resentment as dark as a long night

A noticeable crimson tinged  her cheeks stemming from a wave of heat spilling out of her bones while she stood there listening to the same weary words. Extreme opinionated garbage spewed out in a manner that reeked of disturbing righteousness.  Caught in the time between flashbacks and the same old thing, she nodded politely while her flesh rippled in defence.

She never complained. Nor did she ever dispute the person standing in front of her rambling on in a self absorbed manner..... sermonizing beliefs like they were gospel.  She never stopped the conversation even though this other person's diatribe scratched her sensibilities, plucked her anger, and rubbed against  her values.  "No one really wanted to hear what she had to say," she thought.  "So what's the point of fueling a potential head butting confrontation with someone wearing blinders?"

Instead, she swallowed.  
That was what she was taught to do. 

Chew with your mouth closed and swallow.  
Hard.

Stuff it down.  

"All of it,"  the voices bellowed inside her head.

Respect others.  

Don't make waves.  

Don't react emotionally. 

Learn to take it. 

Deflect.  

Intellectualize.  

Ask questions. 

Keep the conversation going on an even keel.  

No one wants to hear your opinion. 

She kept swallowing, having learned well.  As a peacemaker in a sea of entitled sharks, she learned to keep her feelings in check.  Feelings are bloody.   Sharks love to feast on the blood of emotions.  Whenever she had slipped up during her childhood  by speaking her mind, by spilling some of how she felt, the hungry sharks ripped the flesh from her soul.  The scars, invisible to the human eye were visible if one was paying attention.  Paying attention meant listening for what wasn't being said.  Few bothered.

Over the years when the voices around her rose above the emotional timber treeline she learned quickly  to step into the woods ..... to cover herself with armour.  Unfortunately, the armour was such a heavy burden.  It was getting rusty too.  Holes were beginning to form.  Cracks in the armour began to exhale used up air out allowing the  noisy scratchy emotions to seep through. 

Echos from apparitions.  

Long ago arguments.  

Nasty accusations.  

Emotional manipulation.  

Screeching.  Bleeding.  

Ripped muscles on bones.  

Abandoned kindness.  

Unresolved meaning.  

There was no escaping the hurt as it pounced on the stored feelings.  The bottled up, swallowed up unresolved conflict turned into a resentment as dark as a long night.

Raging fear had accumulated deep in her bruised soul.  It had been stirred as it stewed, moving right into the marrow.  Sinewy sins percolated as she ran the other way......... away from the powerful need to 

SHOUT! SCREAM! ACT OUT!  EXPRESS HERSELF!  

But that wasn't allowed she told herself.  That wasn't being good.  It wasn't kind.  Besides, no one really cared about what she thought or how she felt.  Her opinions didn't matter.  She didn't matter. 

Instead............ she poured herself a double scotch, downed it in one gulp.  Then, she poured herself another and another until the resentment resided again. Just like her Mom.  She chose to be numb.

beach glass

So, here I am, sitting at my dining room table in front of my computer.  I have a group of candles burning beside me as the only source of light.  Flickering light. Flickering thoughts as I reflect on blogging. I can't believe I have been writing here in my own little corner of the blog world for 5 whole years.  Who knew I was so yappy? 60 months, 1825 days, and 1458 posts!

5 years later?  Older. Wiser? hmmmm.......... That's debatable.  Have I learned anything? Yes.  Have I changed?  Oh yes, big shifts.  Have I matured?  No.  Have I acquired a few more pock marks, bruises and beauty marks?  Oh my God have I!  Do I still see the world through the lens of the absurd?  You bet.  Has my world expanded?  To infinity and beyond....... collecting blessings and life long friendships as I have ventured. Beautiful blessings that reach out to all corners of this global village we live, work and play in. 

Awareness.  It's a far reaching theme umbrella to write under.  It suits me perfectly because it has allowed me to practise my writing, to experiment with wordplay, to reflect on new learning, obervations, to share stories, to make up rhymes, to broaden and to dissect. Most importantly, it has provided me a forum for personal growth, spiritually, emotionally, cognitively while hopefully offering up my own learning to add to your own learning through stories, poetry, opinion, essays, photography.

I'm struck with the range of topics I've attempted to tackle.  To me, each post seems like a piece of beach glass that I either stumbled upon, or had carefully chosen to display.  Some have been rounded and softened by the rolling waves, some still have pointy angles to them.  Those ones hurt a bit when you close your hand around them.  Shards of glass, all uniquely shaped.  Some clear like the sheets of a window, while others opague with a layer of white chalk on them.  The ones which are the most pleasing to my eye come in light catching greens and rare cobalt blue or porcelain white.

Beach glass doesn't come from nowhere..... they all have an unknown history much larger and grander than the remnant left on the shoreline.  What you see when you pick it up to explore its texture, shape and colour is merely the tip of its story.  Just like the writing I do on this blog.  So much of  what I write is the mere tip of my life's observations.  But just like the beach glass, it is what ends up on the shore of my thinking.......it's what gleams in my thoughts that I end up capturing.   

I look at what I've written and see it as individual pieces.  Then, I stand back to look at the body of work as a whole and I see the mosaic patchwork created.  Under the theme of Awareness, this elemental montage forms a rough worn window on my soul.  If my soul is a cabin in the woods down by the water, this is one of the windows where the light gets in.  Peak through the collage of beach glass and you will see a part of who I am. Not all of me.  

This blog is a slice of my story.  It captures reflected observations, feelings and opinions.  There is so much more I either choose not to share, havent discovered or written about yet.  That's the thing about awareness.  Not only is is a broad theme..... it is an infinite one as vast as the oceans where beach glass is tumbled and molded. 

Miles to go before I sleep.

My blog is a work in progress.  My mosaic window is incomplete.  Just like me............ there is more to learn.  There is more to explore.  There is more to reflect upon.  I am a work in progress.  Just like you!  A human becoming.....

5 years and counting........... I love this place and it warms me right down to my painted toenails that you seem to enjoy it too.  :)

 

painting by Valerie Leri

a ghost just needs a home.....

 

Ana sat crumpled at the foot of the hill, a royal blue stone cupped in her hand. Exhausted in mind and body, she couldn't find the energy to walk up the path as she did everyday. She had lost the impetus to continue. She had lost her way. It simply felt too difficult to carry on with her mission. The meaning of it had slipped out of her grasp.

No matter what the weather, Ana had treked up to the top of the hill to place a stone she had carefully chosen and carried onto the pile which had accumulated over time. This was her lifework. She loved her stones and usually took pleasure in choosing the ones who spoke to her. Over the years, she came to believe stones were a home for spirits. They individually held ancestral stories. They were our collective legend. 

