Knowing your Dad he will have FINISHEDsanding the floor today.” I won. Not only totally done sanding, but there he was, finishing up the first coat of varnish at eleven o'clock at night. Who works at eleven o'clock at night on something like that.

I have beenon my own mission in our January project of reviving the kitchen. He did the floor, ceiling, trim, cupboardsand table. I did the walls and the thinking. I have one tiny little bit to do and the whole thing will be completelyfinished – every square inch. It’s the backsplash above the counter. The colour is so close that no one would evennotice it wasn’t done. But then it would not be ‘every square inch’.

I have thepaint. I have the tape. I have 2 daysleft in January to make my goal. But, myfocus is shifting. Some other stuff is calling.

Brian leftfor Toronto early this morning. Not that he knows or cares that I have left one little pieceof my personal goal undone. It's MY goal. I startedheading towards my new project when his voice started seeping into my head …the same message I have heard time and time again over the years. His mantra: “No new business before old business.” I tried to quell it. It got louder. ‘No new business! No new business!!’ Oh man. He's burrowed right into my conscience. It should bug me, but it doesn't - I know he's right.

More About Letters

2012-01-29T17:20:00.000-08:00

Okay, I’m done thetechnology bashing. Actually, it’sreally not bashing – it’s just observing. I LOVE technology. I can’t keep up with it, but I LOVE it. Itexcites me and challenges me and amazes me. I intend to be the old broad at the nursing home with the hand crocheted afghan AND a laptop on my knees. Butenough of technology … on to a different stories, albeit one still about‘letters’.

On the weekend we had a campout here with all five Grands. It’s the first time that the twins stayed withouttheir parents. Their four parents, whichconfirms that they are technically NOT exactly Twins. They were born three months apart todifferent mothers, but small matter – in my mind they are the closest thing totwins that I’ll ever have in my life. It’s what I imagine it to be, lookingafter/having twins – such fun to watch them interact and amazing to observesuch different personalities.

And busy. Very, VERY busy.

Breakfast with toddlers is …breakfast with toddlers. More on thefloor than in the belly. I am the Nanaso I can buy crap cereal because it’s a treat. Nana = Treat, that’s the way it’s supposed to be. But I still like to be semi-alittle-bit responsible, so I chose EDUCATIONAL cereal. Alpha-bits; known more for their entertainment value than nutritionalvalue.

Of course, the floor was thewinner, which is kind of a waste now that we don’t have Abby. She used to lovewhen the kids came to visit. She'd lay there with one eye open, patiently waiting for the rain of miscellaneous substances; never disappointed with the abundance. With no four-legged Hoover, the fallout is now manual labour rather than dogual labour.

I hit on a idea. At nineteenmonths, Spencer is a happy, active little fellow and is surprisingly adept atfine motor skills. And he’s busy. Very, VERY busy. Killing two birds with one stone, I gave himthe vacuum and told him to ‘suck up the letters’. He loved it. He focused intently on the taskand did not give up until every single letter had sped down the hose. And then he turned his attention to trying tosuck anything and everything else up … the phone, socks, blankets,

Georgia

After he left, I noticed thatwe missed a crop of bits in the living room. Gibson was still there so I thoughtI’d try the same game with him. Three and a half year olds do not fall for theold ‘Huckleberry Finn’ trick quite as easily. I had to be a little more creative to get the task done. It wasn’t justbecause I was lazy or wanted them gone before they were crushed into the carpet– I really did think he’d have a great feeling of power and accomplishment andit had the possibility of being fun for him.

“Hey, Gibby – look how I canmake the letters jump into this tube … they’re going on an ADVENTURE!! Listen to them! Where do you think they’re going? Look howfast they want to follow their friends!” It worked … he enthusiasticallywent about sending all the letters scampering into the magic opening, off intothe unknown, while I went about righting the rest of the war zone.

I noticed him go into thekitchen to the cereal cupboard and reach his arm into the box. I thought tomyself ‘It’s so nice when they’re big enough to help themselves when they’rehungry’, and went about my work. Alittle while later, after about his tenth trip to the cereal cupboard, Inoticed that he was placing the Alpha-bits in little piles on the floor, thensucking them up. ‘Gibby – what are youdoing? Aren’t you eating those?’ I asked. ‘Nope,’ he said …still focused andintent on his mission ‘these yetters want to go on a ‘benture with theirfriends too.’

Yep … always one step aheadof me. Or maybe a mile.

An Obsession with our Hands

2012-01-26T16:54:00.000-08:00

And being on a roll, I mayas well finish my ‘new fangled gadget’ rant. I’ve got another bone to pick.

The relationship that peopleare developing with their own hand is somewhat disturbing.

Look around any public place… or even the street. An amazing number of people, certainly the ones under 40,are staring at their hands. I’m sureyou’ve seen this – a half dozen people sitting in a row at an airport, everysingle one of them intent on connecting with anyone but the person sittingbeside them. It’s bizarre. And frankly, it’s a little bit sad.

A surprising number ofpeople have become so tied – or so addicted – that they cannot go a few hourswithout checking to see …… what, I’m not sure. I guess that someone is sending them earth shattering news that can’twait until they’re alone. Whatever didwe do before every person with a cell phone had access to each other at every singlemoment. Whatever did we do when weactually had to be with the people we were with?

It is the ‘not beingpresent’ that gets my goat. I see ithappening more and more. The rudeness is becoming the norm. I have had people sit at my own dinner tablewith their eyes glued to their hands, searching for a conversation that is apparentlymore interesting that what the in the flesh people are offering. You wouldnever think of going and turning your computer on in the midst of aconversation.

I have been at meetingswhere people are engaged with their devices rather than focusing on thebusiness at hand, when it’s only going to be an hour and their precious messagewill be safely and patiently waiting for them anyway. It is not a matter of multi-tasking. It’s amatter of priorities, of blatantly saying "these other people - my OWN world and concerns are far more important than being with you right now."

I was at a conference lastyear with an excellent International keynote speaker who had an incredibleamount of wisdom and knowledge to share. It would have cost a fortune to bringhim half way around the world. It wassuch a great opportunity that high school students were bussed in to hearhim. The teacher sat in front of me. Shespent the entire time of the presentation on her Blackberry – checking heremail, texting people. It was rude to the speaker and distracting to peoplearound her. Besides being a poor example for her students, I wondered how shewould lead a discussion back in the classroom.

I really, really hope that wesoon get over the novelty of it all and settle down to being where we are, when we andtreasuring the time with who we’re with in real time/real life.

Script

2012-01-25T16:31:00.000-08:00

I don’t know if this istrue. I need to do some research on it before I get myself officially worked upor push the panick button. I heard, andhow sad if it’s true, that they are no longerteaching cursive writing in school.

I’ll sound like some ancientcurmudgeon who wants to stand firmly rooted in the past; but honestly, what arethey thinking?

Sure, they believe, and areaccurate, that the next generation will use computers and devices foreverything they do. That’s already the case. But how in heaven’s name do they come up with the concept of highlyeducated people with fingertip access to everything in the whole world, whowill not be able to read what thousands of people have written for a couplehundred years before this. They willcome upon books and letters and it will look like a foreign language.

I wrote my 10 year oldgrandson’s birthday card this year. He’sa very smart cookie. He said “I don’t know what this says.” We will have anation of Printers.

What happens to hand writinganalysis? What about signatures? Howwill people sign their names? What aboutautographs? They're going to print their signatures on cheques? Oh forget that ... there is pretty well no such thing as cheques already. They're going to print their name on the back of their Visa? Surely my information isinaccurate.

I can identify the handwriting of every person who is close to me. I see my mother when I come acrossher beautiful, flowing script even though she’s been gone for 31 years. She wasartistic – it showed in her writing. Iwould know my Dad’s writing anywhere – it was very legible and basic. I recognized my grandmother’s writing when I came across an old letter atthe bottom of a box. At the rare occurrencewhen I receive snail mail, I immediately know which friend it is from withoutchecking the return address. They are their writing. Surely my information is inaccurate.

I’m thinking that I must be totally wrong. It can’t happen. There are dozens of beautiful script fontsthat can be downloaded. They wouldn’t develop those if no one could read them.That has me feeling a little better. Perhaps people will be able to readscript, they may just not be able to produce it without a computer. That doesn't really make me feel better.

Letters

2012-01-24T16:15:00.000-08:00

Speaking of the pleasurethat I get by sitting with my journals – holding in my hands my “time” … I’vebeen doing a lot of thinking on that.

There is such a differencebetween a typed document or the written page. The words are there. The story isthere – the feeling, the emotion, the lesson, the intent – it’s all there, forsure. But there is something innatelydifferent about holding something in your hands that someone has written. It’s something that will be lost when the daycomes that every single thing we do is on the computer.

We’re almost there already.Certainly the young ones are. E-booksare already threatening publishing companies and traditional book stores.Newspapers may go the way of the dinosaur. The ease of access to every single thing at every single moment isnothing short of miraculous and awesome. I love it. It has opened the world tous. There is not a single day that I don’t ‘Google’ something, learn somethingthat I hadn’t planned or met/connected with someone I would otherwise not hadthe opportunity to. When I think back to the Pre-Internet days, I wonder how weever managed to run groups and organizations effectively, to promote and marketour businesses and goods and what we were doing with all our hours that aretaken up now engaging and connecting with our friends – old, new and virtual.

Indeed, I love the wholetechnology thing. But you know, it’s not the same as the written word. Not thesame as a real book, a real letter, a journal – a tactile object that someone has held intheir hands, has run their hand over line after line. There is a feel to it …the cover – the more worn the better; the paper itself … ink smudged by ateardrop, a coffee stain, dog eared pages, underlined words … telltale signs ofhumanity left for the next reader. The book holds its own energy, its ownhistory. A computer screen does not do that.

You cannot run your fingerover the screen, like I do the paper that my mother has written on … touchingit and contemplating the fact that SHE touched that same paper – her thoughts placed upon it by her hand. I picture her doing it and I am moved by thefact that it has travelled through time; that a little piece of her spiritsurvives as I hold her actual words in my hands.

We have reams of the writtenword on the internet … literally reams. But how much will survive? Ican’t relocate an interesting antedote that I read a week ago, let alone five yearsago. Really … how much do we think toprint? Me … not a thing. Even stuff thatreally interests me – I just assume that I will be able to find it again. But in reality, I just have too much to keep track of now.

Yes, we gain a lot with inour computer world; but we lose something too.

Journal Junkie

2012-01-23T18:40:00.000-08:00

Back to the ‘journals’. I’ve documented a great deal of my life, asif anybody will care. I’ve done it for me, and I must say, I do enjoy readingback over the entries – one sentence will bring an entire day back.

For over 20 years I havewritten pretty well every day – in a diary - ‘details’ rather thanjournal. It’s very strange to see a bigchunk of your life lined up in a bookcase.

I have other journals too …quotes, and thoughts, ideas sprouting and random memories. My first ‘beautiful’journal that I bought was in 1983 – a red leather look, Kahlil Gibran one. Iwas writing in when I got confirmation that I was pregnant with Ashley. Theentry says: "The rabbit died.” And no, Idid not cut off its feet or tail.

With three young children, ademanding job and an ailing father, I couldn’t keep up with even a few lines ofdaily writing. But rather than desert mybeautiful book when it was empty from March on, I ignored the dates and justwrote about our life in general. I wouldstick it away and not come across it for four or five years at a time. I was 29 years old when I started it and 46 when it was filled.

It was the new millenniumwhen I got to buy my next journal. I found one that was similar in size andfeel. The store clerk said to me: “oh, I don’t think you want THAT one … it’s$25 – we have some that are much cheaper.” “I’m worth it.” I replied. I didn’tmention that it would do me for the next twenty years.

I don’t work in itregularly. Just like the previous one, I re-discover its existence every fewyears. Yesterday, when I found myselfhaving time and being drawn to writing, I remembered it. I was not overlysurprised to find that it had been 4 years ... a wedding and twograndchildren since I last wrote.

It’s a shame that I don’t do it more often – Iwish I did. It’s amazing to sit and read one’s entire life sandwiched betweenthe pages of a couple small books. Children and grandchildren born, parents and siblings lost, kids growingup and me growing old. It’s a humbling experience to sit with a book in yourhands that contains your life … to touch the actual paper that you wrote on, tosee the actual words from your own hand. And more so, from your own heart. Reading it on the computer just wouldn't be the same.

Instead of writing, I spentthe afternoon re-visiting my life. Itconfirmed for me that I have indeed made the right decision to get back towriting. To writing.

Tales

2012-01-20T18:27:00.000-08:00

I found myself with a freehour yesterday afternoon. I’m in the midst of another task on my RESET missionand felt I deserved a break. I did not go to the computer even though it was well past twelve. Now that I have setthe intention to get back to writing, and have started doing it, it was anatural draw.

Nope, I didn't go to thecomputer. Instead I went to my big Journal Box and decided to update one ofthose. I am a confirmed Journal Junkie. There’sthat Collector in me. I stand before themin places like Chapters and fondle them. I tell myself that I don’t need yet another one. But invariably my self doesnot listen and it rides home with me, where I diligently figure out what Icould dedicate it to.

I got my first diary in 1965– the 5 year kind – black with gold trim and a little lock and key. I started every entry with Dear Diary becauseI somehow thought that was the proper thing to do, even if it did take upvaluable space in the 5 allotted lines. I didn’t lock it. Obviously I didn’t hide it either. Apparently I shouldhave done both. I was 12; my brother whowas 10 called me at my friend’s house, screaming into the telephone: “How couldyou?!! You’re SICK!!!” My reply to himof course was “YOU READ MY DIARY!!! How could you???!!! YOU’RE sick!!!” He had read my entry about how I had cut mycat’s tail off. It didn’t hurt her, shewas dead. I loved that cat – she was abig Persian with a gorgeous fat tail. Her name was Tammy and she wasn’t a family cat – she was all mine. I hadevery right to her tail. Even back then I recognized that I was a 'memento collector’… I was theKeeper of Memories and I wanted to remember her. Rabbit’s feet were big in those days – prettywell everyone had one on a keychain. I used to feel hislittle toenails and wonder if it truly WAS a Real rabbit – and if it REALLY was, that it was kind of gross, and sad. If I had some dead rabbit’s foot that Ididn’t know, surely it would be more meaningful to have my beloved Tammy’stail. It was also back in the 'Tony the Tiger' days where people attached tiger tails to their antenna or even had them coming out of their gas tank.

