the breath of shadows

The old country church was unlocked for us by the beautiful woman who has held the key for many years.  All we had to do was ask, and she wholeheartedly obliged knowing how important it was for us to touch base.  Then, my son and I were left to ourselves to take in the ambient memories, a few of which are our own.  Most are accumulatively shared with generations of ancestors who have attended services, held the hymn books, prayed together, listened to scripture. 

Generations all tied to my son were baptized, confirmed, married, eulogized within these walls. His paternal family has sat in these pews,  have sung in these choirs.  His ancestors helped build this little holy place.  He knows this inherently.  He's aware of this through the stories we have passed onto him.  The gift he feels is a sense of belonging that stretches from the present back into the breath of shadows.  The stories echo home. 

It was my son's idea to spend time in the little church during our first visit back to a place this family of mine holds close to our hearts.  Initially, his request surprised me.  I knew he wanted to walk the circle of the village road to say hello to the people in our lives whom we hadn't seen since last summer.  Though I knew it would be an emotionally charged pursuit, I wanted to as well.  

Going inside the church wasn't something I expected my son to want to do. When I thought about it, his desire made sense.  I guess I just didn't realize how much that place already held the stories for him.  As they do for his Dad.  As they do for his Aunt and Uncle.  As they do for his Cousins.  As they do for his Sister and Me.  Stories linger in the breath of the shadows.

Like everyone, however, who is attached to this village, the Spencer's Island church cradled those important ties that bind in the breath and shadows of people who tangibly represent the eternal. My son had only ever attended a few services there, the last two being a memorial service for his grandparents and a rededication of the church which included remembrance of two elders who had passed on in recent years.  The names Spicer  Currie and Gamblin touch chords in us.  Deeply meaningful, ancestral names.  At those services, he sat in a pew surrounded by an extended family  many of whom he didn't know personally but who knew him.  He is the namesake of his Great Uncle Max. This is  how he is "known."  Uncle Max was an elder and a lifelong active resident of this community.  More intimately, he was our constant anytime we visited and he continues to cast a big presence in our lives.  God, I miss him.

As I took photos from the balcony, it was Uncle Max's voice I could hear the most pronouced...........singing in the choir, telling us stories, welcoming us with a huge smile and a big bear hug when we arrived to the big old house he had grown up in, which had been left in the Will to his sister, my Mother in Law..... my son's GrandMim.  The old house is now out of our reach.  We don't have access to it anymore.  But, the visit to the church reminded us both that its not what matters.  What matters is feeling the spirits of past and present which emanate throughout the village, especially in the pews of this little church. 

While my son looked around at the dedication plaques and recognized the names of relatives, he asked many questions.... good sense of belonging questions.   I could see in him how much it meant to feel this grounding...... this sense of place and person and hoped it helped him find a settling in the turmoil we have been experiencing.  His spirits were bouyant, uplifted........ which in turn lifted mine.

I continued to look around through the lens of my camera to catch the shadows of mid morning.  It was then that I remembered something about shadows ........... one can hear the sounds, the voices, the hymns caught in their breath when there's light shining above.  For it is light which allows the shadows to form...... Light provides the breath..........the spirit.  No light.  No shadows.  No breath from the past......

As we left........... my son asked me to remind him of his first trip to Spencer's Island.......... It was November, 12 and a half years ago.  He was 6 weeks old, and slept through the night for the first time in his wee life, cozied up in a basket bassinet right beside me........ The next day, we all went for a walk into Uncle Max's woods on a beautiful crisp sunny day.......... he in a snuggly wrapped around his Dad's chest ..... content as can be ..... and when he was hungry, I sat comfortably on a log in the middle of the woods and nursed my boy.  He loves that story.  So do I.  

More to come........................

a week of good energy......

A few weeks ago, I had my tea leaves read.  It was a spontaneous reading one night when I showed up at my friend's house up the hill from me in need of some TLC and a glass or two of wine.  My friend, who has been an unconditionally loving angel to me, whose taken me under her wing and returned me to church..........this lost waif....... and has dried my tears on several occasions this spring, made me dinner, and poured the wine once again and let me talk. 