Her best days were when Ana discovered a diamond in the rough......a stone which resonated heat from its core when she cupped it in the palm of her hand. She called those ones "touchstones" because they seemed to carry lovewisdom in them, derived from living in the heart of eternity. Touchstones, she believed held the stories from the past......full of ancestral feelings. Through her eyes, the collection she had accumulated was a living piece of art....a choir. Recently, the stones had become silent. Her mission, she questioned.

There were days when she would fill a whole basket full of stones and carry them up the hill. Most days, however, she journeyed with a single solitary one, like the blue gem she was holding onto. All of them were uniquely imperfect and multi-coloured.....some with pink coral bits of quartz that sparkled in the sunshine, some more muted in a rich brown like the cliffs that framed the river below. One at a time, she would place them onto the evergrowing, everchanging pile, and step back to see how her work had shaped a difference. The hill was indeed growing, as was the sculpture of stone spirits. It had felt right. Her sense of purpose filled her with a productive connection to the rest of the world, that this is what she was put on this planet to do.

Today, she had lost her footing. Her shoes were worn, full of sole stabbing pebbles. Sadly, it also seemed silly all of a sudden, and this awareness tripped her own spirit with used up air. So many people had questioned her lifework over the years, had put up boulders along her path but she was always able to overcome whatever the obstacle. Her optimism and focus usually slayed the negativity and doubt. "A ghost just needs a home....." was her reply.

For some reason though, the opponent's words now haunted her thoughts and the more she listened to them replay in her head, the more she felt rejected. She looked at her worn scarred hands dried and cracked from the salty grit, remnants of her labours, her nails chipped and ugly and was overwhelmed by a sense of futility. Misunderstood and unloved, that's how she felt. Her mission rejected. Her person rejected. When did her own self entwine with her mission? When did they become one in the same? She didn't have the answer.

As she sat in a heap afternoon, Ana looked at the last touchstone she had discovered. It was a smooth blue stone with white cracks etched on its surface. Its size fit perfectly in her palm, but it was far from perfect. In fact, it held character.......with chipped edges softened by the tides. This one  she had carried with her for a long time.  For some reason, she couldn't part with it.  Instead, she had kept it tucked in her pocket for company. 

So, as she sat questioning whether or not this truly was her legend or whether it was about to change, she found herself clutching onto the blue stone rubbing it's softness., hoping the spirit it held would speak reassurances.  She ran her fingers unconciously over its fissures feeling the warmth generated from her touch. It helped her surrender her worries to the air around her. The more she repeated the movement, the more she could feel her muscles relax and her mind clear.

Time stretched on unnoticed as Ana found comfort in her meditation.....so much so that she was startled completely when she looked up and saw a man hiking down the hill close to the path she used everyday. In all of her days working on her mission, she had never seen anyone else on her hill. But, there he was. His steps seemed light and energetic, his arms swinging in purposeful motion. Continuing to stare at him like he was an apparition, Ana stood up to greet him as he reached the bottom of the hill.

"Have you been to the top of the hill?" he asked smiling.

"Oh, yes," Ana replied, "I walk up every morning," her reason kept silently in her pocket cupped in her hand. "And you? Is this your first time hiking in this area? I'm surprised I have never seen you before."

"You've seen the altar then?" he asked boldly. 

Before she could overcome her confusion and gather her thoughts he continued...."Our paths probably havent crossed because I always take my walk at this time of day after I've finished my work. I find this is when the angle of the afternoon sun gives the altar a warm welcoming glow. Somehow, the stones someone has placed together comes alive and sings to me...." The look on Ana's face must've made the man realize she didn't know what he was referring to. He continued..."you have seen the altar, right?"

"No, well yes I have," blurted Ana, "it's just that I see it as a piece of artwork and nothing more."

"Oh, it's much more than that. Maybe you've never experienced the feeling because you're usually here in the morning" he reassured her. "Someone has worked very hard to build a beautiful chantry and at this time of day, when the sun warms and reflects its light off the golden touchstones the spirits share their wisdom with me. I hope you don't think I'm crazy, but I have found a place where I can lay my worries, where I can relax. It is where I come to pray everyday. It's where I give thanks."

"The stones speak to you? You pray there and give thanks?" Ana asked a bit dumbfounded. He tentatively nodded, unsure as to how this woman was receiving the informaton he shared with her.

"They speak to me too," she admitted...." which is why I have walked up this hill everyday with a new stone in my pocket to add to my art. I wanted to give the ancestral stories they hold a home."

"You built the altar?"

Ana nodded tentatively. "I never saw it as an altar. I saw it as spirit sculpture."

"Your piece of art is a place of worship. It is beautiful! Oh! I want you to see it with new eyes and in a new light....come with me," he said with the excitement of a young boy who has just discovered an abandoned treefort.

As they walked up the hill, the sun warming their backs, Ana explained why she was there at a different time of day. She also shared with the man how lost she had felt because her sense of purpose seemed futile to her now. She told him she was going to give up on her mission....and was so worried about what she would do next. He listened without judgement and only asked a few questions as a way to help her find her words.

It was a different path than Ana had travelled on every single day so when they reached the summit, she was approaching it from a new angle. So, as soon as the stones came into her sight, Ana stopped abruptly and looked directly at the pile of stones which suddenly had transformed from an abstract piece of art to what the man had described. She saw the altar. Not only that, she heard the choir of spirits reflected from the afternoon sun.

Smiling, she approached her loving stones....the ones she had given a home to....and knelt down in front of them. The man knelt down beside her and quietly whispered...."You may have started your lifework by providing a place where the stories could find a home, but somewhere along the line, your mission changed.....you have built yourself one."

"I see that now......I see that now...."

Ana bowed her head that day and prayed the only two words needed in prayer.

"thank you."

______________

postscript........  

I wrote this piece over a year and a half ago.  I was in a very different place and it entailed sitting at the bottom of a hill wondering what the purpose was of my writing and the obsession with it. 

We begin projects (ie blogging) with clarity of purpose and so often we lose the thread which ties us to the original reason. Or perhaps the reason for the journey begins to take on a different meaning. For so long, I saw myself as a "collector of stories." The stories others shared had a home within me. They had a voice too when I became a storyteller.  I am a counsellor and a writer.  My blog is the temporary home I chose to collect my "touchstones..."  I set out to create a piece of art through my writing.  I now see that I have been building an altar.  Today for the first time, I see this.  

Amazing grace. How sweet the sound.

