tangerine pink kisses

"Hey Muskie, can you encapsulate your week in one sentence?"

"Sure!  It was a week when I have been emotionally absorbed by funerals, cartwheels and human spirals.  In other words, I was captured by deep sadness, relieving gladness and challenging madness."

"That's two sentences."

"oh.  Clearly I need an editor.  Can I add a bit more?"

"Why not?  You're the one with your fingers on the keyboard...."

"True....I AM the master of this domain.   No matter how sad, glad or mad it was, the serenity I felt at the end of today while driving home along the tranquil Saint John River towards the glorious setting sun filled me with awe.  Like I was smothered in tangerine pink kisses. Thank you God.  You blow my mind.  Daily."

just plain sad.

Disconnected.
Awkward.
Off balanced.
Reflective
Wondering

Five words to describe how I'm feeling right now. Thank you Pip for this really helpful exercise. Sometimes you just have to start with the feelings.... to dive right in there to be able to figure out where to go from there eh, my beautiful emerald friend? All those feelings of imperfection....

What a sad confusing day it has been. Surreal too. In a very strange way, during that sickening whoosh of emotions when you're first informed that someone you know and care about has died and responding/reacting to the news, there are thinthreaded silver moments when bits of light come through to touch you on your temples and in your heart.... moments which add a gloss to what is otherwise a very emotional time, which moisten your tears with the salt of life. It takes a while to see them though. The taste of the salt helps. Its a reminder that suffering and pain and death all play roles in life lived.

There are a few cultural and religiously based rules and rituals we follow when we are faced with the stark cold realization that only a death can initiate. Thank God for these, as they act as a guide to follow when darkness is so deep we are blind to the next steps to take. We'd flail even more if we weren't supported by specific steps we must take. But, there are no rules for the emotions are there? People react so personally at different points of awareness, over different stages of the initial grief, in a fog of disbelief so thick its difficult to know when the waves will hit. Don't ever believe they will be held back........ even the calmest harbour is drenched with the waves brought on by the news that someone you know, you care about, you have just spoken to has died.

There is no preparing.
There is no typical way to react.
Is there ever an answer to the "WHY?" No. There isn't.


Tonight, as I sit quietly in my livingroom, as still as I have been since I first heard the news last night. My good friend Barb has lost her husband after a sudden, terrifyingly short struggle with cancer. Like everyone, I'm stumbling to make sense of his death. Leigh was a bear of a man.......... STRONG, and healthy as a horse! He was never sick. But, when the cancer arrived, it took hold of him with such vengeance. We all just kept shaking our heads in disbelief. Shocking.

I spoke to him yesterday afternoon when I called to make plans for lunch on Sunday. Barb was out at the store...... one of the few times she has left his side since the diagnosis and subsequent major surgery in September.

I asked him how he was feeling, knowing he was coming out of dealing with the massive side effects of his first round of chemotherapy...... "Not good," he said. I could hear his fear and his sadness. This was a man who fixed things. He fixed people things. He fixed around the house things. People relied on Leigh for being there..... relied on him to say, "don't you worry, I'll fix this...." And OH, MY, GOD....... He couldn't fix his illness. He couldn't pull the rabbit out of the hat for himself. I heard the disappointment, the surrender in his voice. But even then, I surely didn't expect to get the call last night. Instead, I just felt awkward..... I had no idea what to say....... What do you say besides...... "I am so sorry."

Life is so painful at times. Death is so damned frightening. What can you say over the phone to someone so distraught and lonely in their dying? There are no words. Just shared sighs.

A couple of weeks ago as I was sending out a group email to update friends and co-workers, all of whom are like family to Barb, Leigh and myself....... we had all worked under the same government department umbrella for years, before they had retired and I had moved onto another job.

I impulsively suggested that we put together a basket together for them. There was so little we could do except to send our love and hope and best wishes, so why not fill a basket with those things. Maybe it would give them new energy to enter into the chemotherapy.

The idea literally formulated in my head as I wrote the email. I was feeling so helpless, and assumed others were feeling the same way. Within minutes, I had a few replies from folks who were willing to collect donations from their worksite. I sent out another email with a list of ideas, including the suggestion that perhaps a few would write out some stories, or include a few funny jokes, their own news....

The items poured in! POURED!! Everything from wine to homemade jams to books to beautifully wrapped parcels filled with "in jokey" things the friend knew would make Leigh laugh. Money too....... many donated money to go towards the yard work and winter snow plouging that Leigh wouldn't be able to do. Friends who had moved on into other jobs with other government departments heard about the basket too and showed up with gifts and money and cards and letters....and STORIES of humourous "remember whens..."

It blew my mind! When I saw it all, I knew that everyone was feeling the same way...... We all wanted to reach out. We were all so touched and rattled by that intense feeling of helplessness. It was the best we could do.... simple gifts in a communal basket wrapped with our love and our hope.

The next day, I phoned a mutual friend and asked her if she would come with me to surprise Leigh and Barb. I wanted her with me to see their surprised looks, and to experience the moment, and to add her open wide heart to it all. So, we made arrangements to arrive at the same time, later on that afternoon. What transpired was an emotionally joyful, heartmelting couple of hours of laughter, GALES of laughs, of honest fear shared, of remember whens..... of moments when there were no words, just tears in response to the loving, lovely words that were tucked into the cards, inside the packages........ the four of us sat around the kitchen table and let the feelings out freely. It was a beautiful, beautiful afternoon. Human beings connecting at an emotional place so raw and real.

Afterwards, I sent out another group email and tried my best to encapsulate it for them. I wished they could all have been there and we could've had a spontaneous party! I sent a picture too of Leigh and Barb standing by the basket and the overflowing gift bags. They needed to see their friend, who had changed so radically in such a short amount of time. I only heard back from a couple of them, because it was all too much to process. But, I knew the impact and I didn't expect replies. It was all so awkward because there are simply no words.

Today, I hugged my grieving friend. We stood and hugged for a long, long time. Her life has altered so drastically and she's in shock. We sat around the same kitchen table piled HIGH with food and pots of tea, but this time with different people, surrounded by the intensity of the moment.