I was very brave about it for being quite attached to that cat. I apologized to her before Icut it off with the tin snips. I laidthe tail up on the barn window sill to ‘cure’, and had a funeral for my sweetfriend. The tail disappeared. It couldhave been raccoons or rodents, it could have been my Dad thinking that someanimal had done it and tossed it out, or it could have been my nosey littlebrother had marched right down to the barn and threw it away himself. I could hardly ask. With both of us carrying the guilt of ourinappropriate behaviour, we never spoke it.

I never did lock that diaryup or hide it, or any other diary/journal for that matter. I figure if someone is so inclined to getinto my thoughts, then it serves them right if they find out something that wasn’tmeant for their eyes. I also never did cut off anyone else’s appendages. And I disposed of the rabbit foot too. It really was kind of gross and sick.

The Write Thing to Do

2012-01-19T18:17:00.000-08:00

There’s a little bit of anironic twist to my pact to SAFTC (Stay Away From The Computer) and spend thetime greasing my creative wheel by writing.

Awhile back, if I was tohave a pen in hand, I could write faster than the words would come out of myhead. It was like there was a directline – a hose filled with ink from my heart more often than my brain – directlyon to the paper.

With plans for a familyhistory, I have a lot of writing to do. About 10 years ago I admitted to myself that I was never, ever going togo back and type up the pages that I had written. They’re hard to read for one thing as thewords spew forth at warp speed at times, and also – that was going to make itdouble the time and at the rate I’m going I’ll be 113 before I get to Chapter4.

"I need me one of those‘laptop’ things I professed; and then I can write!” So I invested in one back when desktops werestill generally the computer of choice. I found that my thoughts were so trainedto come through a pen that I couldn’t co-ordinate them and my fingers and a keyboard. Therewas no flow. It was awkward. I was forever back spacing to correct thespelling. I’d lose my thought – it was like I was continually putting thebrakes on. I didn’t write. I wore itout, but I didn’t write. I got another laptop – a little sleeker this time.Again … no writing magically happened.

Then along came those tinylittle netbooks. “I need me one of those netbooks”, I determined: “and then Ican write”. Because really, that fiveinches smaller made it SO much handier than that big wieldy laptop. I’d be muchbetter with this cute little thing – it’s almost like a book itself, surely wewould become good friends and we’d write together. Didn’t happen. I jumped thegun on that one. It is sluggish and the keyboard was hard to get used to.Haven’t written a page on it. Now, I’m on to my third laptop and I still haven’twritten a single page of the proposed Family History.

I was very excited with myNew Found Focus and writing time. “That’s what I’ll do!” I proclaimed: “I will seriously focus on thattask – an hour every day.”

And then it hit me. I cannotturn the computer on during that time. Ihave two issues with that. #1 I’m back to having to transcribe what I have written. #2 Now I have retrained myself to write withkeystrokes. I am finding the pen now to be an awkward tool and I basically haveto re-train myself.

I am officially in aquanundrum. I've got to do some thinkingon it.

Take My Advice

2012-01-18T18:08:00.000-08:00

Probably one of the mostaccurate quotes that my life is centered around is: “Take my advice, I’m notusing it.” I have always been ready,willing and able to give anyone advice on their business plan, marketing,decorating, life strategy … whatever … but I appear to leave myself out of thewhen it comes right down to it. Mostlikely because I talk to myself so much that if I actually listened, I’d beeven more confused and befuddled than I already am.

I once heard that if you‘hear the same message 3 times from different sources in a short period oftime, then God or the Universe is trying to send you a very strongdirective.’ Listen and Act.

The funny thing about thesignal that I am getting is that one of the sources was actually ME.

I was one of the speakers atour January W.I.N.G.S. meeting where the topic was ‘Strategies for a FreshStart’. I heard myself saying to theroom full of women, “When I am at my very best creatively, I start my day withMorning Pages. My biggest obstacle,” I said, “and worst habit, is thecomputer. When I start the day with my own thoughts and I get things sorted outand lined up, I feel more grounded, more focused, more in control. What I have been doing for a long timeinstead is turning on the computer first thing. Fifteen minutes turns into anhour and a half as I’m led in this direction and that. I find that I amspending my time with everyone’s thoughts BUT my own.”

At that point, I was justtalking about it - acknowledging it without a strong intention of changing it,even though I had identified writing as an excellent tool for getting yourselftogether. Afterwards, one of the members told me that what I had said reallyresonated with her. We got to talkingabout our ‘best hours’ and both identified them as ‘the morning’. It was like alightbulb was switched on when we realized that we were giving the computer thevery best of our time. We made a pact then and there not to allow that tohappen ANYMORE, and that if we saw each other on line, we’d call each other onit.

A few days later I was at atwo day workshop, where the facilitator, Keith Kochner of Mentorfish said that thingthat he protected as fiercely as a ‘glass case with a million dollars in it’ ishis FOCUS. He actively and zealouslyPROTECTS it. He said he could get more money, but he couldn’t get that timeback. Lightbulb again! The computer is a thief after my glass casethat contains all my Focus! I didn’thave to wait around for the third sign … I got the message loud and clear.

For one full week, I havekept my Focus. I have not touched thecomputer once until after twelve. Granted, the first few days I was watchingthe clock and had my finger poised and ready for 12:01. What bolstered me and kept me on track was something one of the other speakers shared at WINGS. She said that breaking a habit is only 'uncomfortable' for a little while. When you work your way through that, it will become your new habit.

Indeed, I am finding mycreativity is coming back. I am slowly starting to enjoy sifting through mythoughts in the quiet hour with my coffee. In fact, I am now looking forward to it and savouring it. I am honing my Focus Skills.

Keeper

2012-01-12T17:43:00.000-08:00

At my age and with mypack-rat disposition, I have accumulated Too Much Stuff. I have. Truthbe told, I could be in qualification for the Hoarders show.

I am a bonafide BornCollector. First it was Car Coins and Airplane Coins from Jello. Yes, I AM thatold. Then it was the little ceramicfigurines that came in Red Rose Tea. Andthen Stamps, of course. In the late 60’s, Salt and Pepper shakers were on thetop of my list … 99 cents a set. In the70’s … the macramé and crewel work days, it was Owls that spoke to me. Of course, over the years I have HAD tocollect Donkeys. How could I not? Andthen the momentum started the train to Clutter & Chaos going faster &faster as we sped regularly through auction sales and antique shops and mypassions kept growing with every cool thing that I ever imagined… crocks andclocks, oil lamps, old dolls, antique toys, classic books, teapots and teddybears. And Christmas Stuff – big time.

I am a Keeper. A keeper of not only my memories, mementos and stories, but of those I love who can nolonger keep their own. My mother, myfather, my sisters and brother, my grandparents, Brian’s parents andgrandparents. And throw in the odd Auntand Uncle. That’s a lot of people, and alot of responsibility.

I was also born with asentimental heart – a deadly combination for a Collector and a Keeper.

A few years ago my girls hadan intervention with me. “Mom,” they said “seriously - you have GOT to STOPattaching stories to EVERYTHING. Andstop TELLING us. You’re making us as bad as you. We can’t get rid of stuffbecause we hear you saying… “that was my great aunt’s sister’s cousin’sneighbour’s husband’s” They weren’tjoking. It’s a chain that they want release from. I can’t help it, I’m all about Stories. Itcomes with the heart.

A couple years ago Jae wasredoing her house – going from country décor to more funky and modern. A big, beautiful Robert Duncan print that Ihave given her no longer suited and she needed to let it go. She made the moveand took it down and then called me inexasperation. ‘THANKS A LOT, Mom.” She growled. “I finally came to terms withletting it go, then I turned it over and you’ve WRITTEN the story on the back.So now, not only do I have The Story, but I have it in YOUR handwriting. Andyou’ve SIGNED and DATED it! Now what amI supposed to do??”

So … what did ‘we’ do? I took it back. And since I have no place forit either, I took this big honkin’ picture all the way to Newfoundland and hung it above the couch. It is far from ‘Newfoundlandish’. Someone commented: ”Why do you have a winterpicture of farm animals in a summer sea-side home? It’s kind of out ofplace.” I answered: “It’s a long story.”

RESET

2012-01-11T17:34:00.000-08:00

I have pressed ‘RESET’ on mylife. It feels good.

Last year was such adifferent year for me. I let my own business not only take a backseat butactually not leave the parking lot. Itwas so different than the previous twenty years when every single day I reliedon my own imagination and self-motivation to earn my daily bread. Hard to keepthe bakery open and goods fresh though. This concept of just showing up, doinga task that someone else has put the thinking power behind and then being given money for it ...regularly no less ... was such a novel and exciting concept to me. After not having had that little bonus which most people don’t think twice about since 1989, I got a fair bit of pleasure out of it.

That job is over for me andnow I find myself having to try and remember exactly how it was that I was ableto create my own income for the past two decades.

Running your own businessseems to me to be very much like exercising. You can do it regularly for yearsand years but then when you stop, you lose ground far faster than it took tobuild it up.

I’ve been trying to rememberexactly what it was that I used to do and how I went about it. And then the thought hit me. I shouldn’tconcern myself as much with what I USED to do, as to what I WANT to do NOW.

I have given myself this monthto sift through my thoughts and get into position to move forward.

I am in ‘strategic planning’mode. I have a lifetime of knowledge and experience to organize in my head. I have tools to do it. The very first and most important question isfront and center and I have to tackle it head on before I move on to Step 2. “ WHAT is it that I WANT to do?” Thinking … thinking … thinking….

Actually, I need to set thataside for the moment. There’s a step for me that I MUST do even before that.

Now I Get It!

2012-01-01T21:04:00.000-08:00

I finally know what happened to 2011. And it’s my ownfault.

It got away on me. Slipped through my fingers like a greased pig. No – not a pig. Thatwould indicate that I was chasing it. Itwas more like I was just standing still with my hand out and it slipped throughmy fingers like ... sand. Sand from an hour glass.

I blamed the fact that I was working at a Real Job. That’s just a handy excuse. I didn’t workevery day, and in fact – I didn’t work for months at a time. I know people who have Real Jobs and theystill create and produce. I did neither.

Now granted, for the very first time in the history of Me, Igot to enjoy Christmas like a normal person. I was not up to my ears withfabric & fur & packing boxes. Ididn’t have little heads staring up at me, waiting impatiently for a body. I was able to shop leisurely. I was able todecorate early and enjoy the evenings basking in the Christmas lights insteadof having my mind running like hamster wheel, trying to sort all the thingsthat I HAD to do before I got to play Christmas myself.

But I missed it. I missed those little vignettes – the children,the toys, the Santas. I missed the faces that come through my hands. I missedthe little twinge of excitement I get when it comes together and I’m happy withit. I missed the whole creative process that starts with the ideas poppingaround in my head like Bingo Balls. And I especially missed the connection with all the wonderful people that I have metover the years because of my creations, and the wonderful people that I WOULDhave met. Now that it's over, I have come to the realization that a calmand chaos-free Christmas wasn’t much worth it. A big piece of me was missing.

BUT … it is my own fault. I just discovered that today.

Every year for at least the past twenty, on New Year’s Day Iget all cozied up and get out my daily journals – the one from the year justpast and the new one. I write down mytop 12 or so Goals for the coming year, and I go over the previous one to seehow I did on them.

Today, I searched the pages of my 2011 journal for that listand came up with Nothing. It’s alwaysthe very first page – not hard to miss. The page is blank. I searched in places that it wouldn’t be, thinking Imay have had a momentary brain freeze last year and wrote it on some random page. I even did what I do with my computer when Ican’t open a file or it’s not behaving like I need it to. I shut it totally andopened it again, hoping that a RE-BOOT would solve the problem. Nope. Nolist of Goals. Nothing. Nadda. No darn wonder that my whole year was flappingin the breeze.

Now... I have to admit, that after I write out those goalseach year, I actually never go back and look at them until the followingJanuary 1^st. And I might as well admit that 90% of the goals have beenthe exact same ones for the past two decades. But, that’s insignificant really –I KNOW they’re there, I don’t have to see them, I don’t have to act on them … Iget a sense of control knowing that for the very briefest second, I have putsome thought into what I could/should/would do with the 365 days that liesahead.

I really was shocked today when I discovered that I hadtotally neglected that exercise. Iremember now, why that happened. My book was late. It got delayed in the mailand I didn’t have it for my New Year’s Day ritual. It arrived the followingweek, but by then I was working at that Job – all day, five days a week. Andconsidering that the last time I had done that in my life was 1976, I dobelieve that I just got blown totally off course. I’m sure I meant to catch up one day, butapparently it never happened.

Well, I’m done with just blowing in the wind. It was fun andfreeing while it lasted, but I’m taking a hold of the reins a little tighterthis year. I am going to get my balance. I have done due diligence today,sorted my thoughts and made my plan. I am recapturing my Creative Soul andputting that little sucker to work.

What's the Point?

2011-12-31T13:10:00.000-08:00

In a matter of hours, it’s over. 2011. It has been a wonderful, full, richyear. For our family, there was only onesingle fly in the ointment – the loss of our dear Abby. And really, that isquite remarkable. Illness & loss& not-necessarily-good change is part of everyone’s world and that we canonly point to one heartbreak over the year is, as I say – Remarkable.

I am grateful. Every single day, I am grateful. In fact, when I climb into bed each and every night, I snuggle down and I give God my list of the FIVE things that I am grateful for that day. Most often, the very first that comes to mind is that I am grateful for a warm and comfortable bed when so many in this world do not have that simple luxury. Back in 1997 I wrote the five things I was grateful for each day. It was enough of a ‘diary’ that reading those single sentence entries would bring back the entire day to me. I have often thought during my night time regime, that I need to get back into that habit.

I do need to. It is the habit of writing that I have mostsorely missed this past year. It is ahabit. When I do it regularly, the words come naturally. I think of a dozenthings a day to ‘talk about’. With fallingfrom the habit of writing here – which I really, really do love to do – I havefound myself being ‘frozen’ – having no clue how I can even begin to writeabout something. When I am ‘In theHabit’, the smallest things are a story. Lately, nothing seems worthy ofwords. That’s out of character for me.

A few months ago, I had the most lovely compliment when Iwas contacted by ‘BECOME.COM’ saying: “We wouldlike to feature you in our Best of the Web, our weekly series recognizing themost interesting websites on the web.” I was honoured. And shocked. I didn't expect that someoneactually READS my blog and they could think that anything that I would have tosay as I ramble away to myself is even remotely of interest to anyoneelse. The sweet gal who issued theinvitation asked that I send a couple sentence to ‘describe my blog to someonewhose never heard of it.’ In other words– ‘what's the point’?