Somewhere along the line, as I collected and shared.....the meaning of my work, the direction of my journey began to take on a new shape as I realized the touchstones in my life have been providing me with lessons and have pointed out the direction of a new path. Though it is still a bit blurry.....my vision needs some adjusting, I am finally seeing that perhaps I need to personally find an altar I can call home. 

It wont be a traditional one.  I ain't a traditional kind of gal.  I clearly don't see myself studying to become a Minister working within the walls of a church.  I'd rather be out in the forests looking for waterfalls and talking to lost waifs.  I see myself facilitating...... up in front of others.  My vision however, always  begins at the source of my writing.  This is what will lead me.  This  blog is  where I found my voice.

I have a long way to go.....and I don't know the way or even how to go about it. But I do see it and my God, I'm blessed with the guidance of many to help me along the way. It is what I want. The spirit in me  just needs a home.  The foundation is set.  I am unstuck walking up that hill, a blue touchstone in my hand.  Let the choir sing.  

one stalled muse......

Wow, I'm stalled.  I've started several bloggie posts and haven't the energy or creative ooomph to finish them.  They all seem so contrived and weenie, and I just can't go there.  I'm empty?  Or am I saturated?  I don't know.  Maybe a bit of both.  Whatever it is, I don't seem to have it. 

No flow, no go.  That's how I feel.  Step away until the muse makes an entrance again.  Be patient.  However, I know better.  You can't let the void of ideas and lack of incentive bung you up!  Sometimes, you just have to grab the entrails of one's motivation and grunt through the painful process.  Writer's block is a constipating ordeal.

Actually, I don't think my lack of "flow" has anything to do with writer's block.  I've got a million ideas swimming around in my head.  Phrases and bits of poetry are just beyond my imagination reach.  Topics and stories are formulating.  Two solid script ideas.  A novel idea which absolutely pumped me up last fall when I first started creating the main character and storyline.  In fact, one night I jotted down 10 pages of notes.  It was a freeflow stream of ideas. But then, I started sharing my ideas because of my excitement and kind of lost interest.  That's what happens.  If I talk about a piece i want to write before i actually do it, I tend to lose the drive. 

Many of the stories I want to write about I can't because of the public nature of this venue and the private confidentiality I have to live and work by.  Though I can often develop a post based on a story and turn it into something more general or something that doesn't look anything like my original tale, as I did with the last few pieces.  But, that takes some concentration.  Right now, I'm lacking in that......... that's not a block. That's called feeling unanchored.  There's a disconnect between my heart, my head and my creative side. It feels like there are ka-chunky divots on this creative road that swallow up my ability to find just.the.right.word.  I havent felt like this since my writing spree began 4 1/2 years ago and I started this blog.

Why did I start this blog?  It's original purpose was to help incorporate writing into my daily routine.  Well, that was accomplished and more.  It's an obsession. OK, its more than an obsession. It was also the place to archive first drafts.  I don't think I intended it to be an eternal holding tank, and I didn't expect it to end up being an obstacle to take the next step with some of the writing I'm proud of...........  1346 posts later?  hmmmmmmmmm.......... I know there are a hundred or so of them that meaningful and  have the potential for a larger audience.  This, I have confidence in.

I don't fear the distinct possibility of rejection.  I'm realistic about the chances of any of my work seeing the light of day in the publishing world.  But I know I have to try.  I have to pull some of these piece together and try or I will regret it forever. So, what's stalling me?  The way I see it.............there are two biggies.

1. I suck at organizing and detail work.  I'm not good at knitting, beading, and fine needlework.  It drags me down, sucks my energy,  makes me feel creatively claustrophobic.  I'm much better with open ended projects........ photography fills that for me, as does making wreaths or pulling together big baskets of goodies.  I love flower arranging......... the wilder the better.  My garden is a place of messy perennial blooms and not an orderly row upon row effort.  I don't even dress conservatively.  It constricts me.  I do have an aesthetic eye for colour and composition and I see the fine details.  But, I love the overall charismatic effect of creativity.  

If you asked my boss what my weaknesses are, she wouldn't hesitate........... the paperwork.  My strengths are the BIG ideas, the generation of a project while leading it.  So, put it in creative writing terms, my strengths are in the creative first idea side of things......and then overseeing the construction of a piece of prose with the big picture in my mind's eye.  I don't like to proofread, edit, or get bogged down by all of that.  Ideas trip out of me with lightening speed.  Maybe I'm ADHD?  No.  My attention span is fully firing when I'm engaged and can sculpt from an open hearted opportunity.

2.  The process of writing for me is both sensual and spiritual.  When I sink into the depths of a piece of writing, where just the right word is captured so effortlessly, where time holds no meaning, and the whole world could come to a crashing halt without a whisper of it filtering into my consciousness, I can only describe it as a connection with a Higher Power.  Is it too much to describe it as a heightened sense of becoming?  An enlightened awareness?

It's an elixir I keep returning to taste because it tastes so sweet, so ripe, I want to devour it.  In turn, the writing process feeds my appetite. I can explore, step out into new frontiers.  It stretches me, challenges me, pushes me beyond my comfort zone.  It also allows me to process my thoughts and put words to them.  It is the best tool for enhancing my own emotional literacy.   Consequently, once I have written something and post it here, I begin to move on right away into the next idea.  

The next idea and the previous 50 ideas I've had however, didn't grab hold of me like they used to.  As frustrating as that is, I can't deny it anymore and will have to explore the whys behind the change of wind.   Maybe it's time to seek out the challenges in the discomfort zone of returning to have a gander what I have already written. It's time to revisit and evaluate.  Maybe by doing this, the flow will reappear and my ability to find just the right word will reconnect my heart, my head and my creative side.  That would be such a relief, because to tell you the truth, I havent felt that way in months. 

OH, the details!!!  Please don't let me drown in the editing, tweaking, cutting, rewriting, tossing, threading, beading work ahead.  Oh, and God?  Would you mind dropping in from time to time to check on me like you did when I was in the writing flow?

_____________________________________________________

You could help me out too......... TREMENDOUSLY.  If there is a memorable piece I've written... a particular post that resonated with you....poked you in the ribs maybe.... I would love to know.  Thank you.

hangin' out the laundry....

Get those clothes to the laundry
Get them shiny clean
They go into West Guilford
They use 24 machines.
Because they stick to your skin
The smell is a sin,
They're just not fit to be seen.

(Song written and performed by my friend Kirk, aka Skagg one night while hanging out at a laundromat near the camp we worked at.)

Sometimes I wonder at the interesting little artifacts and snippets housed in my brain. Carmi at Written Inc. has chosen the photo theme, "laundry" and ever since he posted it, this little ditty has been escorting me, as well as the memories of a seemingly ordinary evening doing laundry with a friend in a place so small its not even considered a village. West Guilford, Ontario. Maybe it's bigger now, but back then, it had a laundromat and an old fashioned bowling alley. I think there was a rundown old dance hall too. Nice combo, n'est pas?