The big strong bear of a man who fixes things for people and fixes things around the house is gone. Over the mountain. May he find peace. May we all let go of the "Why's" so that we can eventually recognize the bits of light. In the meantime, let the rituals guide the way through the darkness, as we taste the salt of life.

through the eyes of a new fan.....

Let me fill your heart with joy and laughter
Togetherness, well that's all I'm after
Whenever you need me, I'll be there
I'll be there to protect you,
with an unselfish love that respects you
Just call my name and I'll be there
The Jackson 5

Sometime during the winter, my 11 year old son began to discover the music of Michael Jackson. This is the same age I discovered him. Max was mesmerized by the dance moves and the music from the Thriller and Off the Wall albums, intrigued by the enormity of Jackson's success and full of questions about the weirdness of the man's lifestyle. He was in awe of Jackson's voice and his ability to move like he had the power to defy gravity. The style and swagger.....the energy and magic of the music which washed over this globe, created by a brilliantly talented human being was alive and well, captured for a new generation to discover. His music was uploaded onto an 11 year old's I-pod to savour.

Personally, I had stopped listening to the stories and bizarre activities surrounding Michael Jackson, had completely stepped away from even paying attention to him because of his behaviour and over the top weirdness. To me, it felt like a carnival freak show, created for the most part by an unrelenting fan base and a media which would never let go. The man/boy in the bubble choked on his extravagant success, turning himself into a distant recluse locked away from reality, surrounded by a hoard of handlers who treated him like an alien. It was like watching a slow motion train wreck that took 35 years to reach the point when we all watched him shuffle into a courtroom in his pyjama pants. Are there words to capture his demise? Sad? Pathetic? No, it was more mind boggling than words could convey.

My son hadn't heard all of the stories yet.......the ongoing accusations and acquittals the millions of dollars spent in "settlements," the flamboyant spending on everything from Elephant Man remains to renting the top floor of luxury hotels in Vegas, and the strange reclusive behaviour. Photos and videos however, revealed Jackson's transformation from a handsome young man with a gleam in his eye and a talent that knew no boundaries to a hideous looking shell of a human being whose hair draped a face that was otherwordly....whose sunglasses and veils hid him from light.

Like every single one of us, Max had many questions, most of which remain unanswered. What happened? Why did it happen? Who in their right mind would perform over 50 plastic surgeries on another human being who obviously was mentally ill and live with themself ? Who are these doctors who wrote numerous prescriptions for pain killers turning Jackson into a zombie like addict? Where the hell were his friends? Were they all living in their own pathetic fame filled bubbles that they didn't feel they could approach him, arrange for help.....?

My son and I talked occasionally about Michael Jackson.....I told him stories of how amazing the Jackson 5 were, how huge Jackson's albums were when they were first released....how at age 11 I was a huge fan! I tried to explain what I thought had happened to him in the ensuing years, but how do you explain to someone such mystery? Still, the music prevailed, and overshadowed the wacko jacko-ness of one very disturbed sick man. My son became a fan.

Last evening, Max came rushing upstairs.......his eyes popping out of his head and a look of shock on his face to inform me that the King of Pop had been rushed to the hospital and was in a coma. At first I didn't think it was serious. I figured maybe Jackson fainted or something from exhaustion prepping for his London concerts. It didn't surprise me....the most recent photos revealed a man who seemed to be a walking thin shell of himself, not the high energy consummate performer who always looked completely "in the zone" happy on stage. But, within minutes, the same media who helped turn Jackson into an untouchable were announcing his death. In the middle of what we all know will be an unstoppable barrage of stories, accolades, interpretations all stemming from the phoniness of Hollywood...... I heard a new 11 year old fan say....

"I think I will remember this day for the rest of my life." I believe he will. It is one of those moments when an event outside of your own realm interupts and leaves something indelible in one's memory. Like Elvis. Like Diana. Like RFK. Like JFK. Like Martin Luther King. All for different reasons.... but a stopping before and after recognition that you will remember where you were when you heard the news. For my son. For many I imagine.

Michael Jackson, the most famous entertainer in the world whose behaviour and secret life far outshines any head shaving meltdown Britney could throw into the tabloids..... the man whose arrested development shackled him to Neverland and a life of relating to Lost Boys.... was a true genius. Painfully, his orbiting success and his deep wounds left from abuse and never being able to know what normal is, ate at his soul and left him behind a veil. No doubt we will be living it and reading about it all.... hearing it dredged up on talk shows and news shows until we want to vomit.

Looking out across the morning
The city�'s heart begins to beat
Reaching out, I touch her shoulder
I'�m dreaming of the street .......

Can you imagine never having a chance to walk down a street all by yourself with a sense of smiling anonymity? Jackson's song Human Nature captures his desire to just be normal..... to walk on the street, to "take a bite of an apple....." So , so sad. For all of his success, Michael Jackson was the loneliest human being on the planet.

The eternal Lost Boy? May he rest in peace. May he find the freedom his life never offered him. Let his music transcend this craziness and sadness of his life and the predictable dissection of it after his death. Let his music be discovered through the eyes, ears and heart of a new fan for years to come.

magic and loss

When you pass through the fire

you pass through humble

You pass through a maze of self doubt

When you pass through humble

the lights can blind you

Some people never figure that out.

You pass through arrogance, you pass through hurt

You pass through the ever present past

and its best not to wait for the luck to save you

Pass through the fire to the light.

As you pass through the fire

your right hand waving

there are things you have to throw out

That caustic dread in your head

will never help you out.

You have to be very strong

'cause you start from zero

over and over again

As the smoke clears

there's an all consuming fire

lying straight ahead.

They say no one person can do it all

but you want to in your head

But you can't be Joyce

So what is left instead

You're stuck with yourself

and a rage that can hurt you

You have to start at the beginning again.

And just this moment

This wonderful fire starts up again.