Uponreading all the wonderful blogs that they have featured, I REALLY froze. Ibecame totally intimidated in the stark reality that IS no point. There is nofocus, no intent, no redeeming educational factor, no Greater Good. It’s justme. Me ... yattering about my insignificant little corner of the world. Randomly commenting on what popsinto my mind on any given day. Suddenly, that was just not good enough. I gotto thinking that there really SHOULD be a point. Me muttering about the goatsin my flowerbed, a light that shines forever, my relationship to my fur-coveredfriends is of no interest to the world in general. Simple as that.

Icouldn’t follow up on that sweet & generous invitation because I am notworthy of a feature on anything. I starting looking to change, to focus so perhaps I would be worthy. The truth is – it’sjust not going to happen. My thoughts are random. My life is random. I can’t explain any of it. If I wait until I discover the 'point' of anything - I will remain frozen.

I don't like living in a frozen state creatively. I need to rediscover that part of my being. I need to get back into The Habit. The well is primed & ready ... a new year is on the horizon.

In 2012... I will write more – even if it is about NothingParticular. I will get back to ‘seeingphotographs’ all around me and capturing them. I will get back to my studio andpull out all that wonderful stuff that I have been neglecting over the past year.And I will continue to do what I did all throughout 2011 – which was to expandmy Circle, make new friends, have new adventures and generally LOVE allthe people in my life, and indeed - just love and be grateful for Life itself. THAT is the point of my life, and I suppose, perhaps that is the‘point’ of my blog … creating a Passionate Life from the very ordinary.

Slip,Slippin' Away

2011-10-16T05:47:00.000-07:00

You know your life is out ofcontrol when it’s October and the calendar you walk by every day says JULY. And the truth is, when you changed it in Julyit actually said APRIL.

You know your life is out ofcontrol when your slipper basket is empty, and now you can’t even find the ONEbrother that is usually in there, missing his sibling. And you have to dip intoyour husband’s sock drawer (shhhh…) because, just like the slipper basket, thecupboard is bare.

I don’t know what hashappened to 2011. I seem to have lost abig chunk of it for no good reason. Yes,I’ve worked at a ‘Real Job’ for a portion of it, but that’s hardly an excuse –lots of people seem to do that.

I used to be able to do somuch more with my time. When I had fourkids under nine, I also had a full time job, belonged to three or fourorganizations, cared for my aging parent, had a menagerie of animals and still ‘made things’ and did shows. When the kids got alittle older and more active, so did I. I substituted thejob for my own retail business, then added wholesale into that, a few moreorganizational involvements and I still was able to change the calendarregularly .And I usually could find my socks.

Now, shamefully, I am notinvolved in any community organization. Well, I suppose that’s not true – Jaimeand I have started our own. I don’t have kids to tend and run around all overthe countryside. I don’t even have a dogto feed – just a semi-feral cat. I have‘made’ basically nothing all year, and my house is as disorganized and upside downas it was when I was in the throes of full blown creativity.

So what’s up with me now? Ican’t get my head together to write on this blog. I can’t get my act togetherto do my photos and quotes on The Daily Muse. For over 20 years I have everysingle day documented in a diary. I can account for my time. Sometimes I’ve had to back up and fill in a few when theweek got away from me, but now I have two entire months BLANK. That’s what my life kinda feels like … blank.

And I know THAT is not true.It’s filled to the brim with people I love, wonderful activities, full andeventful days – every minute full to capacity. Some might say ‘Well, right there is your problem.’ But the point is, my life has always, ALWAYSbeen that full. I just don’t seem to beprocessing it as effectively as I once could.

Age. I guess that’s thereality of it. I just can’t juggle as many things as I could. Oh humbug (who says HUMBUG anymore – that’show badly I’m stuck) … that’s notit. That’s a pathetic excuse. I surelyhave gathered up some wisdom and strategies for coping. Perhaps it’s just time to use them.

I’ve got to do some thinkingon this. I’ll get back to you. Right now I’m goingto go change the calendar to NOVEMBER. Oops ... that's not so bright. Time is slipping way too quickly as it is.

Remembered

2011-08-29T21:20:00.000-07:00

I went down to the corner tonight, something that I have done on the last Monday of August, for many, many years. It's the day after Decoration Day at the Avonbank Cemetary. It is a beautiful and touching place to visit on a soft and gentle summer evening.

I am always moved by the display of love, caring and remembrance. Last year, there was a single gladiolia beside this broken stone that has been carefully placed by the foundation of the church. This year there was an entire bouquet laying on a bed of evergreen. I am so curious as to who it is that makes such a thoughtful gesture, but in a way, I like to hang on to it as a mystery.

I set to wondering who it is who it is that takes the time and trouble to lay flowers at the gravesites where the headstones have become illegible, or are over a hundred and fifty years old. Is it relatives or is it some kind soul who is performing random acts of kindness and colour.

I did, by chance, find out tonight who left the sweet little bouquets wrapped carefully with little foil flower pots. It was a darling teenage neigbhour girl who is carrying on a tradition that her late Grandma did. What a wonderful way to honour her grandmother as well as the people where she laid the flowers.

I am also very curious about who it is that lays the flowers on the grave of the family that used to live in this house. Some day I'm going to have to go down there and sit and wait, just in case they are family and can tell me some stories about them.

I love that someone takes time to honour others in such a simple and beautiful way even when they would not possibily have known them.

It is indeed a lovely place to go and reflect on the kindness of the human spirit.

Got My Goat

2011-08-22T21:38:00.000-07:00

On April 2^nd, 2008, I wrote a post entitled ‘Goatless In Avonbank’. It’s no longer true.

On Christmas Day, I came in to the kitchen to see Ashley and Brian sitting on the couch, looking at the computer. They looked very guilty when I asked what they were looking at. ‘Oh, nothing.’ they giggled and quickly shut the laptop.

Later I heard a little rumbling that Ashley had gotten Brian baby goats for Christmas. ‘No, she wouldn’t do that.’, I said confidently. 'She KNOWS I don't want anymore goats.' The subject was dropped and I was sure that we were safe. A few days later, in my computer 'history', I discovered a photo of Gibson standing by a tiny little pygmy goat. Oh no … Goat Girl has struck again.

I had put up with goats for twenty five years, enjoying them for sure, but also not overly impressed that I could never have flowers. I was quite content and comfortable being Goatless. Brian on the other hand has missed the goats.

So, Bill and Ted came to live in Avonbank. “Buildin’ Ted” as Gibby calls them. I have basically ignored their existence, afraid that if I got all chummy with them that they would come up to the house to visit.

I have to admit, I have really enjoyed seeing some youthful antics on the property. Everything here is geriatric - the donkeys ... US. We all move slow and aren't too often described as playful anymore. New life was refreshing. The goats were fun to watch. They stand on their back legs and butt each other; they jump on the donkeys’ backs. They scamper and cavort. It’s been a very long time since anything scampered and cavorted around here.

They’ve stayed away from the house, so I had come to accept them and in fact was glad to have them. They keep Ransom company and follow him everywhere. Brian loves them and comments often that Bill … or is it Ted – I actually don’t know which is which – is the best looking goat he’s ever met in his life. Ted is a girl. Or maybe Bill is the girl; I don't know. I’m with Gibby – I just call them ‘Buildin’ Ted’ as one entity.

Did I mention that I’m happy with my flowers? I am. I finally have some grown-up landscaping. Not a lot, but compared to the sparseness of colour that has been my life for the past quarter century, I am downright vibrant. In the past three years my perennials have become established enough that you can tell what they are. I get a little kick out of ‘free flowers’ after all these years.

So, when I came home the other day and saw my beautiful, glorious phlox plant trampled and eaten, I was not impressed. I said rude things to the goats. I said rude things to Brian too. I thought rude things about the Goat Girl giving such an irritating, inappropriate gift. The next day I came out and they had devoured all the sedum buds that hadn’t even been fully born yet. I said rude things again. More forcefully.

A few days later I was in town, pushing Georgia in the stroller, Gibson walking beside me. We walked past some lovely flower beds and Gibs said ”Look at those bee-ootiful flowers.” “Yes, they are.” I said sadly. “I used to have beautiful flowers, but Bad Goats ate them.” As always, when anything happens in his life that could be construed as a negative … broken toy or balloon, spilled milk, even being hurt – he said in the sweetest little voice: “But that’s okay, Nana. You can get MORE flowers.” “Yes, Gibby, I guess I can.” I said, ‘but it still makes me sad.”

Still walking, he moved right in close. I looked down and there he was, hugging my leg with in such a sincere and comforting way that I instantly felt guilty. I changed my tone immediately and said with considerably more confidence and no hint of self-pity. “YES, I CAN get more flowers, Gibs. For sure.”

Whenever I think of my missing flowers now, I see that dear, angelic boy, extending more compassion than you would ever think a three year old was capable of. To get to witness that and know that already he has such a good heart, was worth the loss.

I don’t have flowers. But I do have a sweet little grandson that knows exactly what to do when someone is feeling blue. That’s a bouquet that will live in my heart long after the flowers would have faded.

But ... the goats STILL tick me off.

Burn On

2011-08-07T09:10:00.000-07:00

This would seem like an ‘out of nowhere’ subject, but I’m trying to get into the habit of writing again. The biggest stumbling block to that seems to be: ‘what do I talk about? Other than animals?' Sometimes random stuff just pops into my head, so Random Stuff it is today.

When we moved into this farm, 23 years ago, one of the things that were on my ‘Have GOT to change THAT’ list, was the light fixture in our bedroom. I thought that it was, without a doubt, the weirdest, ugliest, most garish light that I had ever laid eyes on. I recall showing someone through the house and their comment was ‘What a beautiful light!’ I was sure they were being facetious, or at the very least had questionable taste. Replacing it was at the top of my ‘Must Do’ list.

As it happened, a few hundred other things required time and money, so a new/different light moved way down on the priority list. After all, no one would ever be in our bedroom anyway; never mind that it was the first thing I saw when I opened my eyes, and the last thing I saw every night. Every single time for years and years, I would think – ‘my gawd, what a horrendously ugly, ugly light’. The plan was that when the bulb burned out and I had to figure out a way to get it apart, that would be my opportunity to get a new one.

Over time though, my attitude shifted when I laid there looking at the light. Sometimes I’d study to see exactly HOW they made it, but then the thoughts would detour back to WHY. The stems are done in a shaky hand with a weird coloured, kind of gross gold paint. The petals though – that was what bothered me - I happened to detest orange, and especially orange-red.

The years have gone on … and on … and on. I like orange/orange-red now. In fact, I’m drawn to it. When I see the the rough and shaky stems, I think of the hand that painted them and wonder who they were and when & where it was created. I have kind of grown fond of it in a ‘face-only-a-mother-would-love’ sort of way. In reality though, it is still pretty homely.

I was surprised then, a little while ago, when Scotty came into my room after spending the night and said, totally out of the blue: "You know Nan, that is the most BEAUTIFUL light I have ever seen." Quite amazed that a nine year old boy would notice, let alone make mention of something like that, I said ‘REALLY?’ Very seriously, he answered: “Yes, I’ve ALWAYS thought so – my WHOLE life.”

All that aside, that is not the amazing or interesting thing about the light. What makes this light stand apart from any other light is that it is PERPETUAL. Never once in twenty three years has the light bulb been replaced. Really, truly, honestly - not ONCE. That is especially remarkable in the fact that we live with constant power surges and light bulbs burn out here in record time. I think it must have known that if it ever came to taking it down, that would be the end of it. It burns on and on – most likley from long before we moved in. I’m curious as to what kind of bulb it is - it must be an antique, but I’m not about to take it apart to see. I’m leaving well-enough alone, and watching with great interest to see if it lasts longer than me.

Burn on, my homely friend, burn on.

The Newbie

2011-08-05T20:08:00.000-07:00

Two years ago, a babe missed my birthday by hours – arriving on the left side of the day. This year, it was just a few hours on the right side. No matter, it still was a significant day, a better one to arrive in fact.

I was rushing off to town to get stuff for the big WINGS picnic. I was already in my car, backing up, when I noticed that Lani was standing at the fence looking at me. That wouldn’t be a red flag to anyone else. I knew instantly that something was up; Lani would not be standing alone, trying to get my attention. She and Victoria are inseparable – you don’t see one without the other being five feet away.

The two fields are very large, but when I climbed the fence, instinct took me right to Victoria. She was laying in the coolness of the shelter – not a big surprise, other than she was doing it without Lani. I had just checked her a day or so earlier, so I wasn’t expecting to see a baby, and sure enough – there wasn’t one. Still strange for her to be alone, again, instinct took me in for a closer look. When she stood up, there was afterbirth still connected.

‘Oh no’, I thought – ‘She’s lost her baby.’ Of course I couldn’t leave it lay somewhere – I’d have to find it. The fields are big and the grass is as tall as the donkeys in most places. A needle in a haystack to find a wee donkey laying down. Victoria though, looked like she was on a mission so I followed her. And there it was – way off in the corner, a tiny little foal stumbling around. I was shocked that she would be alive - it was unheard of for a mother to go off and leave her babe. My guess is that it was just too hot for Victoria and she needed to get somewhere cool to finish the birth process.

I blessed my lucky stars that I listened to that inner voice that made me question why Lani was alone. That tiny wee baby would not have survived in the heat of the day, she was already seeming weak when I scooped her up and carried her to the barn. Victoria followed close, and Lani just inches behind that – there was no way we were going through that gate without her.

By the time the gals arrived for our WINGS picnic, the baby was strong and looked older than the six hours that she was. I announced a ‘surprise’ and they followed me to the barn. There they met the newest gal to join our WINGS group … a mascot of sorts. There’s been a discussion on the Facebook group page about what we’re going to call her. It seems that the name that is garnering the most positive response is Maxi. Maxi with WINGS.

Today she is running around, hopping and kicking. But then she laid down in my lap and went to sleep. She’s got a huge amount of personality already – spunky and feisty, yet gentle and calm. She’s one of US for sure.

OUGHTA

2011-08-03T18:42:00.000-07:00

And so … another year. Older. Wiser, not so sure. Although, if wise were the mission of the day, I would treat it like a ‘new year’ and get myself into planning mode like I do in January and September. I need that extra month to get my act together. It’s just like the quote that Jae told me the other day … ‘If you look after the oughtas & gottas, the shouldas and couldas look after themselves.’ Well, I definitely OUGHTA get it together and I definitely GOTTA get in gear.
I don’t know … this year has spun on it’s own axis. That’s fine in many ways, but it definitely has been responsible for me losing track of a few things that are quite important to me.

Not People … that is always Priority One and absolutely continues to be. My days are filled with all kinds of wonderful relationships that enrich life … little folks and old folks, old friends and new ones, family that are friends and friends that are family. That’s all good and I don’t harbour too many shouldas and couldas in that realm.