Three very distinct memories come from that night......Kirk happily messing with new chord arrangements on his guitar, strumming away and eventually making up a silly song that he eventually performed and taught to the kids at camp (it was a HIT), me chilled and sitting inside the drum of a warm dryer with the door open listening and chatting with him from there. I can imagine what it would've looked like to anyone who happened to walk into the place...... you couldn't see me. You would've only seen a guy all on his own facing a dryer strumming away, responding to the "voice" coming out of the warm dryer. Luckily (and this is the other memory) only an old drunk stumbled in, three sheets to the wind, intent on cleaning up his booty. I can't remember all the items that he threw into a machine, but most definately one of them was the paper bag used to hide his preferred libation........London Supreme perhaps? He was so hammered that he was harmlessly funny.

More Laundry..........

My daughter arrives home today for a two day respite from her camp. Its been two weeks since she was home...... and I can't wait to see her. Sadly, her accumulated laundry will be accompanying her........damp, dirty and LOTS of it. ugh! At least it won't be as crazy as her last trip home. That time, she brought two lovely and exuberantly wonderful new friends home along with their laundry. Oh, no.........I didn't take it all on. That would fall under the category of "Enabling Parenting Techniques..." We all took turns until our dryer heaved a sigh of relief when it was done. For the most part, we were organized and kept everyone's stuff in their own piles. However, I have pulled out a couple of thongy looking bits of material out of my underwear drawer that I know for a fact ain't mine, and wonder if they could fit anything but a Beanie Baby.

For some reason, the camp Martha is attending doesn't have laundry services arranged, which is crazy! Given how yucky wet it has been since they officially turned this country into a Rain Forest zone in June, I can't imagine how anyone there has stayed ahead of the drizzle, grime and mud. When I was at camp, every week each group of campers and staff (usually 8 campers and two staff) would sort their collective pile and stuff it ALL into assigned canvas bags the size of large mail bags....... for transport to West Guilford. Can you imagine??? 120 kids, 30 staff.........??? We sent it just after dinner one night and it would arrive clean, folded and still warm by breakfast the next day. It was a miracle I tell ya!! A freakin' miracle! Though I did feel sorry for the folks on the other end who put in a full night of work.

24 machines........... making everything shiny clean.

I remember one "laundry" night after a particularly wet week of fun and frolics. We had played some kind of wide camp game which ended in a fun filled Kangaroo Court. The youngest group of boys who lived in a cabin together called "Bears Claw" somehow won the chance to have their choice of camp counsellor tuck them in and read them a story. They chose me. What an honour! So, off I went that evening to share my best story voice to a bunch of 7 year old boys.

When I arrived, I was so surprised to find them ALL in bed already with their sleeping bags pulled right up to their chins. Normally, they were a rambunctious crew. I had figured they would be hanging from their bunkbeds being silly. Instead, they seemed overly nervous about me being in their cabin. I wondered how long it would actually take me to get them all sleeping before I could leave and let them be for the night. I also wondered what was going on....it felt like there was a secret amongst them, which I wasn't privy to. Well, it turned out that their own Counsellors (Skagg being one of them...and we know how he feels about cleanliness. He wrote a song about it!) sent EVERYTHING to the laundry except for one pair of gotch per kid.

Even though I was a grown up in their eyes, the thought of having a "girl" around knowing they were only in their skivvies was beyond the pale! Years and years later, at a celebration held in Toronto for all the staff who had worked at Kawabi, I sat with a few of those same boys....all grown up in their 30's and had a beer with them. I hadn't seen them since that summer. It had been my last one as a camp counsellor. So, when I spotted them sitting together all rowdy and having fun, I had to join them! And the memory of me visiting their cabin that night was mentioned in laughter. :)Hanging Laundry...............

There is nothing more aromatically inviting than the smell of crisp clean sheets dried in the summer breezes on a clothes line. Its funny how there used to be rules about not hanging out your laundry on a Sunday. Offensive to God? Was it just that you werent supposed to do any work on that day, so hanging out the laundry was a no no? I'm sure there were many homes back when this was an issue that were filled to the rafters with wet things draped everywhere..... just so there wouldn't be any nosey neighbours tongues clicking! We sure have strange human rules don't we?

This summer hasn't been a great drying season..........for the hay or the laundry. So, when a nice day happens to show up in between the sheets of rain, you can count on every single person with a clothesline to be busy hanging it out no matter what day it is. Crisp and clean once again....... for a while.

For more Laundry episodes and photos.............check out Carmi at Written Inc. He and the others have a few picture stories to share......

Meet the Author of THE FEY: Claudia Hall Christian

Welcome friends! I'm so excited to announce that I'm the Canadian host of Claudia Hall Christian's Book Blog tour. Through the virtual magic of "blog-energy," our writing paths crisscrossed a while back and ever since we have been regular readers of each other's hijinks, heartspills and hilarity.

Personally, I was pulled into her dynamic and interactive blog knowing I had found a person who was actively working on a dream, using both her head and her heart. I liked what I read and I loved the sassy personality that is my Colorado blogfriend. Optimistic, respectfully opinionated, and kind, Claudia puts out unconditional positive energy. I love visiting her site, Out on a Limb with Claudia (link on my sidebar)

Recently, Claudia launched the publication of her novel, The Fey, a gripping thriller chalk full of espionage, fast paced twists and turns, and a whole lot of page blazing passion. In fact, the story brims with threads of expressive feelings which weave the characters together with loyalty for one another and a deep sense of loving respect, all revolving around the main character, Sargeant Alexandra Hargreaves, also known as The Fey.

It had been a while since I picked up and read fiction, though it used to be my number one love before I began writing again, and my reading of choice morphed into mostly non fiction to feed my own muse. So, I was looking forward to getting lost in a story that would transport me into another world. Claudia's talents did not let me down. In fact, I sat down, cracked open the book and for the rest of the day I was happily lost in the lives of Alex the Fey and her band of risk taking, large living, sexy spirited team of dedicated men who worked for the American military. I was hooked from page 1. Now how often can you say that about a novel? The Fey is a terrific read, comparable to all the great spy genre books. And I've read dozens of them! Claudia has hit this one out of the park!

So it is with great pleasure that I welcome Claudia here as she tours the blogworld promoting her book and sharing a little bit about herself and the writing process..... Claudia? Welcome to Fredericton, New Brunswick. Let's just jump right into the questions shall we?

Where did the story idea for Alex the Fey originate?