When you pass through humble

when you pass through sickly

when you pass through

I'm better than you all

When you pass through anger and self deprecation

and have the strength to acknowledge it all

When the past makes you laugh

and you can savour the magic

that let you survive your own war

You find the fire is passion

and there's a door up ahead, not a wall.

As you pass through the fire

as you pass through the fire

trying to remember its name

when you pass through the fire licking at your lips

you cannot remain the same

And if the building's burning move towards that door

but don't put the flames out

There's a bit of magic in everything

and some loss to even things out

.......some loss to even things out

Lou Reed

I think Lou Reed was painted with the lyrical poetic brush similar to the one God used on Leonard Cohen. I think God left behind the paint brushes for them to be used as the implements for capturing their creative song spirits so visually and viscerally. While I'm thinking about this....another songwriting alleyway observer fits in with these two....gravel voice and all. Mr. Waits.

Now thats a trinity!

memorable trips...

I wrote this post originally as an email letter one evening not so long ago. My intention was to simply send a link to an article I had just read, but what came out was a story wrapped in many memories of my Grandmother, Mabel. In return, I received the story encapsulated in a piece of word art designed my emerald friend, Pip. SO COOL to see many of the key words pulled together! It caught me by smiling surprise. I decided to post the story with a few tweaks and a few updates along with the Pipdesign tonight as I take time to remember Mabel. This week is the 6th anniversary of her death. Everyday she continues to travel with me.

Good evening friends....hope it is warm and toasty where you are as it is here in my little writing den. I have some my music on.....and am tucked under a dark purple duvet ...my reading lamp is the only light on.....it feels like a little cave with books and pictures and photos..... outside the weather is drizzly fog. Indoors, I'm surrounded by stillness.....comfort.....in my den which I named after my Grandmother, Mabel Darby. This is the "Darby" room. We had it built after we received some money from her that she had inherited. She shared this late life wealth with all of us, making sure every grandchild and great grandchild would benefit. So, when I'm in here, I think of her and wish, she was still alive to share this part of my journey with me.

I know, I know... she IS...but I'd sure like to talk with her about it all. There is a framed picture up on the bookshelf of just Mabel and I on my wedding day. Its in a frame she made at a woodworking class she took in her 70's.

There's another one on that shelf too...of my Dad, Jamie, his Dad, George and his brother...on a summer day at my parent's cottage before George's Alzeimers kicked in. I think it was the summer my little sister was married and we were all home to celebrate.

There's another of my two nephews who are young adults now standing in a hay field behind the old house Jamie's mother grew up in Spencer's Island, Nova Scotia with my beautiful Max when he was only 3. It was the first time they had met!!! My nephews live out west and we rarely see them...the three of them, despite the age difference took to one another....the big boys never leaving Max out of whatever beachcombing adventure they set out to enjoy. It's a bittersweet photo now, because it looks like we have lost our access to that old house and the property.....but that's another story I will write when the estate is finally settled. Lets hope thats soon. It may be. But, the result of the estate settling is just going to be sad.....

Maybe i should keep in mind the lesson of the woodcutter..."Whether it's a blessing or a curse, I do not know....."

There are lots of photos in my Darby room. Ancestral, generations of tugging and huggin belonging. Our roots. My roots. My little family's roots. I love writing in here.... :)

Over on my desk, there is a hilarious photo I took of Martha and Max acting up together Hmmm how old were they there?? 5 and 9 years old maybe? That one silly shot strums a whole story song which jumps right out of the frame!

We were on our way from Fredericton to Burlington, Ontario (a 14 hour drive when the weather is good....) to celebrate Mabel's 90th birthday. She was born on the same day the Titanic sunk...April 14th, 1912.... So it was April 2002. The van we owned at that time had been a lemon from the moment we drove the damn thing off the car lot. One thing after another had gone wrong with it, like it was possessed by demons. It was so bad that financially we were being hit like we had two car payments a month. But you know what happens with a car like that? You think.....ah.....just get this one thing fixed and then everything will be alright...NOT!!!

So, there we were, car tuned up, everything checked over before we hit the road. Our plan was to make the trip in one full swoop...no overnight stop. With all the amenities in the car to do just that, and then some........we piled into the van along with our trusty chocolate Lab, Lucy. 14 hours of being in the driving ZONE!

6 hours into it, we pull off the highway just outside of Quebec City for lunch and the van goes.....kachunk, kachunk..... oh no!! It was the kind of KaCHUNK that is never good news. The mechanic who couldn't speak any English, motioned to us that it was what we feared...transmission problems. He suggested we take it to the transmission place located on the highway a couple of miles back.... kachunk, kachunk off we go to Mr. Transmission in the land of french speaking Canada....no anglais...!!

As Jamie went in to the greasy little office that smelled to the heavens of transmission fuel and gasoline and oil slicks....I sat on the curb in the parking lot and lost my composure completely. I knew it was going to be expensive and I didn't know what was going to happen.... whether we would be able to continue on or not. However, I knew my grandmother was aging and beginning to weaken so being at her birthday party was very important to me. But, it was a Friday afternoon in Quebec City and we had another 8 hours to travel without a vehicle...the party was on the Sunday.

Tears came in frustration and anger over this damn van. My brain wasn't working well. It was tired and I lost it. My two children right then and there took it upon themselves to make me laugh. They jumped out of the van, pulled the "head hole" of their t-shirts up to frame their heads, which made their arms and shoulders hunch up. They looked like little goofballs. Then they sang me a song or some such thing. What was the funniest was to see how they cracked each other up! I laugh now remembering how beautiful it felt to experience their ability to be in charge of dishing out the empathy.

My tears dried up, replaced by recognizing the absurdity of the situaton. My kids had made me realize how silly life can be....how one has to lighten up and just go with the punches. I took the photo which sits framed in the Darby room right then because i knew that whenever i looked at that photo in the future i would promptly remember this lesson. Tonight, I remember this lesson. Go with the punches....go with the flow.