It’s the Creative part that has suffered a bit thus far in 2011. I love to write but that has been remarkably absent. I haven’t written in my journals, or even my daily diary type thing that I have been consistent with for over 20 years. I haven’t written here. It’s not even the time, because we know, if it’s a priority, we always FIND time for it. No, it’s more that I can’t seem to conjure up words. It seems like I can’t write – don’t know how to write, have little or no desire to write. That has absolutely GOTTA change. I think I have just starved that part of me for so long that it’s shrivelling up. I am going to have to just ‘show up at the page’ and see what comes of that.

And photography. Oh my, is that strange to not have the camera beside me at every waking moment. I have stopped ‘seeing’ pictures. Usually I can stand in any given spot and find dozens of things that jump right out at me. The other day when I realized that I am not seeing in four by six, it scared me. I looked harder but it wasn’t there.

Who would I be if I didn’t write and take pictures. I haven’t used my hands to make anything either, and can’t seem to get focused in that vein either. What’s with that?

Actually, I think it all stems back to the fact that I had a Real Job for the first five months this year. I felt that kept me busy enough so when I wasn’t doing that I needed to focus on Priority One. I also wonder if it was because it was a left-brain type of job that my right brain just wasn’t being greased enough.

So … today I am going to get the grease out; get the lead out … going to start to think more effectively and get to the OUGHTAS so I am not whining at the end of the year about the SHOULDAS and COULDAS.

Never Long Enough

2011-07-25T08:23:00.000-07:00

I walked to the cabin today, alone. First time. Ever. And to get the newspaper; and to visit the donkeys and up to bed – unnaturally alone. I automatically shut the livingroom door then realized there was no need. I’ve done that ten times. When I come out of my room in the dark, I veer to the left, but there is no need. There was no one sleeping there. I went to town with the strangest feeling just walking out and came home feeling even stranger when there was my arrival went unnoticed.

I knew I’d miss her. I wasn’t prepared for quite THIS much. I see her everywhere – every square in of this place - inside and out. Every way I turn I see a snapshot in my head with her in it. I hear the jingle of her collar and last night, I was sure I heard her bark. I walk around alone and I can hardly stand it. I have an uncontrollable urge to go to her and plead ‘Wake UP, Abby – you HAVE to wake up!’

It’s likely worse because Brian is gone for the week and I don’t do ‘alone’ all that well. I’ve never had to, I had her. I hardly took a step that she wasn’t in the picture somewhere. Sometimes it was an enthusiastic ‘Wait for me, wait for me! I’m coming!’. Often it was just her quiet presence in the background, my silent guard, my shadow of almost fourteen years.

December 4th, 1997 is when she came to be with us. The house was still filled with the noise and chaos of children and teenagers. The yard was filled with chickens & goats & cats & horses & pigs & donkeys and a menagerie of other critters that came and went. All that’s left now are my geriatric long-eared friends and one feral cat that we’ve been feeding for eight years who still refuses to let me touch her.

She got us through the transition of the empty nest. We still got to keep a ‘child’. Someone still to fuss about and fuss over. Being an ‘only child’, it probably was a little bit ridiculous how much fussing that entailed. We would turn the television on for her when we left, so she wouldn’t be lonely. She’s been deaf for at least a year, but we would still have a discussion about what program she’d want on. I’d insist that she didn’t LIKE golf – it was too slow and boring; Brian would say ‘sure she does, she loves sports.’ ‘No. She likes CHICK stuff.’ I’d tell him. More times than I can count, when I’d get in bed, Brian would say ‘Is Abby in?’ I’d say: ‘Really... has Abby EVER spent one night her entire life outside – why wouldn’t she not be in tonight?'

I’d be a little bit put out when Brian was away and he’d call home and only ask how Abby was. I asked why he never asked about the kids, just the dog. He said ‘Well, I KNOW you’ll look after the kids.’ Like as IF I wouldn't look after the dog too. He always fussed and worried about her. He said ‘You know, I could stay in Newfoundland for months if it weren’t for missing Abby.’ I say ‘What about the kids?’ His reply was that he could talk to them, and they’d know he’d be coming back. One night, a number of years ago, she was sick had climbed onto our bed. In the middle of the night when I got up, I tripped over Brian laying on the floor at the end of the bed. ‘What are you doing?’ I asked. He said ‘I didn’t want to disturb Abby when she’s not feeling good.’ was his answer.

Abby came to be with us on December 4th, 1997. There was teacher’s strike at the time and the government had sent families with children in elementary school $400 for the inconvenience of child care. I was leaving for a week long sculpting class in Montana early in the morning on December 5th. It was after supper when we were reading the newspaper and saw an advertisement: “Airedale puppies: $400.” That was about half the usual price because she was unregistered. 'Papers' aren't a pre-requisite for love in our house.

We had made it through the grief of losing our beloved Airedale, Bobbi Jo, in June and we were not coping very well with having no dog. We ignored the lateness of the evening, the impracticality of me leaving the next morning, Christmas in three weeks and the challenges of trying to train a puppy in the winter. We happened to have four hundred dollars that had come unexpectedly, so surely it was a sign. We loaded the four kids in the car and headed off for the hour drive to look at the puppies, knowing full well that there would not be a chance of us coming home without one.

We brought her home and she sat on my bed while I packed my suitcase. We talked about what we would call her and decided on ‘Montana’ because of my trip. I felt a little guilty leaving them all for a week with a new pup, but they managed fine and she had lots of attention. When I arrived home and got to know her, it was quite apparent that her name wasn’t to be Montana. It just didn’t suit her. We tried ‘Striker’ for awhile, because of how we got her, but that didn’t fit either. It was into her third week of really having no identity, when her name presented itself. She was fun and silly and did crazy things all the time. I went out to Brian’s shop and said: “That dog is just not normal. I know her name. It’s Abby. Abby-Normal.”

And hence she was our Abby. Our big beautiful, sweet and gentle friend. The time with her went far too quickly, as time always does. I wasn’t ready to let her go, but of course, I never would have been. We are never ready to say good-bye to our dear friends.

Playing Favourites

2011-06-23T11:56:00.000-07:00

You shouldn’t have your favourites when it comes to your family. But I do. Four-legged, long-eared family that is … definite equality amongst the two-legged ones.
In my asinus relationships, Ransom is a stand out. But shhhh … don’t tell my other sweet and gentle friends – I love them too. I just have a particular connection to my big guy.

I first met him when he was two years old when I stopped into a big donkey farm about 5 hours from here. I was a tiny bit obsessed with donkeys back then, sort of like I am now but even more intense. I wasn’t shopping for a donkey – I already had two who were providing me with my fix of my little Disney-like babes. I just wanted to LOOK.

As I walked through the field, this big honkin’ guy kept following me. Whenever I stopped, he’d come up and put his head on my shoulder. He was lovely, but he was BIG. We just had miniature donkeys, which were particularly good with the kids and for the fact that we only had an acre of land.

But, we were just in the process of moving to a real farm, with a real barn and real pastures. That opened a whole new world of possibility for me.

I couldn’t get Ransom out of my head. Two week after we moved to the farm, we made the trip to bring him home, and of course had to bring along a friend of the same size for him.

That was 23 years ago in July which makes my gentle, handsome Ransom twenty five years old. Such a grand and beautiful creature.

His wife, Erin, passed away a number of years ago. She was sick for quite awhile and dear old Ransom laid in the field beside her, sometime with his head resting on her. After she was gone, he mourned for her for almost two years. He stood alone, hung his head, ate very little and wouldn’t ‘talk’ to me. He was depressed – it was the saddest thing to see.

He still doesn’t hang out with the other donkeys much. It’s curious how they keep apart – you’d think being the same species would matter more than size, but there definitely has always been a separation. I hate that he’s alone a lot of the time. I also hate that the little mini-jack rules over him and chases him into the barn just to prove his superiority. He’s such an ass. He should leave my friend alone. My friend with the big doeful-soulful eyes. My friend with long, soft, pet-able ears. My dear and loyal friend who keeps the secret that he indeed is my most favourite, but knows full well that he is.
When I was out working in the yard today, I let Ransom out to hang around with me. He loves it and so do I. He follows me around, comes up for ear rubs, then heads off to enjoy his freedom, then comes back to find me. He wanders into Brian’s shop and just generally makes himself at home, savouring his freedom and feeling pretty proud of himself. It takes people aback when they drive in and see a mega-ass roaming around like a dog. I don’t think they get it. They think that animals should be corralled. And animals should. Friends shouldn’t.

Hard on the Heart

2011-06-20T04:58:00.000-07:00

My friend is fading away. How hard that is on the heart.

Our sweet and beautiful Abby is growing old before our eyes. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised about that as she will be fourteen years old this fall, but right up to the beginning of this year she has been a puppy.

She never got the old face like some dogs …no white whiskers and milky eyes for her. No lethargy and laziness. She was ever enthusiastic with her greetings … always with a little skip and a wag. She woke us up in the morning by bumping around the perimeter of our bed, which felt more like an elephant was trying to shake us awake. When she wanted attention, she would come up and hook my leg with one of her paws or bump me with her whole body. When we went outside together, even at thirteen years old, she would have such exuberance – so pleased that there was an adventure awaiting somewhere.

She’s been stone deaf for a year, so our dancing days have been over for awhile. She particularly loved accordion music & when I’d have a Newfoundland CD on, she would come up & hit my feet with her paws and we’d dance together. I’ll never forget the time we had a NL party here & had ‘Mummers’ arrive. There were five or six of us, dressed up so people didn’t know who we were. When we entered the kitchen and the CD went on, Abby instantly picked me out of the group, hit my feet and started dancing. She could be sound asleep and hear a bicycle coming a quarter mile away and be up on her feet to check it out long before it arrived. The deafness hasn’t affected her much though and we forget about that and talk to her like she can hear.

It’s been shocking how the weight has dropped off her. She’s been a big dog – never fat but substantial for an Airedale. She’s lost half her body mass since January and we work at finding things that she will eat. She’s done with dog food. I’ve tried every kind and every brand. I tricked her for awhile by topping it with grated cheese or melted butter or vanilla ice cream; she’s not falling for that anymore. It must bother her stomach. She’ll eat eggs and cheese and ice cream and the occasional bite of something else but precious little.

She still goes with me from room to room and lays at the doorway when I go up to my studio. She still made the trip to the cabin with me and laid on the porch, but she walked back on the bridge rather than galloping through the water like she always has. Last night, she didn’t come out to greet the car when I drove in. It was strange to walk to the house alone. And she didn’t come upstairs with me when I went to bed. She stood at the bottom of the step, looked up at me and thought about it. Then she turned and went back to the kitchen. She always waits until I get up to come down and walks every step beside me. Lately she’s been slow and walk every step beside her, in case she were to get weak or dizzy. It was sad this morning, when her bed was empty and I walked down the stairs alone … shades of days to come.

She has slowed down substantially but she does not seem to be in pain or discomfort, just frail. She’s serious now rather than playful. A dozen times a day she comes and stands beside me, puts her head in my lap and looks at me with those beautiful big brown eyes. We both know her days with us our numbered, and yes indeed – that is hard on the heart.

Day ONE

2011-06-17T06:44:00.000-07:00

Honestly & truly. Today is the very first day in 2011 that is MINE. I have no agenda, no appointments, no events that I am either organizing or attending. I am not working at a Real Job. I have commitments at all.

I don’t know what to do with myself. Of course, I could and should clean my house. But I’m NOT.

I’m going treat it like New Year’s Day and spend some time thinking about what I am going to do with this next little chunk of time. It’s been an even crazier than usual year for me, with squeezing a Real Job into my already too full life. That already is a little bit of a blur and hardly seems like it really did happen.

Every single day has been filled to the top and beyond, but somehow I feel like a big chunk has been missing. I am anxious to resume the things that I have let slip. Getting back to this blog is one of them. And my Daily Muse.

I’m feeling particularly excited today. The sun is shining and the day is MINE!

Getting A Handle

2011-04-11T04:18:00.000-07:00

An entire month since I wrote. Ridiculous. More than a quarter of the year is gone already; slipped through my fingers like a greased pig. My days took a detour that wasn’t on the agenda on the first of January; a foray into the Working World.

It has been fun and interesting and challenging. I enjoy getting dressed in something other than jeans and slippers day in and day out. I enjoy walking along the street, computer bag in one hand, handbag in the other, looking and feeling more like a business person than I have in years. I love getting to have colleagues; people to chat to and laugh with every day. I love a new challenge and doing something so totally different than I ever expected to do.

I don’t love that I have had to let my writing go. Or that I not only do not have time to write it, but also no time to think it. I don’t love that I don’t have time to play pictures – take them, edit them, find quotes. I am behind in my Daily Muse. I don’t love that I don’t even seem to know what a muse is anymore.

I particularly don’t love that I seem to be losing time with my wee ones. That Spencer almost made strange when Jae left the other day. That Georgia looks at me with a bit of a question in her eyes, like ‘WHO exactly are you?’ That Gibson ran to me the other day yelling ‘Nana! Nana!!’; threw his arms around me, buried his face in my neck and said ‘I MISSED you! I missed you SO much!!. I don’t love that the girls need a break from their babies and I have not been any help. I don’t love that I feel I have neglected my friends and some other important things that are a high priority. I don't like feeling that I do not have a handle on my life.

It’s not just work though. A fair bit of time and head space has been given to our new organization WINGS. And every moment between working and that was spent trying to get ready for the show. Now that that is over, and I’m down to three days a week, I have got a lot of catching up to do.

First thing is to get back into a mind set of writing here more regularly, and back to my Daily Muse. I desperately need to get back to using my head, using my camera, nurturing my creativity and my relationships.

This sojourn into the working world has been very good for me. It’s made me realize how much I took my time for granted. It’s made me appreciate my flexibility and freedom more. It’s made me want to streamline my life and rid of myself of excess things so I can focus only on what’s important.

I know what’s important to me and I’ve got to get down to the business of getting a handle on it I’ve got to do better, simple as that.

WINGS

2011-03-11T19:56:00.000-08:00

Every time that I think that I’m about as busy as I can be, some cool, new adventure pokes its head up and says …’Hey! What about me!!’

It happened again. I was just motoring along, adjusting to being away every day and trying squeeze my life into a weekend. All kinds of things have been going by the wayside – this blog for one thing. The painting, organizing, purging and editing that were on the agenda for January & February and won’t make it back on the Master Plan until NEXT January/February, for another. And cooking, cleaning, laundry, grocery shopping … all those things have moved way down the list as I fill my day with another type of work. I can live without all those things.

But, regardless of how many irons in the fire, if an exciting opportunity comes a knockin' on the door, I throw it wide open.