Boy, that’s a good question. I’m not quite sure. In a dream like state, Rebecca Hargreaves came and sat down on the edge of my bed. She came night after night for at least a week. I couldn’t eat or sleep until I started working on the first draft of The Fey.

Once your imagination kicked into gear, where did you go from there in planning out your novel and the characters you've beautifully brought to life?

I didn’t really plan out the novel. I simply worked to understand, and speak for, these characters. I wrote a lot – back story, front story, and lots of side stories. I wrote three entirely different versions of this story until I felt like I had the story right. My attempt is to be a clear scribe for my characters.

How much research was involved in the process?

I did a lot of research. Although I’ve known quite a few people in the military, I’ve never been in the military. There was a lot to catch up on. I’m also not Catholic, so I needed to uncover minor details which help make the story feel more real. And, while my family is originally from Northern Ireland, there was a lot that I needed to research there.
Gratefully, the Internet is a vast resource of people and information. I was lucky enough to be able to find almost everything I needed to know either through someone on the Internet or on various Internet sites.
Newsweek is another fabulous research tool. I have a subscription to the magazine. I clip out interesting articles then scan them so I’ll have them always. I’ve learned a lot from different Newsweek articles.

Who is your favourite secondary character and why?
It depends on the day. lol. They are each rich and interesting characters. I like different things about them. And, as the Alex the Fey series continues, we learn more about them.

As I finished the book, I was left with a desire to know more about Alex and her relationships with her team. I also wanted to know much more about the men she's related to. I could see how so many of your characters had the potential to be the lead in a storyline. Tell me a bit about where you will take us in your next installment.
Learning to Stand is the second in the Alex the Fey thriller series. The books begins in Paris where Alex and Raz begin to clean out the Fey team storage locker. In this book, Alex must start moving on from the events in her past. Of course, there’s lots of romance, rip roaring action, and laughter along the way.
The third installment, Who I Am is the most personal book of the Alex the Fey series. In this book, we get an inside view as each character must come face to face with himself or herself. We also have lots of laughs, adventure, and romance.
Learning to Stand is undergoing final edits for publication right now and Who I Am is in first draft form. There are eight books outlined, but I will continue writing the series as long as the characters have something to say.

Now, for your own personal Unconscious muttering....words related to The Fey :) (this is a Sunday regular word association post on Claudia's blog, Out on a Limb.....check it out and join in!)

courage :: to breathe
conflict :: ed
terrorist :: revolutionary?
secrets :: kill
queen bee :: lays 1500 eggs a day in the summer
Colorado :: is near the center of the United States

Paris :: my favorite city on the planet
suffering :: passes
intrigue :: fascination
passion :: to live, laugh and love

Here are a few "Vanity Fair Proust" questions for you Claudia, ready?

a) What is your idea of perfect happiness?
I think happiness comes from knowing and accepting yourself. Perfect happiness is when I know that nothing is personal and everyone goes through what I’m going through. With my ego out of the way, I can just live my life, to the best of my abilities, in the manner in which suits me.

b) What is your most treasured possession?

The people in my life that love me.

c) Which words or phrases do you most overuse?

Just <--sneaky little weed of a word.

Simply <-- overhyped, toxic word that means almost nothing


d) What is your greatest fear?
That I will get caught up in my own dream and miss my life.

e) What is your motto?

“Why not?”

f) Honey or maple syrup?
As you know, I am a beekeeper. I will let you in on a secret. I can’t eat a lot of sweet things. In fact, I can only eat a tiny bit of honey or maple syrup. I do love our home grown honey. It’s different every year depending on the weather. I’ve heard people say that about maple syrup, but I don’t use it enough to notice.

Thank you! That was fun! Friends? If you're looking for a summer book to take to the beach, or if you live in the southern hemisphere and are itching for a story you want to sink your teeth into on a dark cold evening under the duvet, The Fey is just the right choice. If you're looking for a fresh new novel for your bookclub, why not choose a good fast paced thriller? I wholeheartedly recommend The Fey, and personally look forward to the next in the series.

Claudia? You've done well!!! Congratulations!!

To order The Fey, simply click on this link..... If you use this code: CCEESWU3, you will receive a 10% discount on your order.

a vision of you.....

I could be caught up in the most mundane errand and a surge of awareness presents itself by tickling my intuition located in the pit of my stomach. I'm left with a vision of your being, clear as midday, like you're standing before me rather than an apparition inside a memory. What's so fascinating to me is that there never seems to be a preceding trigger....no song snippet, no reminiscing thought of a time we were face to face catching up over a shared meal. It seems like this surge of you appears like a random flash of light that shines into a crevasse I'm not even acknowledging at the time I'm focused on the routine.

I see you. I see you inside me.

I feel your wrinkled smile behind my own eyes.

You presence warms me.

My first thought is to wonder if the same surge has struck you.....if at that exact moment you have a clear vision of me in you. Then, I wonder if you're alright. Because it is so startling...the poke you've left in my head....the stirring of my senses........, the connection I feel with you right there and then, I lose momentum for a second as I tumble towards you.

Sometimes when there is no way of talking to you or sending you an email, I whisper your name as a way to acknowledge the synchronistic feel, as my way of sending out a smoke signal into the wind hoping it will find you wherever you are, doing whatever you're doing. I whisper a message, send you my kindred echo to flow outward in a rippling wave hoping it will get caught in an air pocket once silent, now filled with a piece of my heart.

I wonder.....do you ever hear it? Do my telepathic messages touch you? Do they ever reach you in the middle of that moment? If I phoned you right then, even after all this time of not directly communicating, would you answer knowing it was me? I believe you would.

Sometimes, and NOT when I'm driving, I close my eyes to process my temporal visit with you, my eternal friend..... to prolong the happening....to register the meaning. What is its meaning, you ask? I honestly don't know the full story behind the reason for our woven souls....why its you and why its me. Chances are we won't figure it out in this lifetime. As you know, most everything I try to find meaning...I try to reason. I'm a "I want to know it person...." But when it comes to why God tossed us together in the first place, I'm calmly fine about it. For me, our connection is a lesson in providence. He does have a sense of humour, God. Who would've thought? No one would've predicted.

God had the original vision didn't He? We are the recipients of a gift. I knew it the moment it happened and I smile knowing that our entwining souls were a part of His gameplan. His lesson for us unfolds as it will.......beyond tangibility outward into a realm where answers are spoken by intuitive knowing.

No words. Just heightened insight. The best kind of vision there is....