The van ended up having to stay there...they didn't have the right transmission. We somehow managed to find a rental...a much smaller car to continue on with the trip. Two kids and a fat chocolate Lab shared the back seat. After a few hours sitting and absorbing the reality we were back on the road but ended up stopping on the way overnight. The day had been way too long to push through the night. So, we arrived at my parent's place on the Saturday, still wired and frustrated over our consistently pain in the arse van problems and aching over the amount of money it was going to cost us in the longrun.

The trip ended up costing us close to $3000.00 dollars when it should've been GAS money and some eats! But i wouldnt have missed Mabel's birthday party for the world. I got to give the toast to the Birthday gal......surrounded by family of all ages.

Wow! You know, I was just going to write to you about this link to this AMAZINGLY achingly beautiful correspondance between journalist Ian Brown and Jean Vanier....I got going...my fingers tripping over the keys so quickly that I couldn't stop myself! Vanier's response to Brown's questions about aging and dying are so eloquent....so touching. It truly hit a good place in me.

I know you will like this article about accepting our own mortality. I wonder who will come to mind for you as you read it? For me it was Mabel Darby, my grandmother who died just after her 91rst birthday. She is the person in my life who in her own dying helped me be less afraid of it. I don't know how that happened. I just know it shifted me enough not to be so full of anxiety over my own death. You know what else? It was Mabel who in her ability to embrace the adventure helped me learn how to go for the gusto.

What I'm thinking now??? If Mabel were alive today? There is no way on God's green earth that i would be considering a trip to Greenbelt without her! Never wanting to miss a good good thing, especially if it involved travel and meeting like minds, she'd be demanding that i take her along.

Of all the people in the whole world and beyond, she is the one I think I take after the most in many ways. I was given the honour to stand up at her funeral to toast her, and I spoke of the road less travelled because it made a difference for her as she lived her life and it certainly makes a difference as I live mine.

Enjoy this correspondance between Brown and Vanier as i did and spend a little time with the person who comes to mind for you.

a beautiful old soul

Look into the deep blue pooling eyes of an old soul and you will see the eternal flickering light of God. Spend time with one who carries within a soul who has lived and breathed many times. You will sense a spirit unlike another. Tucked deep and wide is an essence steeped in knowledge which is expressed in their manner, in their being. It’s not showy or hung out like a neon sign. This knowledge is simply present. You can feel its radiance all around the aura of an old soul and you can't help but be pulled into the pool. Sometimes you can't put your finger on what it is that sets aside an individual like this. You simply know its special.

I met an old soul in my late teens, only briefly spending time with him because our personal transitions were taking us in different directions. But every time we met, our conversations took on an infinite feeling of possibilities and dreams. It felt magically real as though the space we were in was protected by a sheen of oneness, disconnected somehow from the rest of the world. Our own energy complimented one another like we were on the same plane and we didn't need to justify any statements or wishes shared. An unconditional, knowing acceptance of thought....that's how it felt.

As I went off to university, he remained home to work and to save his money to travel the world. He was a tenderhearted nomad. He was a true free spirit who always walked to his own tune. When everyone around him was taking the safe route, he was fulfilling a different kind of dream. One day, he bought a one way ticket west and began his journey on his own....fulfilling his purpose perhaps, or just inhaling new experiences to shape him. Island hopping , working in Australia, meeting people, hands on learning.....until he arrived in Calcutta, a world away from life in Canada.

My old soul friend spent his days and nights volunteering at Mother Theresa's Home for the Dying, holding the hands of dying human beings, listening to their stories and confessions, being there giving his love over to someone passing on.....to someone who didn't have anyone. 21 years old guided by confidence provided from old soul wisdom. He gave them himself. They gave him new understanding of life’s lessons which I believe he carried close to his heart, marking his choices, impacting his personal destiny in this life.

Throughout his trip, I received postcards. He had promised and he did. They were wonderfully inspiring and filled me with so many questions. I wanted to know the deeper stuff....how he felt, what he really did.....what impacted him the most....had his feelings on death changed? Softened? I wanted to hear all about it.....all the stuff that doesn't ever fit on a postcard. I wanted to learn the lessons he had acquired.

I never knew when he was going to return so I carried on with my own journey and decided to spend a summer in Victoria after I graduated. It was a necessary trip for me as I tried to find my own footing again after graduating and finding myself alone with a broken heart. I too began working with vulnerable people, learning my own integral life lessons while my old soul friend finally returned from his trip. With 25 cents in his pocket, he was dropped off at the highway exit of our hometown walked the few miles to his family's house and surprised them all. He took the summer to acclimatize and to plan his next steps, while I took to that summer to expand my own horizons and figure out my own gameplan.

Our paths missed crossing by one week, but this time, the postcards had turned into letters flying back and forth across the country….pages and pages of pouring, pages and pages of dreams, thoughts, yearnings……..with plans to finally meet up in person when I returned in the fall. When we met up again, the first thing I noticed a necklace he was wearing and asked him where it came from. It had been a gift from a man he sat with while the man was dying in India.

He shared a bit of the wisdom he had gleaned while he witnessed death flow through another human being. He spoke of the sadness he felt knowing that many died without anyone around them. He spoke of the humility he felt surrounded by so many who had so little possessions but were wealthy in spirit. He spoke of how moved he was by all of the people he had the honour to be present with when they took their last breath. I was in awe.

From there, we jumped into where we were at as individuals. His plans were immediate. Mine were extremely up in the air, tied in with another. And as much as there was an unspoken closeness between us, we were in different emotional places…..too far apart at that point to continue on a journey together. Regrettably, we parted with a heaviness of heart. I had chosen a different path.

I never saw him again after that fall when we were 21 years old, though from time to time I heard about him as our lives unfolded far away from one another in different parts of the country. We never communicated again. The long hand written letters never happened again. It seemed too painful somehow. What I do know, and would know this even if I hadn’t heard any of the details, my long ago old soul friend remained connected to community, to people, to family through smiling kindness, dignity and respect for others. His life work paralleled my own.

At times, I have wondered what would’ve happened had we been walking up the same hill…..if I had made different choices at that point in my life. But then so many amazing things would never have occurred…..it’s beyond my comprehension really to wonder this. Still…….