That someone was eldest entrepreneurial daughter, Jaime. She sent me an email and said ‘What do you think about this idea.’ Well, the idea was so brilliant and timely and full of potential that I emailed her back immediately & said, ‘It’s not only wonderful, but I want to play too!’

Her idea was to start a woman’s networking group where people could tell about themselves and their business in a “3 minute tale”. She put it on Facebook on Saturday and by Monday, all thirty speaking spots were filled. There were ten ‘gallery’ spots too and they also filled up immediately.

So the birth of W.I.N.G.S. happened last night – quite appropriately, during International Woman’s Week. “Women In Networking Groups SOAR” was well received. The room buzzed with the powerful energy that positive, enthusiastic women create. The diversity of stories and the information was remarkable … every one a celebration of achievement and/or possibility. And what was especially cool was that all three of my sweet and amazing girls were there.

It was such fun. We have envisioned that it will become a very wonderful tool for connecting, networking, sharing, supporting, cheerleading … all the things that every one of us needs. It’s going to make us all stretch and grow. It’s going to be the catalyst for motivation, for new ideas and for new friendships. We both see it.

I’m delighted that she said ‘Sure, come play with me.’ Everything about it is right up my alley. So now, instead of just trying to squeeze in time to create some things for the show at the end of the month, my head is churning with ideas.

Lessons

2011-02-21T12:58:00.000-08:00

This weekend, I got to spend time with my favourite nine year old boy, and favourite six year old girl ‘in the whole wide world’. They know that's who they are to me. When they were younger, they would announce themselves at the door: “Nan, your Angels are here.” Once, when I made the mistake of saying ‘Here’s my kids!’, I was immediately corrected with: ‘We are NOT your KIDS –we’re your ANGELS.’ They still are, but as they get older, I more often greet them with “There’s my favourite ___ year old in the whole wide world!”

What a delight it is to spend time with them. It always has been, but as they’ve grown it’s been even more interesting to talk to them and learn what’s going on those pretty little heads.

They are so worldly. And they love to talk. I love to listen. We have quite the conversations and their wisdom and insight often surprises me. They know all kinds of things that I didn’t and my own kids didn’t at that age. By six, Scotty was a proficient and avid chess player. At nine he has designed his own webpage.

I’m always quizzing them on what they know. The other night, the sunset was beautiful, and as is my habit, I was raving about it on our drive home. I said to my wise grandson: “Isn’t that something?! Do you know what direction the sun sets in?” “Well, yes.” he replied, in a tone that suggested that it was insulting to even him ask him such an elementary question. “Good for you!” I congratulated. I think I was about 27 when I could remember that, and I had to tie it to an association like 'Go West Young Man'. “What direction is it?” I queried. “THAT one.” he answered, pretty certain that his elderly grandmother is starting to lose her mind and didn't even know which direction I was looking.

Yesterday, when we were driving along there was an elderly gentleman having car trouble. I drove past, but turned around to see if he needed assistance. I wound up driving him to his home town. When we dropped him off, he offered me money, which of course, I wouldn’t accept. Then he offered it ‘for the kiddies’. ‘Thank you, that’s sweet – but no.” I insisted. When we drove away, Scotty said: “I saw that! He was going to give us twenty bucks!! Why did you take it?!” “Because you don’t take money for a kindness,” I explained to him, “that’s what makes it a kindness.” “You are a very-kind-woman.” my sweet six year old granddaughter said with such maturity that it took me aback. “I like to be kind.” I said. “Yes, I know that about you.” she answered very seriously. “They could use you at my school. You should come there.” “Why’s that?” I asked. “Do you mean they’re not kind?” “No.” she said matter-of-factly. ”They don’t DO kindness. They’re….”, she hesitated, thinking about the right word.”…. rough.” She thought for a moment then clarified: “They’re only kind if you’re bleeding.”

I wish sometimes that the world would stop and listen to six year olds. Listen to what they’re seeing, they’re learning, they’re thinking. We are often so tied up thinking that it’s our job to teach them, to fill them with information that we often don't take the time to hear it back. To see what they are observing with their eyes. They're always watching and processing, even when we think they aren't.

They have as many lessons to teach us, as we have for them. Maybe more.

Pretty in Pink

2011-02-13T18:45:00.000-08:00

Another thing about Cameron & I not getting to spend much time together recently - our babies are growing. An entire month and not a single photo to show for it. I'm not getting to spend enough time with my kids - big or little.

Fortunately, yesterday I got some time with the wee-est of the crew and I was not about to waste the opportunity. Five months old she is already. Her eyes are getting more striking all the time and she has the sweetest little smile. Our blue-eyed beauty ... the only blue eyes in our whole family. My Gorgeous Georgia, precious and adorable - eyes open or closed.

And now to get my hands on Spencer!

Window Shots

2011-02-10T17:31:00.000-08:00

One of the things that’s going by the wayside with me working all week is my relationship with my camera. She’s feeling very neglected of late. I’m missing her too.

I’m up and out when the lighting is still good, but since I need to actually be somewhere at a certain time, I have to drive right by all those beautiful, snow laden trees. On the way home, the sun is setting. The white snow and the soft pink sky make the stark and barren trees look even more gracefully artful. Scenes missed because Cameron is home alone.

I’m going through a bit of withdrawal.

The other day, when I awoke, it was so cold that our bedroom window was covered with frost. First thought … ‘there’s a picture!’

A dozen shots of one single window pane. Yep, that sounds more like my normal life. Cameron was feeling a bit less neglected, and I was feeling a little more content as well.

Real Job

2011-02-07T18:32:00.000-08:00

I got an email from a friend today. She said, “Your blog is stuck.” Oh my, right she is, indeed. A dozen times over the past month, I’ve been needing/wanting to do something about getting it unstuck, but I’ve been busy.

I’ve got a Real Job, you see.

And that means that I have entered a place where much of the world dwells – trying to squeeze every bit of the rest of my life and activities into evenings and weekends. It turns out to be not sufficient hours in that time slot to do everything I need/want to do.

The last time that I worked in a setting where I was committed to being in one spot, eight hours a day, five days a week, was in 1979. Really.

Now, don’t be thinking that that’s the last time that I worked. I have never NOT worked. It’s just that I’ve always been involved with things that have me at the helm, designing my own day.

A couple years ago I did work for a whole week at Mazda while the owners went out to our place in Newfoundland. I loved it. The only work colleague I generally have in my life is Abby, and she’s not much of a conversationalist, so I was delighted to get to be with humans.

Before I spent all my time trying to make a living from my three H's, I had always been involved in work that has revolved around people – social services, volunteer management, and retail. I love having my flexibility and freedom, but I must say that I do miss all the stuff that comes with having other people in your day.

On top of that, there’s nothing that I love more than a new challenge. I am always delighted to get the opportunity to open a new door and meet new people.

The especially cool thing about this job is that finally – FINALLY – my zillion hours on the computer have paid off. I have been helping test an ever-so-cool new software program that has been designed for organizing virtual meetings.

The launch was held at the Fesitval last Monday … what a wonderful event that was. Up to that time, what I was doing was confidential, but now it’s out there in the world. The company is POWERNOODLE, and the folks behind it are dynamic, interesting and fun people.

I’m sure honoured to be there and enjoying every minute of it. Each day I get to be there is a bonus.

Soon, the party will be over and I will be back upstairs in my Studio. And I will love that too.

Crystal Day

2011-01-09T18:31:00.000-08:00

Today was the perfect day for my ‘word’.

It was one of those rare gifts, when you awake to the appearance that the world has been touched with a magic wand; transformed into the most enchantingly and breathtakingly beautiful heaven.

It was what I call a ‘Crystal Day’. Last year we were not gifted with a single one. I know, I remember. I longed for one. I watched and was ready – it never came.

It came today, and nothing would keep me from it. One must not dally, it is fleeting. The sun and the sky are as important in the recipe of a Crystal Day as the hoar frost.

There can be nothing less than an Alice blue sky to accentuate the white frost and cast a blue shadow on the snow. Sun is essential. It electrifies the fragile ice flakes – the glint of diamonds dancing: “Look! Here’s your spot of magic … no here.

No … HERE!”

Such was today.

I didn't have to leave my own back yard to savour it. I wandered around, camera in hand – of course. A soft blanket of snow had been gently dropped over the farm. In one way I hated to disturb it with my footsteps, and in another way, it delighted me.

The simplest weeds were transformed into treasures.

Even plain old grass, generally withered and forlorn and nothing to look at, was downright artistic.

The simplest things this day, were worthy of a second look.

The rusty old wire was coated with crystals, so uniform and perfect, that one would not consider disturbing it.

The fences cast blue shadows on the powdery snow - art up and down and all around.

It seemed particularly quiet today. It made me stop to listen.

It was like the world was frozen in time. Hushed.

Not a sound. A single sound.

That's rare out here.

If nothing else, I generally hear birds.

Or dogs. Or traffic way off in the background.

This morning - nothing.

I listened hard.

I listened.

To the peace; to the beauty; to the magic.

To the silence.

After I decorated the farm with my footprints, and captured a good many things, I thought I'd go for a bit of a drive and see what was happening in the countryside. Surely there were a multitude of shots just waiting to be discovered.

I got no further than the corner. As if by the soft breath of an angel, the crystals began to fall. If you weren't watching closely, you would not have noticed. It was soft and subtle; gentle and quiet.

Witnessing the dissipation of magic was striking, in how quickly in happened.

I don't believe I looked away, but somehow, instantly, it was all over.

It was like someone flipped the channel.

The sky changed from blue to white; the breath turned to a gust

and it was gone like a dream.

I'm glad that I didn't miss it because I thought it might wait for awhile.

I got to be right in the middle of it. To see it.

And to listen.

Listen

2010-12-31T08:58:00.000-08:00

I tend to drive in silence more often than not; a concept that used to have me pretty well hyperventilating. My ignition was basically attached to the radio knob; it went on before my seatbelt. Brian never, ever has a radio on when he drives and I thought he was downright weird. If for some reason, I was alone in a vehicle with no radio, it made me feel anxious and antsy. I’m not sure how it happened, but now I never think to turn it on. Sometimes it even catches me off guard that it’s an option. ‘Hey! I could listen to the radio!!’ It is now a treat rather than the norm.

I have found, in silence, that I am a thousand times more observant when I’m driving. That’s not necessarily a good thing, because it’s not the road that I’m observing. It’s the sky and the trees and photographs. I tend to view my surroundings in 4x6. I truly do. I've noticed that I translate my world into what my lens would capture. It’s all light and shadow and composition with a view to zoom and crop. It has become an unintentional obsession that I am searching for the photograph in the scene, as if it is one single piece of a gigantic puzzle. I’m pleased when I find it, until I realize that I don’t have a camera with me and then the delight changes to regret.

I have grown comfortable with the silence in my car. I see the photos more clearly without the distraction of voices. Other voices - I still have my own that I have difficulty muting. I try to direct them when I get that uninterrupted opportunity. I say: 'Okay, we've got this time, let’s think about how we’re going to get organized, get focused, get productive.’ I force my thoughts in that direction, as it seems that they don’t offer themselves up otherwise. Lately, that file seems to be generally buried at the bottom of an overwhelmingly massive pile.

When my thoughts drift … now actually, that is a totally inaccurate word … my thoughts don’t drift – they jump, they leap, they pole vault, they scramble and tumble. Drift sounds gentle and pensive. Mine are hyperactive. I can see those little suckers in there, gorging themselves on chocolate and then running about like maniacs, totally wild and out of control. They are not lazily drifting. See … I just did it there. I have totally forgotten where I was going with this.

Oh yes ... I was going with ‘Thoughts’, and how, as I was driving along in the silence, a random thought popped into my head. “ LISTEN. Your word is Listen.”

‘Say What?’ I responded, because it's rude not to answer. ‘What are you talking about?’ ‘Your WORD is LISTEN.’ Oh yeah … it had completely slipped my mind that for the last couple years I have picked a word. The new year was just on the horizon and it was time again. My mind had not gone anywhere in the vicinity of that subject. It is quite cool when the ‘pop up’ is relevant and timely. It could have just as easily surfaced in mid-March. The message was clear - my word picked me. It happened like that last year too – also in the radio free zone of the car. Last year's word was EMBRACE. I did. The word for 2009 was SEE ... did that too.

For 2011 … I am to Listen.

Listen to the words and needs of others. Listen to the sounds of nature. Listen to my own heart and instinct. Listen is a soft and gentle word. Hushed.

SILENT and LISTEN are spelled with the same letters.

The radio will remain OFF.

Close But No Cigar

2010-12-26T08:03:00.000-08:00

I almost did it. Or at least for a minute, I thought I did.

For the first time in the history of my being responsible for Christmas, I almost had all the presents wrapped before Christmas day. I was almost ready.

Year after year, for 37 of them, I would find myself on Christmas Eve day feeling stressed and rushed; irritated with myself that I was needing to spend five or six hours wrapping gifts, baking cookies and sometimes still shopping. Every single year I would growl and grumble at myself and say ‘NEXT YEAR I will have all this done and will leisurely enjoy the pre-Christmas season. I will have everything bought, wrapped, baking done, the house clean and I will sit and bask in the glow of the Christmas lights.’

Has never, ever happened … even once.

When I was surrounded by kids and critters, we lived on fast forward. Constant chaos. I never caught up with the laundry in 20 years. There was much stuff, much activity; days were a blurr of motion and commotion. I had to accept that peace and serenity were concepts that were unattainable and unrealistic and for the most part, I didn’t care. But I carried an expectation of myself to give my children the vision or at least the illusion, that Christmas was magical, beautiful and peaceful- for even the briefest of moments. Just the calm before the storm, but a glimpse of possibility ... "how-things-could-be".

It’s that darn television’s fault. All those people – perfectly ready when friends and neighbours would drop in … house sparkling, stockings hung; them - all pleasant and smiley in their Christmas prettiness … hair combed, make up perfect and children sweetly smiling in red velvet dresses and socks that matched. I knew it even smelled good in there – like freshly baked gingerbread cookies. Never scotch tape and wrapping paper strewn everywhere, mish-mash piles of plastic bags with unwrapped gifts, and plain old ordinary, grilled-cheese sandwich life happening.

We’d get home from church about midnight and I would stay up for hours, making sure that when they awoke and came downstairs, that the Christmas tree would be lit and every single thing would be in order. Peace on Earth. Santa’s treasures would not be obstructed by clutter and disarray. Goodwill to Men. And Women. And children. And dogs. And EveryTHING. In all likelihood it was for my own need to achieve order and serenity for one single moment in the year, but what I envisioned was that my brood would have warm and wonderful memories of the magic of Christmas, and that somehow would make up for the bedlam the rest of the year.