_______________________________________

Sunday Scribblings word prompt this week is "vision." Timely since I experienced one of these moments just the other day. Do YOU experience this with a person in your life? There are a few people who "live inside me" and journey with me, some days with more prevalence than other days. What fascinates me about the kindred visions...the strong multisensory synchronistic feelings I receive is that they have grown in intensity since I began writing again and have connected with a few bloggers who have become near and dear to my heart. Though they live far away, I do experience moments when my vision of them are as clear as day. It is a gift I never expected when I began blogging and its one I treasure deeply.

For more eye popper vision...check out the Sunday Scribblings site.

hang a shiny star upon the highest bough.......

Noon.......the day before Christmas Eve.

A man dressed in a smart tailored suit and smart italian leather shoes, looked at his watch as he rushed out of the boardroom from a morning meeting. He hadn't bought any presents for his family yet. Too busy with matters of grave importance pertaining to the firm, he had given himself the lunch hour to do his shopping. He had to be back to the office for yet another meeting at 1pm sharp. Disturbed that he was pulled away from his work to shop, he wore his annoyance all over his tired face....a face that once exuded zestful energy and not one wrinkle. Now it held furrows and frowns. Burden weighed him down.

Christmas this year seemed more of an irritation than a celebration to him. He could do without it. Too many important things to attend to. He was going to have a couple of days off and the very thought of slowing down seemed foreign, like a missing memory. It comforted him to know that despite the "downtime," he would be able to stay wired and connected through his blackberry and his laptop. As he considered the amount of work he had ahead of him, he stepped out onto the busy street bustling with other harried business people and shoppers rushing past looking as haggard as he felt.

The air was crisply fresh, unlike the staleness of the boardroom and he took some good breaths to fill his tired lungs. The snow began to fall lightly which made the pavement slick. He carefully walked towards the parking lot, talking on his cellphone as he passed the people on the streets like they weren't human, passed the young homeless kid busking for money. He reached his car, got in got in quickly and headed to the shopping mall, only to realize that salt stains had penetrated his prized shoes and the back cuff of his suit. He cursed the air and rammed the car into drive.


It took ages to find a parking spot. With the sounds of cheesy jazz sprinkled Christmas songs pouring out of the car radio, he felt like he was in the middle of a nightmare. Not only did he detest shopping, he abhored the sweatiness of the crowds. While he waited for the woman to get into her car and pull out of the parking spot, he texted two clients and checked his emails, then pulled into the space. Before he got out of car, he pulled the list his daughter had passed to him this morning on his way out the door. She had told him that she made a list of items her Mom would like and a few she would like too. He unfolded the paper and sat staring at the 4 words scribbled down.....

"The Spirit of Christmas....."

"hmmmmm"...........he thought........"it must be the name of perfume."

"Do you still have any spirit of Christmas left?" asked the very busy businessman to the woman behind the perfume counter.

"Why......yes I do I think, though I'm running out very quickly. I've been on my feet behind this counter for hours listening to the same bloody carols over and over again while spritzing enough perfume to gag an elephant......but, yes i think I still have some spirit of Christmas," she stated, a little flustered about her long winded answer.

Puzzled, the man obliviously carried on......."can i see some please......."

"See what exactly?" asked the clerk, wondering if this serious looking man wanted her to sing O Holy night to get him the mood or something.

"This Spirit of Christmas....my wife and daughter want it for Christmas" he answer with a note of impatience in his voice.

"I don't have a perfume with that name but let me see if I can find one that has the aroma of the season. Maybe that's what they were referring to........ here is one........" She sprayed it onto a piece of paper and let him smell it.

Wasting no more time on this pedantic process, he gruffly stated,"Gimme two. "

As she wrapped up the purchase feeling his disdain and impatience, the clerk suggested that perhaps his wife and daughter were referring to something entirely different. He took the parcel, turned and walked away without even acknowledging her, but thinking about what she said. Maybe they did mean something else. "What a pain in the ass this is! I feel like I'm on some scavenger hunt for God's sake," he mumbled to himself as he headed to the book store.

Without wasting time, he marched up to the very busy bookstore Manager who was surrounded by a handfull of patrons quietly waiting their turn for his attention. The very busy entitled businessman butt through the crowd and interupted the Manager......."Can you show me where the spirit of Christmas is? I'm in a hurry."

Having dealt with this scrooge type before, the Manager pointed at the second aisle and said....."you'll find all things spirit related on the second shelf near the back of the store. Good luck to you."

The business man pushed his way through the crowd again and barged down the second aisle until he was standing in front of a stack of books all with the word " spirit " in the title. He grabbed one entitled "Everything you need to know about the Spirit of Christmas but were too afraid to ask......." and another "Let the Spirit Move You. Finding the Right Positioning for Maximum Enlightment." He stepped in front of the waiting patrons, paid with his Visa and marched out the door. In no time,his mind already back in the boardroom, he was back in his car, headset on, peeling out of the parking lot.

When he reached the office, he took the parcels to his secretary and asked her to wrap them for him....... She looked at the perfume and book titles and asked him why he chose those particular items.

"Sandy and Anna told me they wanted the spirit of Christmas this year. So, I went to the perfume counter and the clerk who was a nutcase and told me that this perfume smelled like the spirit of Christmas. Then she suggested maybe that's not what they meant. So, I thought maybe they wanted books on the spirit of Christmas, so I picked up these two. They seemed to fit the bill, " he answered. Will you wrap them for me? I have to get to the meeting and I don't have time."

"Of course I will," said the very lovely and insightful secretary. "I'd love to. Go off to your meeting and don't worry about it."

She had known this business man for a long time and had worked with him for many years. They were a good team, though she had been worried about how much he had changed.......how his love of life had somehow slipped out of his repetoire. It had happened in rapid succession after the death of his grandmother, the one person he always relied on and then the subsequent disappearance of his son whom he had pushed out the door after a longstanding row between the two of them over his son's career and personal choices. It seemed like a one two punch he never fully recovered from. Instead he immersed himself in the firm's business and repressed the desolation rather than dealt with it. It seemed like an emotional domino effect, and she wondered if he had purposefully isolated himself, or put up a protective shield so as not get caught feeling hurt by the people he loved again.

She decided it was time to intervene a little.......time to help him let go of the shield. So, as her boss entered the boardroom for yet another meeting, she pulled on her coat and headed out of the office........books and perfume in hand........in search of the spirit of Christmas. She headed down the snow slick city street, and stopped to throw some coins in the busker's hat which was laying on the ground and then looked up into the man's eyes and saw a twinkling familiarity.