Today, however, I stop in that blanketing of wonder to send a prayer out to my old soul friend. I learned that he died last week on Earth Day. He always was a part of earth’s clay, always grounded and real. Earth Day seems prophetically right for him. Surrounded by his sons, his family……surrounded by the people whom he loved with all his heart. Their grief and emptiness is bottomless I am certain. I mourn for them.

Selfishly in my sadness, I wonder again …… but then I stop recognizing that old souls never vanish. They return again with the glimpse of the light of God to share their wisdom and to continue to learn new life lessons. Our paths are bound to cross somewhere beyond the flowing transition of possibility. It gives me comfort and it makes me smile. What a beautiful man he was….now shining down on all of us. I can feel him...can feel his eternal spirit. Can you?
______________________


Last night, I found my old soul friend in reading this paragraph which somehow found me....
"When the individual life flows towards death, it also flows through death. It travels like the music of the river. Sustained by its passion and belonging and within the sureness of its flowing, the river is alive. It has a future and urgency for new possibility. It has no fear of death and yet at the end of its flow, a river always seems to be dying into the huge embrace of the ocean. Yet there is no break between the end of the river and its flowing life. The song of its end continues to sing back up the river towards the first moments of its visible infant-flow. At death the music of the heart becomes one with the unheard eternal melody." John O'Donahue, Beauty, The Invisible Embrace.

growth....

It is an incredible thing to catch a glimpse of the flower just past the peak of its bloom, when it begins its dying weep. The strength has diminished leaving the dawning of true beauty. Sadly we often miss this. We think it has already shown its pinnacle of loveliness, and turn away. But that beauty was only visible.....the remarkable beauty is found through vision.

Such a different more profound lens, I believe.

abandoned

She sits behind the dull vacant stare of her greying dry eyes under the matted woolen remnants of yesterdays past, unnoticed by those who are supposed to care. She's tried. My God, she tried. But no attempt to reach out to others brought any relief to her once constant aching loneliness. The ache is gone, replaced by stone. Stone lonely.... hardened cold, void of heartsoftness, void of emotion. Inanimate and unloved.

She sits below the road, away from the flow of humanity in a place where driftwood and discards stare at her in mocking abandonment. Her own breathing keeps her company, makes her realize she is not inanimate like the waste she sits amongst. Every day however her breathing becomes more shallow and more laboured as she moves another day farther away from the tender times in her life when she was loved. She remembers she was once a baby too.... a beautiful child of promise. Now if she was to look in a mirror at her cracked lips untouched by another for far too long, at her grey eyes once sparkling in green light now stripped of lifehope......she would simply wonder who the stranger was staring at her.

Disconnected, she cowers in old hunches as she searches for warmth. Ice chatters in the water's waves by the shore. The wind threatens this drab existence and howls down its mournful whistle.

Two lovers wrapped into one another appear up above, dressed in bright coloured coats and matching hats. They stop to look out at the water vista while whispering to each other in their smiling cocoon. Their eyes blinded from seeing anything but their rose coloured view, never catch sight of the old woman just below. She sees them......and catches the aura of promise in the air all around them as they continue to stroll over the bridge leaving her alone again in the wake of none.

Her vacant stare returns. She moves inside herself. The cold presses her temples as she takes her last breath. She slips away into the grey sombre light as the rest of the world carries on beyond the unheard dirge.

Brought to you by this week's photo theme, "drab." You can blame Carmi at Written Inc. if this little piece brought you down.........while I go off to pour myself a drink and try to stir up some happy thoughts. :) DRAB Carmi? Its March in Canada??? Salt in the wound man! Salt. in. the. wound!

sadness

Not too far from where I live is the village of Ripples, New Brunswick. It consists of one main road basically, the hub being a gas station/convenience store. Many of the families who live in the homes have deep roots to the area. Many are related by blood. All of them are related by the mere fact that they live in this village. Their roots and history braid them together. Like most rural hamlets, the sense of belonging is strong as is the responsibility for looking out and caring for neighbours. Children who grow up in places like Ripples know someone has an eye on them..... There is truth in the saying....."it takes a village to raise a child..."

One of their children died over the weekend. Trooper Corey Joseph Hayes, aged 22, along with three other Canadian soldiers were killed in action in Afghanistan. Like many human beings in the Canadian Forces, he grew up surrounded by a familial history of military life and chose to continue the tradition. May their remembrances filled with stories of Corey nurture them as they mourn their loss. And may the village of Ripples know that we all mourn with you.

Eros

Large Two Forms, Henry Moore

outside of the Art Gallery of Ontario

"Eros can pull life towards the edges and depths where death lurks. From ancient times a kinship has been acknowledged between Eros and Thanatos, the death instinct. Surfing the tides of Eros one comes to feel that the life-force joy could surge through all limitations, even death; or indeed there is such a homecoming in Eros when one succumbs to its force and abandons self in the sweet dying of complete release."

John O'Donahue, Beauty; The Invisible Embrace.

When the intoxication of two people draw them together in an act of love, where they discover the ultimate beauty of one another, where they form a union so blissfully joyful, are they also experiencing the tender weep of mourning too? When two people reach the expressive pinnacle of their vulnerable lovemaking, is it comparable to being touched by the hand of God?

Eros is alive and dwells in the sensuous pores of our being. It allows our own gaze to be beautiful. It illuminates our dreams and imagination and sets off a glow we can embrace. Perhaps what we experience when the air is steeped in the essence of "abandoning self in the sweet dying of complete release" is a sense of being connected to the souls of past loves....to the soul of the clay beneath our feet and of the harmony found in the living stones which carry our stories into eternity.

Life....love....death....love....heaven on earth.

kindred spirit love and kindness.....

This is Matthew. Look at his beautiful face. He melts my heart!! I met him at the Boyce Farmer's Market last October when he was actively raising money for his 10 year old friend MacKenzie who was in the process of fighting off her third round of cancer. Matthew and MacKenzie met in Kindergarten and became good friends right from the start.