Her Mom, Joyce was there........ a beautiful woman in her 80's whom I've always had a strong bond with.  She reads tea leaves, tarot cards, and numerology.  So, on the spur of the moment, I told her I was in need of a reading.....I wanted to know what was in my future.    Before i knew it, I was sipping on tea wondering what the leaves would reveal.

Even though Joyce was aware of the turmoil happening in my life, when she does a reading, she goes so fast and is so minutely thorough that there is no way she is reflecting back on any information she is already aware of.  It's hard to explain.  Suffice to say, she gets into the tea leaf reading zone.

There is a process to this.  The tea is made with loose leaves.  You must drink it all and try not to leave any liquid behind.  Once you've consumed it, you turn the tea cup upside down on a plate and turn the cup around three times.  Joyce then lifts the cup up and turns it right side up.  Whatever liquid and leaves are left on the plate signify tears and issues that need to be resolved. She then promptly begins to describe what she is "seeing..." both on the plate and in the tea cup in detail that simply blows the mind.  What a gift she has.  It is so cool.

Of course there are general statements, but what always gets me pulled into the otherworldly aspect of anything psychic like this are the seemingly small points she mentions....... and the things that are repetitive in the read.  This time through, she kept going back to information about my daughter..... how she is handling her parent's marriage break up, how her year will unfold, how she will resolve her conflictual feelings etc.  I have no doubt Joyce's description with all the small details will be the structure of my daughter will come to resolution about her new life.  In fact, many of the details have happened...... obvious through a few recent conversations with her.  Uncanny.

Joyce described my summer, highlighting a few important events........ people I will meet, trips I may take......... she told me I will be spending time in Nova Scotia, which at the time seemed completely out of the question because I had no intention of visiting my beloved Spencer's Island this summer.  It would be too painful and the whole area is ancestrally connected to my ex-husband's side of the family.  Now that is a strong possibility as well as a few other opportunities to go exploring that province.  Weird.

She also described how this summer will be an awakening for me.......... transformational as well as healing.  That sounds pretty general, but the details she provided narrowed it down to key connections I will make and what they mean in the greater scheme of things. I could feel this strange sensation in the pit of my stomach that was replacing the standard dread I had been having for breakfast every morning for two months.... excitement....??  maybe....

As Joyce continued with her predictions, I jotted them down..........asked questions for clarification and generally got into the whole thing.

Out of the 15 or so predictions she made, 6 have already occured.  2 of them happened the day after the reading.......  The other 4 have made their presence known just in the past week alone.

Its not that I am manipulating anything.  I havent gone out of my way to make them up as I go.  They just seem to be showing up...... on cue!  Its funny, I have been so busy juggling many tasks, wearing many hats that I havent kept the details of Joyce's reading in my head.  But, when one happens, BADABING!  A light bulb goes on.  I remember her predictions and it stops me in my tracks laughing.

An awakening this summer?  Summer started early.  So did the awakening.  It began with a re-emergence of  faith, and continued to travel down a new footpath which has brought people connection surprises I didn't expect and opportunities I had no inkling would be in my destiny.  Some of these surprises have occured because I found the guts to stick my neck out........ to accept an invitation when I may have in the past excused myself and not gone.

Sometimes it has happened because I let go of regular time restraints and allowed a friendship I always knew was there for the blossoming to be fed by some conversational fun.....good sharing stuff.  Sometimes it happened because I said no instead of yes, or I said yes instead of no.  Some of it is happening because I am reflecting on what it is that I want and how am I going to make it happen?  What is important in my life right now? And if a strange and beautiful invitation arrives at my door, do I embrace it or do I hide away and protect myself from any more hurt?

Now that summer has officially arrived.......school is out.......College graduation was celebrated tonight.......... I told a friend today that I am awake for the first time in 10 years.  And as soon as the statement left me......a little light went on!  BadaBING!  

It has been a week of good energy.  Good energy.  Not the kind of energy I expected.  It's not the zippy kind......... its the "I'm alive" kind.   Good thing I have my new sexy party dress on.  Gotta be prepared for the dance.  Maybe even a dance across the waters..... 

milk and cookies

In a world where chaos is the order of the day, when honking horns and blinking lights penetrate our overcharged senses, when even existing within the ordinary realm of life at normal speed seems to gyrate our inner core, the very idea of a lullaby can help soothe and comfort. When fear grabs hold of our air passages, when adrenaline sends trickles past impossibility, when we find ourselves gagging over what is expected of us only to trip over one regret after another, a lullaby can spread new tendrils of hope towards a better way.