NEXT YEAR, I would tell myself ... I will absitively, posilutely be organized and ready DAYS ahead. Perhaps even WEEKS ahead. After all, I have had a fair number of runs at it.

I did truly, honestly believe that THIS was going to finally be NEXT YEAR. Three full days before Christmas Eve, I started wrapping gifts. I even put names on them so I didn’t have to re-open them because I couldn’t remember what they were. I was downright giddy with the vision of being In Control. I truly thought that I was. I was congratulating myself and doing a Happy Dance. Joy to the World!!!

I’m not sure what happened. There seems to be a chunk of time dropped completely out of the space between that day and Christmas morning. A time warp tricked me into a false sense of sanity.

In the end, I was worse than ever. I was not only wrapping on Christmas Eve AND Christmas morning, I found myself for the first time in history, coming down to a regular weekday messy kitchen. For the last few years, I have been quietly reflective on Christmas morning, thinking about how things have changed with the kids gone. This year I didn’t even get to sit down for a cup of coffee. I do not know what made me believe that I had things under control; obviously I was hallucinating.

I was up at 7 am, working like a maniac, trying to pull things together by the time the crew arrived in the afternoon. It was a re-run of the nights that I would be scurrying around, vacuuming at 3 o’clock in the morning. I still wanted them to walk into something that looked like a television Christmas. I also wanted to be able to sit down and visit instead of the indelible image I have of my mother-in-law never leaving the kitchen or enjoying her company during holiday gatherings.

I was spinning. By the time of the expected arrival, I had cooked, carved and cleaned up the mess of two turkeys, had the gravy made and potatoes and turnip mashed and every dish done. It was exhausting and crazy, but the transformation and order was shades of Christmas morning past.

They all walked in moments later. Was I greeting them at the door with hugs and happiness? Oh no. I had just got out of the shower - wet hair, no make up and trying to wrap last minute gifts on my bed. I was feeling tired and old and crusty and was ready for a nap. With grace of God, I hopefully will get another stab at it.

NEXT YEAR.

Not So Bright

2010-12-14T19:37:00.000-08:00

Many years ago I heard a strategy that I thought sounded like a good idea at the time. If there was something in your life that was bothering you, or your mission was to get a new one, you were to totally rid yourself of the old one and then you’d be forced to do something about it rather than just settling. Made sense.

For at least eight years, the tree that I use in the livingroom has been long past its due date. It was over 20 years old and had become so sparse that I had to bend the branches on one side towards the front, then stuff garland into the holes and fill it in with a couple dozen branches from another defunct tree. It was basically only a half of tree, and not a good one at that.

Year after year I promised myself that next year I would have a new one. They go dirt cheap at the auctions in the summer – beautiful, good quality artificial trees for just a few bucks. The problem is, the only time that it ever crosses my mind is when I drag it out each Christmas. I refuse to pay the two or three hundred dollars that it costs for a nice tree during peak time, so year after year I say to myself ‘This will be the LAST year I have to do this. NEXT year I will get a new tree.’

Well, here we are - the season is upon us and once again I am needing to resurect my pathetic sad old tree. Grumbling at my incompetence, I went to the basement to drag it up yet one more time.

But I couldn’t find it. I searched every room numerous times. And then it hit me. I had instituted the old ‘rid yourself of it’ tactic. It came back to me that after Christmas I had Brian take it to the dump so I would never be tempted to get one more year out of it.

All fine and dandy if it would have August that I remembered this brilliant move. I even begrudge half price that they are now when I know they practically give them away in the summer.

The other day, out of the blue, the nostalgic fragrance of evergreen came upon me and brought back memories of Christmas past. Ah-hah! I thought. I can get a Real Tree!! That will be a wonderful treat. It’s been quite a number of years since we've had one. When the kids were here, we always had a real tree as well as the phoney one. That was important to us. It came from the time that Jaime, at four said 'When do we get to put the tree together?' What self-respecting country folk lets their child believe that one "puts a tree together". From that day on, there was a live Christmas tree in this house. But when they all left, it became a mess and fuss that I determined that I could live without.

I mentioned my idea of a real tree to Brian and immediately he was on a mission. He's a fan of Real things. He borrowed a truck, which cost him twenty bucks in gas; the tree was forty and another ten for sand. Seventy bucks. That would have gone a fair way towards the decent artificial one that I'd have for next year too. Oh well. A beautiful, full, fresh, gorgeous big tree would be such a treat. And Christmas Tree Smell. Mmmmmmmmmmmm.

Back in the day, we would have great fun picking a tree - it was an event. This time, Brian brought one home in a net. Never got a tree in a bag before; actually never let Brian out on his own to pick out a tree on his own either. Times change. I have become a lot less fussy about a lot things. I could release control enough to let him choose all on his own.

So I open the tree. It’s a little on the puny side compared to the image I was courting. I wait for the branches to fall. I wait. And wait. Thinking that they’ve just been traumatized, I wait til morning, at which time I must face reality. The middle of my tree seems to be missing. Turning it doesn’t help. Hmmm…looks suspiciously similar to the one that went to the dump except that I can’t bend the branches toward the front. And it doesn’t smell. At all. Really ... AT ALL.

What to do? Back to the basement. Why I kept the bag of ‘fill in’ branches but threw the tree out, I don’t know, but I was glad I did. They didn’t snuggle in like they did in my phoney tree, but it filled sufficiently to block some of the light and support the goods.

I stuffed it with gold net garland and reams of beads, then added my favourite antiqued white iced pointsettias and dried hydrangea. I used every strand of coloured lights I could get my hands on, being forced to mix styles to get the coverage. I topped it off with some collected treasures, like the paper angel that Daniel made in kindergarten a quarter century ago.

Holes, phoney branches, and lack of fragrance notwithstanding, it’s done; it’s fine and I’ve learned a few lessons along the way.

#1) Sure … rid yourself of the old but you need to remember that you did that.

#2) Even the Real Thing can have major holes.

#3) Don’t buy a tree in a hair net.

#4) If you have enough stuff to load something down, and can turn the lights out and squint, anything looks fine.

#5) There's always next year.

My Babes

2010-12-05T06:45:00.000-08:00

Donkeys have been a huge part of my life for 28 years. The four-legged, long-eared ones; some two legged ones have been for much longer than that.

For me, there is not an animal-joy that can compare to the excitement of a new born babe. The softness of their fur, their velvet nose and incredible ears – holding them in your arms like a baby is something to experience. It has been such a delight to me, and as Chief Dan George says: “My heart soars.”

But equally emotional on the other end of the scale, is the day they leave. It is not for missing them that I am sad. I am always confident that they are going to a wonderful home where they will have even more love and attention than I can give them. It is for the moms that I grieve.

This weekend, all three of my summer babies have gone off to their new lives. Summer Solstice … I called her Sully, but her new parents are calling her Summer, is joining her sister, ‘Colette’, who they adopted last year. They are great folk who have obviously love her a great deal and have kept in touch and sent photos to keep me updated. I am so happy for both Sully and Colette, to have each other.

Paddy O’Malley was adopted on Thursday by a lovely young couple with two small children. I could instantly tell that he was going to have a wonderful life. In fact, I saw myself in the mom – the excitement and enthusiasm of getting her first donkey – I can still feel that. But it was her genuine concern for Maggie that endeared me to her. She kept saying ‘I feel so badly for her.’ And so did I.

That’s the very hardest thing about raising donkeys. Not letting them go, but watching the mothers frantically looking for their babes. I cry every time. I can’t even think about it without crying. I tell them over and over – “I’m SO sorry, I’m so VERY, VERY sorry.” They are my dear friends and I hate to see them grieving. It just tears your heart out to see them running and pacing, and hear them crying out. I can’t look out the window.

When this young couple got Paddy – who I have I have actually called ‘Chocolate’, I warned them: “I just need you to know, this won’t be your only donkey. Be prepared to fall in love. He is just going to be your first, he won’t be an only child.” I was speaking from experience. Donkeys, for animal lovers, are like potato chips, you can’t have just one.

The phone rang on Friday, it was Chocolate’s new parents. They were smitten in record time. ‘Yep, we’re in love.’, the husband confirmed. ‘Can we get that little white one too.’ ‘Sure, when?’ I asked. ‘Would an hour be okay?’ was the answer.

I am so happy for Paddy O’Malley and Molly Malone. Not only are they going to have the most wonderful life with people who clearly love them already, and will grow up with two darling little children, but they will get to be together.

It was a little easier on me to have all three moms lose their babies at the same time. When there’s one missing, they particularly panic. This time, they seem to have settled quicker, going back to their old pattern of hanging out with the girls.

They'll be okay, and so will I.

A CreatEV Soul

2010-11-28T21:22:00.000-08:00

I write like I talk. Too much. It’s because I’ve got so many WORDS whirring around in my head at all times and I have to get them emptied out on occasion. That occasion being Constantly.

The thing is, anyone who comes to this blog via a creative connection, hoping to see what it is that I do with my hands, will be saying; ‘WHOA!! YIKES!!!! Too many WORDS!! Get me outta here!” And I'd never see them again.

When I started this blog back in 2007, it was with the intention of using it as a tool to showcase my work. Somehow, it took on a life of its own and I find stories pouring out of my fingertips; stories that are really of little interest to many/any. I’m just basically talking go myself; and that’s okay. Writing has always been a passion and it gives me an excuse to Just Do It.

However, I am keenly aware that it is not serving the purpose for which it was originally intended. So am I getting back on track? Nope. Too late for that. I’m taking another train.

I have started yet ANOTHER blog. Imagine – three blogs for the person who couldn’t stand the word BLOG. It wasn’t the concept that bothered me, but the actual word ... it sounds 'gaggy' to me. Or boring ... a Blah...gg.

This new addition will be not be WORDY. I will work at keeping them to a minimum. It will soley be about CREATION. What I’m working on, what I’ve just finished. I’d like it to be more interesting than just things that I make, so I hope it could become more interactive where people could ask questions or share tips about techniques, products, ideas … that sort of thing. If it was creatively interesting/educational, hopefully the words will be relevant and tolerable.

Everyone who signs up as a follower, up until January 31st, will have a chance to win an Ol'Soul who will be touting my favourite saying: "Take my advice, I'm not using it."

I shall continue to share the musings of my head and my heart right here on EVolution, and I will continue to practice my photo art and share my favourite quotes on The Daily Muse. Meanwhile, over on the other channel, it will be what comes from my head, my heart and my HANDS ... nurtured by a creatEV soul.

PS There's a link button at the top of this page.
PPS: I would love to share the blog links of other creative souls - let's TRADE!

November Lesson

2010-11-13T09:00:00.000-08:00

The weather here for this entire year has been nothing short of spectacular. It was reported that the farmers have enjoyed their most bountiful crops in history and that is a quite LONG time. Winter was easy - we didn't have a single day that we were snowed in (much to my personal disappointment); spring - I can't remember, but I suspect that I would if it had been rainy and miserable; summer was glorious and this autumn has been heavenly. And NOVEMBER.

Well ... November to me is a morose month - gray, drab, damp and cold. It's a Nothing month; a pit between vibrant, dancing October and joyful, memory-making December. It could be that I have made it into a major disappointment in my mind because I am so in love with October. Perhaps I feel it would be disloyal to her, considering our intense relationship. December has my attention for reasons other than nature. The internal and eternal light of Christmas offers a soft glow that feeds me. November has offered me nothing. November is a shroud that hangs over me, enveloping me with its grayness. I am not a fan of grayness. November is IT to me, not SHE. October, she dances. December, she glows. November, it hangs.

This year is remarkable. I have not even been able to use the November quote on my Daily Muse blog because that type of day has not yet come. If it weren't for the bareness of the trees, I could call this Indian Summer.

I have been looking for things to do outside each day, even though I should be up my studio, focused on the task at hand. I have been sitting on my back porch, in awe and gratitude. People from the south would not begin to understand what I'm talking about, but people around here surely do.

So ... the other day, I was 'sitting in awe' and the lake called me. She said 'COME! Come before it's too late!!!!' I try to listen to my inner voices, which actually is what keeps me going in circles for the better part of my days. I asked two photographer friends if they wanted to run away with me and spend the afternoon on a photo shoot excursion at the lake. When the weather is so unseasonably warm, our first thought is that we need to focus on all that yard work that we often get stuck doing in the bitter cold, or the Christmas decorating that usually has to be done with mittens on. So when my friends said 'SURE!', I was delighted. I wasn't overly surprised as they are spontaneous and adventuresome friends - MY kind of people - that's why they are My Friends. They are also very rich in wisdom - knowing that an afternoon spent with friends who share a passion, will carry us further than a raked lawn or clean windows.

It was glorious. The sky was October blue. The waves, which can be as crashing as the ocean, were quietly lapping in a meditative rhythm. There were brilliant golden leaves lit up at the tops of the poplar trees. They were like celebratory flags, remnants of the autumnal bliss refusing to give way to November. In the distance, it looked more like an illusion of mist than the real thing. It was a soft and gentle day all round.

There were treasures found. Interesting rocks and sand scrubbed driftwood but the most significant was a beautiful piece of rare aqua beach glass. A gem that had been tossed and churned for countless days and then graciously deposited right at the feet of a grateful treasure seeker.

Although together, we were each in our own space and time. The lake allows that.

There were very few people there, which added to our feeling that we owned the day and the place. But we watched with interest, a group of young people, in and out of the water in little boats. It was apparent that the group had a purpose, and when we walked by we were a little taken aback by an obviously lifeless body bound up in blanket. We couldn't let that go without asking, so a nice young man explained that they were shooting a movie and that was 'Henry'. We wondered whether Henry was being dumped or recovered, but he couldn't or wouldn't say. The young man, I mean - Henry wasn't talking at all.

Although it was too late for poor old Henry, we wished the young man well and carried on with our own mission - capturing the day.

Generally, in my mind, there is nothing to take pictures of in November. Dry and dead leaves, sad and hopeless flowers, withered vines... even the naked trees that I actually do admire, are sullen against the drabness of a timeless sky. Unless they have light and shadow they do not dance and they do not speak to me. But this day, they not only spoke, but they sang on our evening drive home. It was a strangely moody tune of hazey pink that made all three of us feel that we had been transported to somewhere foreign and exotic. It was too elusive to capture, which is appropriate as it was a feel rather than a vision.

November, you have redeemed yourself in my eyes. You have showed me that there can be another dimension to absolutely everything, even to drabness. I greatly appreciate your gift to me. I wonder though, was that gift, that lesson more about ME than it ever was about YOU. About ME taking the time to see and appreciate what is in front of me - black or white, colour or gray, naked trees or vibrant. About ME needing to be told again and again and again: "Everything is something."