When MacKenzie became ill and had to travel to Halifax for treatment, he saw how much of a financial toll it was taking on her family. She missed a lot of schooling during her illness....missed alot of the fun. So, Matthew took it upon himself to help them as best as he could. His goal? 56,000 dollars....one dollar for every inch between MacKenzie's house and their school. He would collect loonies (Canadian dollar coins) because they were approx. 1 inch in diameter. He placed large mason jars in convenience stores and solicited the market goers and shoppers every chance he could.


A few anonymous people donated larger amounts of money. An elementary school class in Oromocto sent letters taped with loonies, one for each child. Most of the donations were 1 loonie at a time. The community and the local media celebrated the hope and loving kindness of this little boy. I know that every time I thought of him or saw him outside the market with his big mason jar my heart melted into his determination and unwavering belief that MacKenzie would beat the ugly disease.....


Every night, he prayed with his family for his friend to heal. They openly discussed the big life and death issues together. The talked about cancer and the chances of MacKenzie surviving it. Matthew knew the doctors were dumbfounded that MacKenzie had survived this long. And yet, he stayed true to his beliefs that she would overcome the odds.


Over the course of his compassonate fundraising, Matthew gathered 14,000 loonies! With the money, he was able to lighten the financial load of MacKenzie's family as well as shower his kindred spirit friend with gifts to help her experience some fun. His actions also provided her an affirming love which no doubt helped her in her battle to beat the odds. This act of love and kindness brought two families together in a place where courage and fear, where reality and escape from it all meet. This beautiful youthful soul created this.... Matthew traded in his childhood innocence for harsh light awareness to take the initiative to DO something. It was the trading in of innocence they both understood at a level most of us never experience.

Their story was covered regularly through the media and I would see Matthew out and about at the Market on Saturdays collecting his loonies. A recent story published a week or so ago alluded to the fact that MacKenzie was struggling, but the picture posted of the two of them sitting side by side simply illuminated in hope that anyone who saw it, would remain optimistic for a miracle. Strength in their bond.......bravery shared.

On Thursday, Matthew and his Mom visited MacKenzie in the hospital. According to today's newspaper, she was unconcious throughout the visit. But as Matthew was leaving MacKenzie opened her eyes and waved at her kindred friend for the last time. She died yesterday surrounded by her family. May beautiful MacKenzie rest in comforting peace. And may Matthew feel her presence every day as a loving guardian angel.

ps. I want this wonderful young boy recognized by our city. I want his efforts to be applauded with tears and respect. And I want this little girl who fought with such courage to be remembered as a spark we can all learn from. I plan to send the Mayor of Fredericton an email to request that he consider recognizing this friendship, and acknowledging Matthew's gracious heart.

gaza

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من فضلك توقف



arresti prego



commodo subsisto



s'il vous plaît arrêter



σταματήστε



Bitte stoppen



dengan senang menghentikan



lūdzu, pārtrauciet



prašome sustabdyti



kan du stoppe



please stop.....



the hatred,
the violence,
the murdering, the bleeding.....



shalom, shalom, shalom,



let it be peace
please stop the bombing

the passion of red

Red bleeds meaningful attention. We are pulled into this colour like no other because of what it represents in our thinking. War, conflict, vibrant life and the drama of death all encompass the passion of red. It runs the gamut doesn't it?

Held in it's hue is violent rage as well as desirous love. The beat of red tangos. It never waltzes. It pulls people close together face to face in heated debate, fueling attacks and consequent drawbacks after vicious stabbings and accusations. But, it also is the sexual flame between two people in the throes of lovemaking.

Red is life lived to the fullest. It is a open hearted expression.....of stirred yearnings to actively take on an adventure.....to run, not walk.......to dance, not stand still.......to take hold of the pulse of life and let go of doubt.

Red is there at the beginning of life and at the end of it. As in nature, when the sugar maple leaves turn from green to red, we recognize a time of transition......and with any transition there follows change.

I spotted this leaf atop of a young sapling which was nestled in a group of mature evergreen trees. It was only one of two leaves on the small tree and it was a wonder that it had the strength to compete with the evergreens for sun and sustenance. But it did, with a wound cut through it's perfection. I love the symbolism of this brave little leaf. What a feisty survivor. May it grow to experience many seasons and many transitions. May we all.

second chance grace

"We all must hold the cups of our lives. As we grow older and become more fully aware of the many sorrows of life -- personal failures, family conflicts, disappointments in work and social life, and the many pains surrounding us on the national and international scene -- everything within and around us conspires to make us ignore, avoid, suppress, or simply deny those sorrows. "Look at the sunny side of life and make the best of it," we say to ourselves and hear others say to us. But when we want to drink the cups of our lives, we need first to hold them, to fully acknowledge what we are living, trusting that by not avoiding but befriending our sorrow we will discover the true joy we are looking for right in the midst of our sorrows. "

Henri Nouwen

I still haven't found what I'm looking for.............

Not yet, anyways. But isn't that the journey of life? We are inherent seekers and doers. It's in our genes. It's in the salt found in our spirits. It is in the salt found in the food and drink we share with our friends and family. It is in the salt found in our tears.......flavouring our lives, as we learn and grow from trying. We may not get it right the first time, or the second or the third OR even the fourth time. God, we may not ever get it right, but what is a life where at the end of it, we haven't sought out and explored the world and the people around us?



What is a life where there is no reflection emanating back at you? What is a life of avoiding risks, of hiding from the truth, of not recognizing mistakes or celebrating accomplishments? It is one of suppressed regret.


It is a life of coulda woulda shoulda..............ooooops it's over.

What if you woke up one morning at 75 years of age with the stark realization that your life was not what you expected, or that you didn't do the things you wanted to do? Would you be paralyzed by the belief that it's too late to do anything about it? Would you beat yourself up emotionally to a point where you couldn't recover from the disease of regrets? Or would you be able to grab hold of a second chance, dust yourself off, make some decisions and start moving forward in a new direction?

Personally, I'd like to avoid experiencing that epiphany then. I want to reach that milestone with a rucksack full of attempts..............the second chances which led to both success and failures, all flavoured with the salt of life. In fact, I want no salt left to discard. I want it all used up.........as I taste life.