Consider the feelings wrapped in the motion of a lullaby. Say the word aloud.... it sings on its own from your curled tongue and kissed lips like a soft welcoming whisper spoken by someone who cares.

Calm, secure, reassuring...... you are loved.

Not all lullabies are expressed in the form of a song or poem. They are multi-sensory in nature.....even the pouring rain can offer solace if you want it too. The rhythmic rocking of the subway home has a reassuring feel to it after a long day in the city. The trickling of the brook, an afternoon breeze, the sound of a sleeping dog, the purr of a cat.

Visually we can step into its beauty when we appreciate the expansive sky, a garden of blooms, a canvas splashed with watercolour glory, a mantel dressed in a multitude of candles flickering in the night. The familiarity of lavender essence, baby powder, the aroma of coffee perking in the morning, cinnamon buns in the oven, the smoke from a campfire. The taste of a cold glass of milk and chocolate chips cookies freshly baked, a sip of cointreau to warm your lips and throat, an ice cold beer after a long hot sweaty day working hard, vine picked sun warmed ripe strawberries bursting in your mouth.

We seek comfort in the simple gifts....all are lullabies when our mental health is flooded by panic and stress. Close your eyes....think of your lullabies.....picture the place where you can go to feel the healing goodness of your sanctuary.

A hug, a touch, an I love you so much........

hush, hush, hush.....

____________________________

Comfort Inside of a Lullaby

unsmiling spirits follow you around
their voices shriek a horrible sound.
faded glories and dreams rush quickly by
seek comfort inside of a lullaby.

loneliness echos from a rumpled bed
sleepless nights keep company instead
used up air filled with uneven sighs
come inside the comfort of a lullaby

worries need gathering, hung out to air
rock to the rhythm of an ancient prayer
unsmiling troubles will soon say goodbye
when you find comfort inside of a lullaby.

hush all the stirring, let your sleepy head rest
there's light to guide you back to your nest
soft voices to cradle, to soothe away cries
come inside the comfort of a lullaby

hush, hush, hush......

silver stillness

It was stated by Meister Eckhart......"no one knows what the soul is. But, what we do know is the soul is where God works compassion...." I'm wondering if our deepest compassion for recognizing and accepting our imperfections as well as those in others can only truly happen when we find the courage to peel away the layers of silence, past the point of the loud pings and into the sanctity of a reflecting hymn......maybe that's where the soul dwells?

Silence has many layered meanings before we can reach what John O'Donahue described as the intimate innocence of the soul. I envision this as an internal place where an eternal moonlight shimmers smiling ripples on the surface of a calm lake on a summer night. Meditation needs no encouragement when we can reach this place of tranquility. It simply happens, captured in our even breaths of belonging. This vision brings forth a feeling of being in the moment-- restful and awake at the same time.

I believe we have the capacity to lasso this intimate silence where we find the guidance of a Higher power whenever we choose to find the time to peel away the meaningful layers first. I also believe it is an important endeavour as it allows us to sit in a tender place where we can disrobe in front of a mirror which reflects our true essence, bruises and all. It takes courage. It takes time and effort to peel away the layers.....

The outer layer's initial silence shivers in shyness. It has a self-conscious blush to it. We yearn for interuptions....anything to break the awkward adolesence.

The next layer is still trapped in a doubting uneasiness. We are caught thinking......"should I talk to fill in the silence? I wonder what others around me are thinking in their silence? What can I think of to fill the discomfort? This silence is so damn loud!"

ping,ping,ping,ping,ding,ding,ring,ring,ring

The third layer is a stepping away from the noise, though it can be heard in the murmuring echoes. This silence is where stillness begins, in the drumming of reflections. Every now and then we can hear the pongbong of the reflection, like a stone thrown into a pond. Ease is coming......the stone has to settle........the stone has to settle.... the senses heighten and turn inward.

The fourth layer of silence is found in the lapping of the ripples under the eternal moonlight. We envision a mesmerizing rippling on the surface as the eyes gaze inside the deep welling place. It is there where a sense of vulnerable brokenness finds some comfort. It is where you feel the most honest and strong while looking at the shadowy reflections of life’s realities.