Remembrance Day

2010-11-11T00:10:00.000-08:00

One day, when I was a teenager, my mother ventured into the storage room that she had aptly named ‘The Hell Hole’. It was a room in the basement piled sky high with mountains of stuff. If it was consigned there, it was never seen or thought of again. There were times that I was keen to explore it and see what secret treasures it held, but it was impossible to get further than three feet past the doorway. "You take your life into your hands when you go in there." my mother would rightly declare.

It was therefore quite remarkable that she had found and dragged out an old wooden trunk. There were hundreds of letters, tied in bunches with ribbon, which she was systematically destroying. I asked her what she was burning. “Letters from your Dad when he was in the army.” she replied. This from the woman who had invented the Hell Hole and filled it to the brim with every little thing that had ever come into her life, or ours. And I really do mean 'every little thing' - the Hell Hole would have qualified for the Hoarder's show. “Don’t do that!” I protested. “Why would you burn them?” “Because they’re mine and they're personal.” she said with surprisingly little emotion. A strange and unfortunate moment that I wished that I had not witnessed.

She missed two. We came across them when we were cleaning out the house. I have them and likely should feel guilty, but I don’t. It has given me the smallest glimpse of their life during those years. They are crisp and unwrinkled. I picture my Dad writing them on his bunk, and my Mom reading them over and over, running her fingers over the words. That they have remained in such pristine condition for 65 years is amazing.

My Dad did not go overseas because of medical issues, but nonetheless it still stole three years from them. They were newlyweds with a baby girl, and being stationed in Nova Scotia would not have been much different than being across the sea in terms of travel and communication. No Skype or email.

The story went that when my Dad had originally gone to sign up, which would have been before he was married, he was told that he was not eligible because of a past injury. So he carried on with life, and was totally blinded sided when one day just months after they were married, he was met at the track by uniformed Military Police with a warrant for his arrest. Apparently, a conscription letter had been sent to him at my Mom’s family home in Toronto. Her sister, thinking that he wouldn’t have to go if he never got the letter, had destroyed it and never told anyone. There was little time for goodbyes as they shipped him off, leaving Mom to manage on food stamps, in a strange town far from both their families. The only person that she knew was their landlady, Mrs. Culbert. In my mind, I picture this woman I never met to be an elderly angel because I have a feeling that she saved my Mother's sanity during those years.

I’m so glad that the two letters survived. It has given me an image of my Dad that I never got to see – a young man deeply in love and missing his wife. My Dad was not young by the time I came along. His written words were brief: 'To Ma: Love, Pa and the Kids'. He was witty and silly, he was not mushy or demonstrative, so his romantic words to my Mother are a real treasure. Perhaps it was that which made her uncomfortable sharing them; or maybe it was just a weak moment more to do with something else that was going on in her life. At any rate, it still is a curious thing to me and I am ever grateful for the two I have. I share a snippet of them with my apologies to my dear mother: "Sorry Mom …but I am the Keeper of the Memories now and I think it’s important that our generation and the next and the next, understand and appreciate the sacrifice that you all went through – even those who did not fight and those who waited at home. We have the responsibility to keep the humanity in history - the faces; the voices; the tender hearts."

Part of a letter is dated March 28, 1945:

My Darling:

Hi ya sweetheart. How’s my honey now? Me? Ah, just the same – only 1 day older since I wrote you. But then its one day closer to us being together, so that is a little encouraging. By the sound of the news today, it may not be so long until that day rolls around. Sooner the better, says I. Guess I’ll have a little trouble writing, cuz there’s a few sitting around here shooting the sh--, and you can imagine what they’re talking about.

I just remembered Darling that it’s getting around Easter again and I’d better send this card. It isn’t so good, but at that I’m kinda lucky to have it. Anyway, I send it Darling with my deepest love and best wishes for a happy Easter. Surely by next Easter we’ll be settled together and happily for life.

We have been thinking at each season; anniversary, etc that we would be together the next one, but they still keep going by with us miles apart. Surely, our luck will soon change, Darling, so keep your chin up for awhile yet.

My Dearest, I had better sign off for now because this will be too heavy and I am Scotch and sending this with the card. So my beloved, I love you with all my heart, body and soul. Also the girls. I miss my family plenty. For tonight, as always, my love: I love you. Good night; sweet dreams; God Bless my family. Love and Kisses xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Harold

April 7, 1945 (four days before their third anniversary)

My Darling… Do you remember April 11, 1942? That was the day you put your foot in it, eh! In one way it seems ages ago and in another it seems like only a short time. Guess if we had been together all the time, it would have seemed much shorter. Gee, I hope that we spend more of the next three years together. If not, I don’t know what I’ll do. Surely the Good Lord won’t keep us apart much longer.

Well my Dearest, I have to go, so will send my truest love with the card I got and hope it’s the last one I have to send you and will be able to hand you the next 60 (in person). Yes, I love you Darling, more and more all the time. And the children.

Good night my love and Happy Anniversary to you, sweet heart. All my Love & Kisses:

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Harold

One month later, right to the day, the instrument of surrender was signed at Rheims, France with the following day, May 8^th, 1945 being declared V-E Day. (Victory in Europe)

I can only imagine the emotion that both my parents felt. I have a thousand questions for my Mother that will forever remain unanswered. I didn't have the questions until we found the letters and it became real. It was when I heard the voice of the words that I finally pictured them as a young couple, and began to understand the scope and depth of that time in history.

I wonder if my mother ever regretted destroying those letters. I suspect as she aged, that they would not have seemed as much personal or embarrassing, as loving and wonderful; a testament to their youth, their love and the difficult time that they endured.

We are charged to REMEMBER. We can do that better when, along with the facts, we are given the faces and the souls. It is when the human stories make their way into our hearts that we remember and understand best.

A Toast to Good Health

2010-11-07T07:38:00.000-08:00

Well, it’s got to be done. A while back I wrote about the theory that my finally-wonderfully-strong nails had to be from the fact that I had been drinking a pint of Guinness each and every one of the fifteen days that I was in Ireland in May.

As I feared, the effects have worn off. My nails are right back to how they have always been – soft and tearing. Nasty.

There’s only one thing I can do. Get back on the Guinness. I’ve been talking about it for a few weeks, but I am too cheap to pay $22 for eight cans of beer. I don’t even like beer. I won’t pay $36 for a bottle of Bailey’s, which I really do like, so it’s highly doubtful that I would open my wallet for beer - nail health or not.

When we were watching the feature on 60 Minutes about Zenyatta, that incredibly beautiful, magnificent thoroughbred mare, they said that she enjoyed a Guinness after a work out - the only beer that she’ll drink. "See.", I said to Brian, "There must be something to it."

Friday night, Brian, being the sweet and thoughtful guy he is, came in with a case of Guinness. AND a bottle of Baileys.

So mid-day yesterday, I had a nice hot bubble bath, cozied up in my robe and a blanket and poured myself a beer ... in a wine glass. Decidedly decadent for me in the middle of a Saturday afternoon. It didn’t taste the same as the ones that were on draught at the pubs in Ireland, but I got it down. Medicinal purposes, ya know.

A little later, my son went to the refrigerator and I heard the ‘pssst’ sound of a can opening. My gasp was totally involuntary. Brian was sitting here too and he laughed hysterically. Standing with his coke, Daniel looked confused. "Oh," I quickly assured him, "It’s okay." I had no intention of confessing what had caused my reaction. Brian was still laughing "She thought you had one of her beers.", he said, "She'll tell ya - you can have all the food you want in this house, but just don’t touch her beer!" "That's RIGHT", I confirmed, "I'm serious, definitely, do NOT touch MY beer."

At supper, Dan said, "You gotta tell me – what’s with the beer?" I don’t imagine that he’s ever seen me drink one, and certainly not be that possessive about anything. "It’s her nails.", Brian told him with a big grin, before I could respond. “What??” Daniel asked. “Yes, you heard right, it's for her NAILS, she says.’, his Dad confirmed. "Mom,”, Daniel said,”I have heard a LOT of reasons for drinking, but that one is pretty lame.” “Well, no it’s NOT, it’s a health thing.” I countered, “Zenyatta does it.”

Then we tuned in to watch Zenyatta come from 18 lengths behind to finish second in the Breeders Cup at Churchill Downs, just by a nose. An incredible show by a spectacular beast. “Yep, very impressive indeed,”, I said to the guys, “and she ONLY drinks Guinness, ya gotta wonder.”

So.. now I have to make sure I drink the Guinness every single day for two more weeks. Actually, I’ll have to make it 15 more days because there are eight in a case. It’s gotta be done. I’ll report back how my nails are. And if I win any races.

The Final Apple

2010-10-30T08:58:00.000-07:00

I was 5 when my parents built a new house in the apple orchard across from the old farm house where we lived. I remember gingerly walking across the thick wooden plank to look down into the wet hole of the foundation. I still have the smell the fragrance of the dank mud and the new wood. I have the vision of our very first night – everything stark and overly bright. I have the echoes of blank walls and bare hardwood floors. That stuff that makes it homey and absorbs the sounds had not yet been accumulated. I have happy times, sad times, pets and people all centered around that little corner of the world.

That house conjures up a thousand memories, many of them centering around the apple trees that surrounded it. Perching up in them, confident that I was in my own world where no one could see me, but I could see them. The smell of the apples baking on my Dad’s dirty old woodstove in the garage – so delighted that we were to be able to ‘cook’ something ourselves. Playing for hours on end under one old tree where the swing and sandbox lived. Trying to duck under the branches when Trigger the pony would decide that he was taking a short cut to the barn. Watching my own children conquer the same trees that I climbed as a child.

One of my most vivid childhood memories is November 22^nd, 1963. Since we lived in the

for a good part of the year, I was well acquainted with JFK. I had collected campaign buttons and wore them with great pride. I cheered for him to become President because he had children and because I figured he had to be related to Jim Kennedy – an ancient rubby-dub Irishman who worked for us.

It was the last recess and I was sitting at the old piano at the front of the classroom, trying to eavesdrop because it was unheard of for a visitor to come to the school in the middle of the day. I heard the word 'President' and 'assassinated' and was excited because I figured it must mean that he got a promotion, that there must be something bigger than President. When the teacher told us that assassinated meant 'dead', I just didn’t believe her. She was wrong. When my Dad picked us up at school, I told him what she had said and he confirmed, with uncharacteristic solemness, that it indeed was true. Him, I believed. I can see the day, feel the day – typical November – gray, cold and early darkness; it too was solemn. When we entered the driveway, the hired men were all out under the apple tree, filling bags of fallen apples for the horses. I wondered why they were doing a happy thing on such a sad day – didn’t they know. Shouldn't everything stop. That is the image that comes to my mind with thoughts of that day – men with big burlap bags stooping under the apple tree.

Snow apples, Russets, Spies, Crab apples, ones I didn’t know the name – but my favourite were the Delicious. I would run out after school and scour the long grass and fallen leaves for one with the least worm holes. Organic apples they were, all the way. With eating around the worms, the scars and the bruises, it would often take four or five apples to equal one. In the spring Bud and I used the tiny little green ones as ammunition in ridiculously dangerous attacks on each other. I'd use them as heads for stick people, long before I knew of the existence of apple head dolls. I'd fill my pockets with them and coax the foals to become my friend.

Apple pies and apple sauce … I see my Mom in her apron, standing at the sink with piles and piles of apples. When I helped her peel them, each one would be a personal challenge to get the peel off in one strip without it breaking. Success was sweet because it was so rare.

The very first time that I visited Mom's grave, I did not take flowers – I took apples from our yard and laid by the headstone and mourned the loss of my mother and life as I knew it.

The day came in 1990 that we had to sell our childhood home. It took my sister and I months and months to tackle it. It was no longer stark and bare; it was filled with the accumulation of 31 years of living. It held not only the memories, but also the last physical remnants of the lives of so many we loved: our father, our mother, our sisters and brothers and grandparents. All gone, but with bits and pieces of them left there - us the reluctant stewards, needing to make decisions of what to keep and what to let go. We would go in to the house, make a cup of tea and sit there trying to figure out where to start. Then we would both say, ‘I can’t do this today.’, and spend the time talking instead. It took us a full eight and a half months to deal with it – almost like the gestation of a child.

We offered it for sale privately so that we were in full control. One fellow said, ‘Nice house, first thing I’ll do is clear out all these old apple trees.’ ‘Then you won’t have it.’ we bluntly informed him and walked away with him still standing there in the driveway. The wonderful young couple who ended up with it, won our hearts because they answered the first question properly: ‘What about the apple trees?’ ‘We LOVE them!’, they replied and their enthusiasm and sincerity endeared them to us forever.

Their love and care was evident from the beginning and there was great comfort in that. But still, in spite of how happy I was that they had it, and how they welcomed and encouraged us to come back any time, I could not do it. Seven years it took me to enter that house again. It was changed enough inside that it didn’t make me sad, but as I left, I automatically turned to see what time it was. There was a picture where the clock should have been and the reality of life and loss and change was like an electric shock.

I went back today, for what I know will be the very last time ever. After 21 years, our lovely couple has moved and this is their final weekend. It is one more step away from my memories, my childhood and my childhood home. There will be no connection with whoever moves into it now. They won't know us, won't know our attachment; there is no need to go back.

There was no one there today when I stopped by to walk about and reminisce. I was glad - I wanted to be with my own thoughts.

The circle drive which was so huge when I rode my tricycle around it, has shrunk. The immense old maple tree that I thought was the most gigantic and splendid tree in the world, apparently has shrunk as well over the years. It turned into just an ordinary tree.

The garage door where my Mother would bounce off one side or the other, then stick the chrome back on with bandaids, is still narrow. A fifties garage was not meant for a big boat sixties car. An inch and a half clearance on each side took a special skill that apparently none of us in our family ever mastered. The vehicles bore the proof of that.

I sat by the planter where ‘Pete the Budgie’ was buried after a full military funeral – army men and canons surrounding his tiny tin casket. It’s likely still down there, we planted him so deeply. I gazed into the window that my mother’s face is forever etched into – peering out when we drove in the driveway. ‘The kids are home.’, she’d say. "WHEN do we stop being the KIDS?", I’d tease her, being the mother of two myself at that point. "Never. You’ll ALWAYS be The Kids", she’d firmly respond. But she was wrong. Before we knew it, before we were ready, we were nobody's kids anymore.