Nouwen writes of learning from our sorrows. Through our sorrows, we can find joy. Our choice is clear. We can choose to allow our sorrows to engulf and overwhelm us to a point where we stop trying, where we stop reaching out for the second chance. Or we can grab hold of the cup with both hands, take a big gulp of insight, swallow our fearful pride, stomp on our guilt, acknowledge our sins.............FORGIVE our mistakes as God forgives us and keep on with the search.

At any age..........at any age..........

We are seekers...........who sometimes need to take our turn hiding. We need seclusion to stop the world around us, to find the silence, to dwell between the breaths, to contemplate success and failures. We need it. Even in our hiding spots, however, we never stop seeking.

In fact, now that I am thinking about it, I wonder if we seek more deeply when we have retreated. Sure, it's much scarier to seek in the dark, but sometimes the challenge makes it all the more gratifying. Perhaps, finding the braveheart to reach out for a second chance at twilight is what it takes to be moved by life affirming grace.



Second chance grace. I like that tasty idea.

john o'donahue

On the day

when the weight

deadens on your shoulders

and you stumble,

may the clay dance

to balance you.



And when your eyes freeze

behind the grey window

and the ghost of loss

gets in to you,

may a flock of colours,

indigo, red, green,

and azure blue

come to awaken in you

a meadow of delight.





When the canvas frays

in the currach of thought

and a stain of ocean

blackens beneath you,

may there come across the waters

a path of yellow moonlight

to bring you safely home.





May the nourishment of the earth be yours,

may the clarity of light be yours,

may the fluency of the ocean be yours,

may the protection of the ancestors be yours.

And so may a slow

wind work these words

of love around you,

an invisible cloak

to mind your life.


John O'Donahue.

I never met this man. I only learned of him over the past year and grew to admire his beautiful soulful work. I know there are many whom he has touched deeply over the course of his life. His words and more importantly, his magnetic spiritual presence always radiated through in anything I had read about John O'Donahue.

In my thoughts, I had hoped to one day hear this exceptional human being speak, and to possibly meet. This morning I learned that John O'Donahue passed away. Strangely, this news came to me twice in the course of a couple of minutes through two different avenues. His death and the news of it has left me shocked and feeling a bit light headed...........so I can't imagine how the people whom he touched so dearly are feeling today.

It's not fair. My heart and love goes out to friends in the UK and his native Ireland who are grieving their friend today. He will always be cherished.

muffled soul

Fog has rolled in tonight blanketing the river valley with a shroud of loneliness. It flattens the streetlights so that they let off a blurry glow which works hard to push through the heaviness.

No success.


It strips the trees to bareboned nakedness leaving them gnarled and stark silouettes.....their tired branches reaching out to find warmth.......any kind of warmth left from the past. But, there's only a sweet memory of lush heat. Instead, those aching limbs spread out only to find cold sheets of wetness.

Alone in the fog, a transient arrives to a new town. Disoriented, hungry and in need of a warm bed, he goes in search of a lush heat he knew from the past. It seems like he has lived most of his adult life in a mindfog caused from losing his inner self in a brawl to prove he was made of something. He lost. He lost his need to be. When the fog begins to get the best of him.........when the loneliness felt in his aching limbs throbs insignificance, he moves on only to find new cold sheets of wetness. Numbstayed he remains broken and invisible. He can't find his way.

And it makes me wonder how many live in the muffled noise, separate of other's warm touch.

And it makes me wonder if fog can be a good place to insulate the headnoise from oneself, or do the negative words reverberate never managing to escape beyond the blurried streetlights.

And it makes me wonder if musicians prefer the muffled thickness of a cold fog in November in order to hear the isolated cupped notes more clearly. They have no where to go but reflected back from the shroud to the soul.

When it rolls in, I have this urge to listen to Warren Zevon or Tom Waits or an after hours singer with a gravelly voice and the night soul where he scrapes up his inspiration. Are heartache ballads created inside a fog? Is this where real creativity lurks?

Tonight the fog rolled into the river valley and as I walked the dog under the flattened streetlights towards the apple orchard bare of life I could only hear the sounds close by. The deep drop drips of rain into the storm drains, the jingle of my dog's collar as she plays tricks for herself with the tennis ball, the muffled steps in my walk. The November cold begins to seep into my bones, frightening me.

Not another soul in sight except my own.

I decided to walk back home humming to the tune of the howling werewolves of London. Funny, my fear didn't leave me until I stepped into the warm light of my home and heard the clear innocent voices of my children. Perhaps I needed to choose something more show tune-like?

Welcome To Vancouver, Canada

Five minutes after this picture was taken of this man, he was dead. He was killed by a taser attack, and an RCMP knee to the neck after he was completely doubled over on the floor writhing in pain from the electronic jolt resonating through his body. He vibrated and yelled in agony after he was shot not once, but twice by an over zealous RCMP officer.........one of four who had arrived to "deal" with this distraught tourist from Poland.

Mr. Dziekanski, 40, did not speak English, and had been at the airport for more than 10 hours, 6 of which he spent in the baggage handling area wandering around unnoticed. UNNOTICED! No one took the time to approach this man, who most likely was in a state of anxiety and for some reason disoriented to a point where he couldn't find his way to the exit area where his mother was anxiously waiting for him. If he looked anything like he did in this picture, I would think he wouldn't be blending into the hoardes of travellers stopping to pick up their luggage and leaving.

What does this say about the security of the Vancouver Airport?? If a man can wander through the passenger arrivals areas for 10 hours after disembarking from his plane without anyone noticing, how safe is this airport? In this age where airport security is supposed to have been beefed and tightened........and a man walks around aimlessly for 10 freaking hours??!!

These questions however are minor compared to the other unanswered questions.................

Mr. Dziekanski was killed on October 14th. The details of his death at the time seemed to indicate that he was completely out of control, confrontational, dangerous.........hence the need to taser him twice. Fortunately, his story and the truth was captured by a witness who video taped the incident.........from the moment of this picture to his tragic death. Like millions of others, I sat in horror watching the video on the National news last night.