"Josh?"

to be continued.....

a mere shadow

I'll never forget first learning in high school about the bombs dropped on Hiroshima. The most poignant part of the lesson, what made it real was knowing that what was left of some people was an imprint of their former selves on the pavement. All that was left behind was their shadow. Their bodies had been incinerated. I have often wondered if the gas chambers in Aushwitz are still filled with the shadows of the millions of Jews who were murdered there. I've never been to there, but my guess would be that there is a strong sense of presence placed on the whole compound.

Perhaps shadows are soulprints; no two are alike.

When I catch my own shadow pouring out of me, it makes me feel less alone. Maybe that's why melancholy hovers on a cloudy day..... lost shadow, lost soul.

Shadows humanize objects. When I see the bare branches of a tree projected on the side of a building, it seems like its an embrace. They connect us to nature. We have that in common. Human, animal or object, our shadows touch down on the earth where we all evolve from, and where we will end up. They are our imprints of life signifying the time between birth and death.

What forms them? What substance are they made of? I like to think that mine is filled with the spirits both past and present who are keeping an eye on me. Loved ones who have died. Memories held dear. Courage to face the unknown. Reassurance from a guardian angel who may be watching over me. Conscience needed to help me make decisions or to guide me along. Whispering prayer that never ends and keeps to the beat of my movement and thoughts.

It is like my sober second thought mixed with encouragement to stretch my limits. I wonder if God hangs out there, walking along with me.........and when my shadow disappears in the night when lights are dim and the noise goes internal.......maybe that's when He seeps into my soul and stretches me the most?

Do they have a shelf life? We don't take them to our graves do we? I don't think so. The shadows left on the pavement in Hiroshima or in the gas chambers in Auschwitz.........where did they go? They are imprinted on ours as a new painful layer of awareness. We carry their shadows. We carry them.

And when we die, where will our shadows go? They will fold into the lives of our loved ones as a means to keep our stories alive. It makes me think that shadows are our collective story...........one with no beginning and no end....I find that idea reassuring.

this week's photography theme is "shadow." For more interpretations and photos, please visit Carmi at Written Inc.

tonic for her clenched soul

Another restless night as the wind outside whipped up storm clouded confusion. It was a persistently lonely howl on a moonless planet that managed to push in between the souls who tossed and turned as they wrestled with their dreams. The wind encased them, stripping away any sense of connectivity to one another.....like coffins separated by walls of dirt. It felt like eternity soaked into one long, long night.

Darkness finally turned into daybreak. It was a daybreak, however, without an end to the elements speaking in anger. No lipstick sunrise on the horizon, only the welcoming of grey laden skies weeping in grief with no end in sight. The wind was winning over humanity. Dominance laced with growling moans of lost ghosts demanding refuge, it wailed in pain.

She lay in bed listening to the howls caught in the abandoned branches stripped of green light and realized that her own thoughts and feelings surged inside her with as much ferosity as the wind. Thorns cut into her own clenched aches like a harmonious dirge. Without hestitation, the winds outside upped the ante slamming gusts of rain against the side of the house. Like it was responding to her thoughts, the wind challenged this very idea that this women's ache equalled the wrath of the wind. It shook the foundation of the house, splaying painful torrents against the windows. It lifted the soggy leaves and broken discards up into the air with sorrowful wailing gales from the lost souls.

"I dare you," the wind shouted....."I dare you to believe your wrath is more powerful than my own."
"I DARE YOU to show me!"


Alarmed by the very idea that the wind was speaking to her, the woman's eyes popped open. It was challenging her to what? A dual of sorts? She was too tired......too exhausted to find the energy to respond. Her internal wanderings fed by her own indecisions, anger, frustration and tears of loss and what might have beens provoked the desire to simply pull the covers up over her head and drown out the mighty boastful wind. But, she was stronger than that and never ever stepped away from a challenge. In no time, she was dressed and out the door as she pulled on her rain slicker to go for a walk into the wind. Determined, she marched right into it's eye, up the hill to the fields flooded with new rain and muck, her soul clenched anger feeding her the energy she needed.


The wind beat her back, but she persisted to push through it's wrath as it wrapped around her body, making her coat flap behind, making her face pull in it's rapture. Her hair quickly became drenched; her shoes muddied in the mixture of cloudspills and wet clay. At first her own thoughts bellowed back at the wind..............rage against rage............sorrow bumping into sorrow......pain pushing pain..... her own torrent of tears spilled with the rain.

Why is life so difficult, she asked? Why do I have to suffer so much when I know what I want? Why can't the happiness and not the struggle be the gift from God? The wind spitwhistled through her, filling her ears with sound as she trudged up the hill. Before she knew it though, she found herself standing at the top of the hill overlooking the swollen river, angry in it's own right, flowing like a large belch of brown sludge. The canopy of trees surrounding the field were bent in mercy as their roots held on in frightful hope. She was surrounded by the nature which normally acted as a refuge. Today, however they seemed to be fighting their own battles. Or maybe, they fought alongside her?

She took it all in, surveyed the landscape held ransom to the vengeful wind, and suddenly found her internal noise was being buffered by what seemed like the groans of a thousand ghosts, in much more pain than she had ever suffered. Their pain became hers. Her pain then molded into theirs and soon she realized that though she was standing in the field defiantly all alone, she was part of the swooning forces of nature. A thought entered her muddled head. Someone had once told her that all it takes is to look at one grain of sand and one would know the glory of creation. One grain of sand she thought, as she acknowledged the fury churning in the river down below, and the wind all around her. One grain of sand held the mystery. And with that one thought the wind turn into gusts. It stopped it's incessant bellowing and took a breath. In between the gusts, when there were minute lulls, the wind's loud voice turned into a whisper which echoed one word over and over again like a mantra ..... repent ..... repent.... repent. Then it would kick back into a gale.

She heard it clearly......... repent....... ask for forgiveness......... feel the shame and guilt and ask for forgiveness. Forgiveness for what she wondered? The world blasted against me, what do I have to do with how this forsaken life has unfolded? I have tried and tried to do what is right, what I believed was my responsibility. I have lived as best as I could up to the standards expected of me, and yet I am constantly let down, diminished, abandoned, rejected. Why should I repent for God's sake??? What do I have to repent??? I just want to be recognized for who I am and not rejected or left on the sidelines.


"Humility," the wind responded....."Defiance. Not relinquishing your strong desire to control the forces instead of realizing you are one with them. A speck of sand may seem inconsequential at first glance, but it holds the mystery of all of creation. A speck of sand washed up onto a shoreline has surrendered to the elements and has allowed itself to be validated as one of many. No one is more special than anyone else. No grain of sand feels special. It is simply part of the universe, as you are. A speck of sand and YOU are one in the same."