I wandered around the yard that had nurtured my dreams and imagination. I gazed up to the tops of the trees that were eye level when they were planted. I laid my hands on the same trunk that my parents had touched. I gathered up a bag of imperfect apples for the donkeys, thinking about that gray November day. And I scoured the ground under the Delicious tree for one that had the fewest worm holes and bruises and ate around them.

My sister just lives a mile down the road, so I stopped over there for a cup of tea and a chat. She wasn’t home, so I left the most perfect apple I could find on her doorstep.

The final apple.

October Sky

2010-10-28T19:43:00.000-07:00

The other day I was rushing around like a mad fool – coming from town with a zillion things needing to be done and running late to be at the Little Church. It was torture. Not the pressure or stress, but the fact that the sky was so incredibly incredible and I could not take time to soak it in or take hundreds of pictures of it.

The were still lots of leaves and the combination of the colours: the sky, the trees and white fluffy clouds with smudges of gray illuminated by the sun ... was stunning. It literally took my breath away. I wanted to re-decorate my house in that exact palette. I so wished that I had hours and hours to take my camera and drive around and just capture it all. I knew that in a blink, the grayness of November would be upon us and I would desperately long for this moment.

So I took a detour to our house, grabbed my camera and shot back to where the scene grabbed my attention. Within those four minutes, it had totally changed. The sun had gone behind a cloud and the vibrant blues and grey-blues and green-yellows and white and deep gray were all gone. It was muted and it didn’t move me at all. That is the magic of it all. You have one brief milli-second to grab it. It’s a disappointment when you miss it, but a huge joy when you succeed.

I missed what I was after, but I did get some cloud shots. They were amazing too. Actually, this fall, the sky here has been spectacular. It must be something to do with the atmosphere – the sunsets have been especially glorious and the clouds have been a world of their own. Two year old Gibson even noticed them the other day and said to Ashley ‘Look... fishes in the sky.’ It looked like their aquarium to him. Even Brian has taken notice. He commented that he has seen more rainbows in the past month than he has in his entire life. It pleases me that he is being attentive to the sky now too.

October Sky ... warm, beautiful moments to bring out in the days to come.

I'm Back

2010-10-27T17:10:00.000-07:00

Since the first of September my life has been crazy. Well, in actual fact, it is ALWAYS crazy, but the past eight weeks have been shades of the even crazier days when I was going in way too many directions at once. Moving too quickly. Spinning. It’s Monday. It’s Friday. It’s Monday. It’s Friday. Three weeks gone. Six weeks gone. No time to write. No time to read. No time to think. Worst part is that my babies are getting bigger without me having enough cuddle time.

A new grandbabe, 2,500 hundred photos from two weddings to edit, two weeks out in Newfoundland, two weeks of trying to pull my creations together for the show, the Artisan Show itself and then all the things that it takes to put things in order from there.

All wonderful stuff. All behind me now so I can start to focus on the next step – getting my Christmas line on Ebay. Still lots of other stuff coming up in the next few weeks – a concert we’re organizing for the Little Church, the Vineart fundraiser for Gallery 96, meetings with a new organization I’ve joined, some workshops that I’m offering.

And … catching up on this and The Daily Muse. I miss writing. I miss playing pictures.

But I’m back!

A few shots of the show - VERY few ... was too busy visiting to remember the camera.

Ten:Ten; Ten.Ten.Ten

2010-10-10T19:10:00.000-07:00

Years ago, we were sitting around the dinner table one night when Brian and I got to talking about our Moms' pumpkin pies. I was telling him how good my Mom's pies were - that I could still taste them. He said, 'My Mom's pumpkin pies were awesome too.' 'Yes, they sure were,' I recalled fondly, 'they were different from my Mom's but I grew to really enjoy them, even though I'm not much of a fan of pumpkin pie.'

Back and forth, the conversation went - recalling the texture and the spices and the whipped cream. "My Mom's pie...", then "MY Mom's pie...". One of the kids piped up and said: "Well, we've never even tasted OUR Mom's pumpkin pie."

Sad, but true. They haven't. I have never once in my life made a pumpkin pie. Never. Ever. No pumpkin pie memories for an entire generation. Shame on me.

Actually, I don't make any pies. Except for when I am in Newfoundland. There is rhubarb growing in front of the house and partridgeberries behind it. I use Brian's grandmother's recipe for both and I must say, it kind of tickles me to make a pie out there. Seems like the thing to do when you've got fresh and free fruit growing at arm's length.

I'll eat pie; I just don't make them. I have convinced myself that they are just too much work for the length of time that they last. When I make something that takes a lot of effort, I like it to last for years.

So today ... 10.10.10 ... at 10:10 AM - what was I doing? Something out of character and totally memorable. I was making a pie. Three pies in fact! Lemon meringue, chocolate cream and banana cream. THREE pies. That's more pies than I have made (other than rhubarb & partridgeberry) in the past ... hmmmm.... ten years. And I'm not exaggerating - ask my family; they'll tell you.

Ten, Ten, Ten at Ten:Ten AM, I was making pies and at EXACTLY Ten:Ten PM on Ten, Ten, Ten, I am posting about pies. Insignificant for everyone else in the world - memorable for me!

Sunset

2010-10-05T06:32:00.000-07:00

Poor Brian. I think I might have given him a bit of a startle last night. I was working away at the stove, making supper when I glanced out of the window. I gasped "OH MY GAWD!", threw the stuff I had in my hand, rushed in the livingroom and grabbed something and torpedoed out the door. All the while, he was saying: 'What?' ...'WHAT?' ... 'WHAT???'. I was moving so fast that it took three Whats to throw back 'The SUNSET!!!'. The thing I grabbed was my camera.

The sky was spectacular. Shockingly spectacular. It darn near made my heart stop. My frenzied response nearly made his stop. There was the brightest and most brilliant shade of pink and intense, deep blue spread over the entire west - from one side to the other, not just the usual hot spot that contains the magic.

In my attempt to get closer to it, I had to climb the fence and go across the donkey field. In my slippers. Without soles between that and my feet, I was feeling the odd pile of soft stuff. It wasn't possible to avoid it because I could not take my eyes off of the sky for even one split second. Sunset is fleeting; slippers wash.

Just a couple nights ago, Brian had been witness to my Sunset Frenzy as I rushed down to the causeway in our place in Newfoundland. There's a wide open view there of the water and the hills and the evening sky.

What might have been a few minutes turned into a long excursion because a neighbour who I had never had the chance to meet,was walking along and we had a nice visit. She said 'I thought it was some tourist taking pictures.' 'Nope, not a tourist.' I replied, 'Just an appreciative local.' 'Oh maid, there's been a lot better sunsets than this.', she informed me. 'You should sees it some days.' 'Well, this one's not too shabby.' I responded, assuring her that I didn't consider it a waste of time at all. The sunset was done and the sky was basic black by the time I returned. Poor Brian was likely thinking that I had fallen into the sea, as I've been known to climb the rocks to get a better shot, just as I climbed the fence last night.

These are just a few from the other night:

Glorious sunsets get me downright excited. Always have. There just aren't enough of them. Any time that the sky turns into an artist's vibrant palette, I stop anything I'm doing and glue my eyes to it for the duration.

If I'm driving now, I pull over. I used to try to glimpse them as I carried on, but now I stop and savour the gift. I remember numerous times, driving along with my kids in the car, saying to them 'Look at that sunset! LOOK!'. They'd humour me and say 'Yeah, Mom - we see it.' I'd insist 'No ... LOOK at it. Really SEE it!'. They never seemed quite as impressed as I thought they should be. They'd have their heads down, doing whatever it was that they were doing and mine would be swiveling like one of those bobbing puppies that people used to have on the back window ledge. I'd be going from the road to the sky to the back to see if they were looking, then back to the sky and the road and another shot at them in a frantic attempt to make them learn to appreciate the treasure that we were being given. I've told them 'When I'm gone and you see a particularly gorgeous sunset, think of me. If I was here, I would be saying 'Oh my gawd, would you LOOK at that sunset! Know that wherever I am, I will still be doing the same thing.'

When I returned from my unexpected diversion last night and resumed frying up the wonderful cod that we brought back from the island, Brian said to me: 'There's something I'm curious about.' 'Yeah ...', I replied. 'I'm just wondering ... what exactly do you DO with all these 'oh-my-gawd-it's-wonderful' sunset pictures?'. I looked at him incredulously. 'What do you MEAN... what do I DO with them?' 'Oh, I was just curious ... do you DO something with them? Like, are you making a book? Or are you putting them on that thing you write on? '(meaning THIS thing). 'No, not necessarily.', I answered. 'I just capture them so I can revisit them another day; but I suppose I could put them on that thing.'

So I did.

Yet Another Season Finished

2010-10-03T12:39:00.000-07:00

It’s a good thing that I have kids and grandbabes at home that I want to desperately see. And friends. And Abby and the donkeys. And the farm. It’s the only thing that gets me out the door when it’s time to close this place up for the season.

I get a little weepy. Not boo-hoo, all-out-sobbing, but the lump in the throat and bladder just below the eyeballs type of weepy. I am going to miss my family and my friends here. And our place. It wraps around me and begs me to stay just a little longer. It does that with the air and the clouds, and the beginnings of fall colours that tease me with the splendour to come. It does that with the sun shining bright in my kitchen window and the rocking chair beckoning for ‘one more sit’. It does it with unbelievably delicious smell of the laundry as I bring the last loads off the line and bury my face into it, declaring each and every time ...'How can anything possibly smell this heavenly?!'

It especially does that though, with the smiles and laughter and embraces of the folks that I will miss so much over the next nine months. It’s hard to turn the lights off and leave one more house darkened over the long winter months.

This morning, I made one last trip out to sea with Heber. He fished; I observed. I watched those experienced eyes intently scope out the landmarks. I watched with great fondness as he dropped his line in - remembering countless times over the past seven years when he’s done the same thing with the boat filled with my family or friends. Today it was just the two of us. I quietly savoured every moment and soaked the time deeply into my being.

He fished. I observed. I watched the clouds – gentle smudges on the pale blue sky, suddenly as the wind change, turn into it into a deep, gray palette that totally changed everything about the day. One moment is was July – warm, pleasant t-shirt weather; then literally seconds later, it was late autumn – jacket, hat, blanket and a darkened November feel. Both were stunningly beautiful.

He fished. I laid back and felt the roll of the sea. The waves advanced and receded, advanced and receded – similar to the emotion I was experiencing. I scanned the horizon for whales, that were out there somewhere, and dolphins, which had been spotted the day before on the big causeway. Two of our neighbours drove up to compare results with Heber, then picked their spot a few hundred feet away. Later he told me that they had a number of sharks encircling their boat … ‘little ones’ – just three or four feet. I would have like to see that – I had my camera this time. After missing the sea of hundreds of dolphins, I was not about to leave home without it ever again.

I took snapshots in my head too: the entire image that is far beyond a four by six; and the feel – inside and outside.

When I got back, I made my usual rounds of goodbyes, which takes me throughout the neighbourhood and up to the hospital. Two of my sweet friends are both 93 years old. One fella’s response to my cheerful ‘See you in the spring!’ was a matter of fact: ‘Don’t be too sure of that. You likely won't see me.’ The other, just as matter of fact, said ‘I just might hop in the car and drive up there to Ontario to see you - don't be too surprised to see me.’ They both made me smile.

I thought about some goodbyes last year, which indeed were the final fall farewells for some dear and precious friends. And again the tide of emotion washed over me and the sea rose up to my eyes. I allowed myself those moments of bittersweet memory. Sweet, in that they had so unexpectedly come into my life, and bitter in that it was much too short.

And then I switched gears, got busy covering things ups and taking a mental inventory of what I need to/want to do next year. That and the thoughts of the other half of my world awaiting two thousand miles away, sent the tides rising once again. This time, Joy and Gratitude for having such a doubly blessed, rich life filled with the most amazing people and places.

Photography

2010-09-14T06:04:00.000-07:00

To say that I like taking pictures would be an understatement. I LOVE taking pictures. I am passionate about taking pictures. I am consumed. It's who I am. It's what I do. Last week I drove by an old shed in the middle of a bean field, somewhere out in the country and last night I just had to hop in my car and go and find it again because it was stuck in my mind.

That's the kind of photos I like taking. Ones that catch my eye or my imagination. Ones where the colour speaks to me, and even more importantly, the lighting. I get downright excited about that.

I like to capture things. It's like hunting or discovering treasure. I like to do the photo journalism thing too, catching the moments that tell a story. And I absolutely love taking photos of faces as they go about life.

The other kind of photography, where you have to pose people and set them up with the perfect lighting where you have to figure it out or invent it rather than have it call out to you, is not a favourite activity. All my Inadequacies scream to me then.

They say: 'You have no idea in the world what you're doing! Who are you kidding - you are NOT a photographer. You do not have the right equipment. You don't have a professional type camera. You don't even own a flash.' Actually - they're wrong about that - I bought one for a wedding I'm doing this weekend, it's just that I've haven't been able to bring myself to open it. They dog me anyway: 'You know you DON'T have proper lighting. You don't have the technical knowledge or the education and you know darn well that you well that you have major mental blocks when it comes to f stops and apertures and that sort of thing.' Now, that is the truth. I spend hours each and every day playing with photos, but I have to confess, I cannot absorb the technical stuff. I have a rebellious nature about instructions and subconsciously I seem to go to great lengths just to figure out things my own way. In my own little world, it works. It's when there's an expectation beyond that, those irritating, persistent Inadequacies go on a tangent.

But yesterday I had to shove them down and get on with the job of trying to capture my precious wee grandbabes. After the fiasco with Spencer in June - five hours and only one photograph, I have been letting the Inadequacies win and have stuck to the fields. I keep thinking 'He's still little - we'll do it one of these days.' I thought that because he was such a little guy, we'd get to keep him tiny for longer. Well, seeing him with Georgia yesterday was a huge wake up call. I absolutely have to get past all those issues and capture those sweet faces quickly.

It was a three person job. Over two hours for with only one set up. Almost three hundred pictures and just a couple that are usable. Again, confirmation that this type of photography is NOT what I can do, should do or want to do. It is best left to the professionals and I will stay as far away from it as I can. But for my own grandbabes, I'm going to have to make an exception. They hopefully won't be judging and evaluating the process.

If someone was to be observing how we got this done - the table cloths and the coffee table and the desk lamp, they would surely side with my Inadequacies.

BUT ... it has got to be done. So, Inadequacies, leave me alone - our babies are growing. We're going to give it another shot today.

As an example of my usual 'stretch' in not having the right props and having to come up with something creative afterwards ... have a look at his covering. Of course, I can't put fully naked pictures of our babe splayed - newborn is one thing, but 12 weeks - well, that could be downright embarrassing for a guy. Any clues to what his 'blanket' is?