I am at a loss for words to describe it.

It was true that this man was agitated at the beginning of the video. He threw the table he was holding. He three a computer, while talking in his mother tongue. At the same time, 4 RCMP officers (there original story indicated there were 3 of them................I counted there were 4) approached him, and Mr. Dziekanski seemed to calmed down. As he backed up to a counter, facing the officers and not acting threatening or confrontational at all.............simply upset and bewildered.......he was tasered which brought him to his knees right away.

I have never seen the physical response to a human being tasered. It's sickening and completely inhumane. Why they thought they had to zap him again is completely beyond me when they didn't have a reason to taser him in the first place.

His mother had been told that there were no records that he had gotten off the plane?? How can that be? She went home believing that he missed the flight, only to be woken by a 2 in the morning phone call from the airport authority to return to the airport. Unbeknownst to her, she arrived to identify her dead son........and to hear a made up cover up story of how her son was completely out of control deranged and died during a struggle with Canada's finest.

This is a story the RCMP will not be able to cover up. It's been caught on camera. Though they are doing their "very best" to spin it like they are known to do, its not washing away the blood. Tonight listening to AS it Happens on the CBC, one V.P. (where the hell are the Presidents/CEO's to deal with this??? Pansies!) after another stammer and stall and gag over their own words...........

They are going to get to the truth of the matter. They are never going to let this happen again. They are sorry and feel so badly for the mother. The video is only one side of the story.....an investigation will allow the parties involved to share their side........OH EXCEPT MR. DZIEKANSKI. HE'S DEAD!

Good thing we can count on a thorough inquiry and investigation into this unforgettable incident. What? Is it true?? The RCMP investigate themselves?? Sounds like a big wanking circle to me.

May this man rest in peace and may his dignity be posthumously restored.

May tasers be banned forever. They are glorified torture devices.

AND, may a whole bunch of VP's, CEO's, RCMP officers and a few baggage security staff land in the unemployment line at their local Human Resources office. Let's hope they dont have to wait too long for service. You never know what could happen.

common ground

when the student is ready, the teacher will appear

Our whole lives consist of a learning curve. From our first breath until our last, we are learning.....by seeing, listening, touching, feeling, and doing.
how to walk and talk and tie our shoes
how to add, subtract, multiply and divide
how to recite the alphabet, print, write, type and tell a story
how to use all the gadgets in our lives
how to cook, clean, iron, wash clothes
how to organize, theorize, intellectualize
how to figure things out
how to take apart, put together, and take apart again.

An accumulation of knowledge.........some useless, some helpful, some meaningful.

Along the way we find our interests, our passions.....
the topics we find most intriguing

Why? What's the point? We can't take any of this with us when we die?

Why do we have such a thirst for learning?

Survival?
To know how to react and act to danger?
To know how to critically analyze and interpret situations?
To be able to interact with others?
To take us closer to understanding our relationships?

I think we learn in order to be able to connect with others
The roles we play allow us to use our knowledge to find common ground
Common ground offers us a foundation to build on our relationships.

Sometimes there are situations we are faced with that test us.....we ask, why do I have to experience this? What am I learning from this heartbreaking moment? Why me? Why me? What's the point of being confronted with pain and anguish?

Sometimes there is no answer.......

I have been thinking a lot today about our learning process and our innate desire to soak up as much of life's lessons as we can. I've also been thinking about how sometimes we are surprised by who the teacher is.

My husband is away spending time with his parents who are both seriously ill and have been for a very long time. Their steady decline in health has been a stressful, complicated, frustrating and mind numbing process for everyone.....on so many levels. My father in law suffers from Alzheimers and Parkinsons has been in the hospital in another province for over a month now. Once a man who radiated a presence when he walked into a room is now confined to his bed because of deep bruising from a fall and he's not able to bear any weight on his one side. He's confused and losing his words. He is losing his learning..........all of it as he lies in his bed in the palliative care ward. Stripped of being able to do the basic tasks for himself, and frustrated by this he has become dependent on others for his personal care.

Our ability to learn and to continue to build on it shores up our confidence and our sense of accomplishment. Learning feeds our innate curiosity, which in turn feeds our awareness, which in turn feeds our hope, which in turn feeds our faith. Learning leads us through a life of learning our faith through the connections we make with others and with God.

Big helpings of hope and faith gives us the sustenance to face our last lesson, understanding and accepting death because it is hope and faith which affirms our lives. Because we have the chance to experience life affirmation, we then can love.

Henri Nouwen writes; "Hope and faith will both come to an end when we die. But love will remain. Love is eternal. Love comes from God and returns to God. When we die, we will lose everything that life gave us except love. The love with which we lived our lives is thelife of God within us. It is the divine, indestructible core of our being. This love not only will remain but will also bear fruit from generation to generation."

I have spoken to my husband daily as we catch up........me on the homefront, and he cocooned in a place where illness and dying are clearly visible. And, it's hard. It's hard for a son to see his Dad lose all his learning. The other night, they watched part of the hockey game together in the hospital room. Watching hockey and enjoying it together is something which connects these two. They both learned to love the game as they have watched many together, or at least discussed specific sports game in telephone conversations over the years. Common ground.

My husband told me that his Dad wasn't really able to watch the game. He was tired and unfocused. What struck me about this time together, is that my husband sat with his Dad and held his hand. Every now and then he would squeeze his Dad's hand, as they spent time together watching the hockey game.

when the student is ready, the teacher appears.........

Despite the health of my father-in-law. Despite the inability to look after himself anymore, he is still the teacher, providing big life lessons about love to his son. It's what matters the most. Love is what remains. All of our learning leads us to this moment. It is hope and faith and our innate desire to learn the things to find the common grounds that allows us to get there, but it is the unconditional sustainable love which is eternal. It is never forgotten.

All of our learning all of our lives designs the path to understanding unconditional love. I believe this learning is our greatest pursuit to finding the calm and overcoming the fear of our own mortality.

Undying love..........it's all that matters...........it never goes away