This message brought her to her knees in realization that she was trying too forcefully and in the meantime brushing back the people and the forces who were in her life to befriend her. Rather than accept herself for who she was, she constantly fought back and in so doing left people in her wake feeling threatened by her yearnings. Shame washed over her as the dawning pressed on her temples. Destiny cannot be thwarted. Destiny cannot be altered no matter how hard you try to manipulated the circumstances. Trust in the universe is the way to be. Sure we have the strength to help overcome some day, but it will only happen if one trusts that life will unfold as it should.

Enlightened, she fell into a heap on the ground and thought about all the winds she chased after......all the causes she fought in what she had considered were good deeds. She thought of the people in her life who mattered, the moments in her life which mattered. The pictures played quickly through her mind and then came to a sudden halt when she finally realized that the world wasn't an "us against them scenario." Rather, it was a single solitary oneness.....the essence of all that she was made of was an accumulation of the past which was held in the ground she knelt upon and the future which was held in the hands of God. At that moment, she looked up into the skies and let the rain wash over her like a cleansing baptism.

Time lost meaning as she knelt in the thinness of the moment of feeling a sense of surrendering peace as she spoke the humbling words....."please forgive me....."

Soaked, tired and vulnerable but also feeling empowered, she pulled herself up and let the wind carry her down the hill to her home where the people she loved were waiting for her to make breakfast....a big Sunday breakfast as always. She couldn't wait to put the kettle on to make herself a hot cup of tea......tonic for her soul. It was time to restart the day with a new set of eyes. It was time to give thanks.


****Written with a lot of help from The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho. I highly recommend the book if you havent read it yet. *****

I dare you...........

Express a new idea, write something deliciously unique, create a piece of art never seen before, dance like no one else......arms flinging and body gyrating while spinning and spinning, formulate a thesis that daringly asks a question many believe can't be answered, challenge the status quo, stretch out the boundaries of acceptability and you've entered into the realm of the scandalous.

Step out of the norm into the wilderness of the unknown, question society's common beliefs, march into a place of worship wearing a gypsy costume..........DANCE down the aisle and sit right up at the front with the family who has ALWAYS sat in that particular pew for generations. Sing the hymn from your heart boldly, shake everyone's hands and tell them they are all BEAUTIFUL. Wish them a glorious day...... Scandalous stuff!! Why? Because this behaviour is chaotically unpredictable, unexpected and it makes discomfort wake up.

JUMP out of your routine. Wear red. Did you know that research has shown that men are more attracted to a woman who wears red? It's true! I know that when I wear my shiny red rainboots with my powersuit, businessmen in their powersuits stop, stare and smile............AT MY FEET! So, what do i do? I make them TAP, TAP...... while I exclaim...."I DO have cute feet, don't I??? These boots make them smile!" After that, I often hear them mumble something that sounds like.........."she's bonkers........yeah, scandalous really......."

I love being scandalous......not really rudely or terribly disruptive, just a bit eccentrically. I love throwing a little extra spice into the savoury stew of life........love shaking things up, just a bit.....saying something a tad outrageous in the middle of a counselling session when the timing is right or when i'm teaching a class. It perks up the interaction, spreads some humour, takes someone out of their head when they need to get out of there for a breather. CRAZY? Why the hell not?

I have been known to make a very good analogy between what it feels like to wear a bra for the first time and learning how to apply a counselling technique to a mixed group I was teaching at the University. After a while, you don't feel the bra anymore.....after a while, counselling becomes second nature. See?

The women all nodded in complete understanding.......the men?? Some of them nodded, which of course made me wonder if they were secretly wearing a push up under their hoodies........no, I didn't ask...........just thought my own scandalous thoughts....... BUT, most of the guys in the class looked shocked and a bit dumbfounded.....possibly wondering who the hell it was that would hire a kook like me to teach crisis counselling....?? Then, I changed the analogy from a bra to a athletic protective cup and jock strap.......and they began to nod. Hmmmm.....now I'm wondering if they were wondering how i knew how uncomfortable a piece of rounded plastic protecting one's jewels feels like....??hmmmmm.......

Remember that scandalous craze called streaking in the 70's? Men and women impulsively stripped down to their bare essentials and dashed through crowded rooms, jumping and bouncing and flailing their netherbits like rogues gone wild. Hilariously daringly scandalous at the time, and people loved it. Well, probably not the anal retentive Bible thumper types who succumb to the vapors when the very idea of swaying ones hips is suggested. The whole wide world is scandalous in their eyes.........I mean if Tele-tubbie Tinky Winky, you know the one with the purse, can cause such a hocus-pocus ruckus because of the PURSE, well pale nakedness flying through a cafeteria would send them into a hyperventilating tailspin!

There is a juicy streaking story in my family, which at the time was really considered crossing the line of decorum. My father in law, known to all who loved him as Buzzie, was once in the Ontario cabinet in the high profile position of Solicitor General. Though he was known to be a bit of a rabel rouser and he always enjoyed a good joke, this time he was only in the dark on this one until the incident played out. Then, he heard about it. Turns out, he passed on the "government" Leafs tickets for a particular game to his adoring daughter, who in turn passed the ice level tickets onto a friend. The friend who had many outstanding debts and no money to pay them off decided he would set up the ulitmate bet..........he bet all the folks he owed money to that he could somehow manage to get onto the ice at Maple Leaf Gardens and run naked across the blue lines. SURE!

So, on the night of the game, buddy fella donned a one piece mechanics work coverall and headed off to the game.....at some point during a lull in the action, he unzipped, stripped and JUMPED over the boards an onto the ice..............slipping and sliding and hoping not to get too close to an errant skate blade........pumping his fists in the air! BETS all paid off!! oooooweeee! Of course, the sleepy sports writers (this was in the dark blue period of the Leafs history where they couldn't score if their lives depended on it, so there was very little to write about) scribbled the story and scrambled to find out just who owned the season's tickets! Oooops! The Government of Ontario.....thank you very much. Poor Buzzie was left with some 'splaining to do.

I'm sure it was really really embarrassing and very scandalous at the time. I wasn't part of the family then, so I don't know the intensity of the rage right after the incident. But, what I do know is that it has become one of the most cherished and funny stories to come out of the Buzzie's political years.

Funny, the more I think about the whole idea of this type of scandalous activity.....where no one is hurt......where morality is tickled, not stomped on, the more I feel that we don't pinpoint what is really wickedly wrong. A determined life inside a bubble and not breathing anything but stale air filled with old ideas is where i think the scandal lies..... yes, what is scandalous is living a life where discomfort is dismissed.

The prompt this week for Sunday Scribblings is scandalous.........the word just hisses off the tongue doesn't it? For more interpretations, check out their blog......right Here.