The fifth layer brings a harmonic meditation........a kneeling thinness of even breathing, where palpitations are replaced by cradle comfort rocking to a welcoming hymnal hum. Standing on the shore, under the moonlight smiling shimmers, compassion in the silver stillness of our souls offers us the gift of seeing the beauty of our imperfections....our unique signature written in the sand. It's worth the trip.

**the photos of the silver pieces were taken at an auction I attended with my friend Jen last week. When I looked at them afterwards, the phrase silver stillness came to mind.....

This weeks' Photography theme is "Reflection...." no drab there! For more reflections check out Carmi's Written Inc site.

song for a winter's night

Gordon Lightfoot's musical repetoire spans forty years and includes many brilliant songs of love and longing. Also known for his social activism and love of the history and terrain of this country, Lightfoot is Canada's version of Pete Seeger. His roots are folk. His songs have been sung by many legendary artists including Peter, Paul and Mary, Bob Dylan, Johnny Cash and Sylvia and Ian Tyson.

His timeless lyrics and melodies are woven into the fabric of this vast country. Many many people who learned how to play the guitar were inspired by a song, a melody, a story Lightfoot had penned. Sung around campfires, listened to in the warmth of our homes, embraced as the Canadian troubadour, his songs express emotions we sometimes have a tough time finding the words to attach to them....

As a child, I recall many late afternoon drives home from the ski hills after a day of skiing listening to "If you could read my mind...." or Canadian Railroad Trilogy or Sundown....or Early Morning Rain, his beautiful song of yearning for a love. Memories and pictures fill my head whenever I hear him on the radio, or someone else singing one of his classics. A new generation of Canadian musicians have embraced the songs.....I heard Sam Roberts today singing Early Morning Rain and fell in love with the song all over again.

We almost lost him a couple of years ago......very ill and in a coma for 5 weeks, he somehow managed to rally and recover. Since then, he put out his 20th album and toured across Canada....His voice is not as strong. He has mellowed with age too. But, he continues to do what his loves.....and we are all the more inspired by his gutsy determination to carry on sharing his gifts and creative genius.

Song for a Winter's Night, sung here by the ethereal Sarah McLaughlin, is to me the most beautiful Canadian love song Gordon Lightfoot every wrote. It captures the essence of this time of year in the desire to feel the warm intimacy of love.

Enjoy....xo

Happy Valentines Day, even to the miserable f***s out there in blogland.....oh, you know who you are.

ps...please excuse the corny pictures on the video. they are enough to make me gag. It was the clearest version of the song....so, listen with your eyes closed. :)

simple gifts

'Tis the gift to be simple, 'tis the gift to be free.'

Tis the gift to come down where we ought to be.

And when we find ourselves in the place just right,'

Twill be in the valley of love and delight.

When true simplicity is gained,

bow and to bend

we shall not be ashamed.

To turn, turn will be our delight,'

Till by turning, turning

we come round right

'Tis the gift to be loved and that love to return,
'Tis the gift to be taught and a richer gift to learn,,
And when we expect of others what we try to live each day,
Then we'll all live together and we'll all learn to say,

'Tis the gift to have friends and a true friend to be,
'Tis the gift to think of others not to only think of "me",
And when we hear what others really think and really feel,
Then we'll all live together with a love that is real.

When true simplicity is gained,
bow and to bend
we shall not be ashamed.
To turn, turn will be our delight,'
Till by turning, turning
we come round right

This is a beautiful hymn written by Joseph Brackett an Elder in the Shaker community of Alfred, Maine. When I heard it played during the inauguration, I automatically thought it was Lord of the Dance, one of my favourite chapel songs, because they both have the same tune. A friend of mine who came over to watch the ceremony with us explained that it is the hymn she sings at the end of every Quaker meeting on Sundays....Simple Gifts.

Today, I heard another version of this beautiful hymn which left me almost breathless. It was like the air all of a sudden turned thin with magic as time vacated leaving a scent of fresh pine and spring water. At the time when it was played, I was in a mad rush and was surrounded by mad disarraying thoughts. It brought me to a full stop appreciation of the empowerment of a hymn....

The hymns which touch a chord in us that hasn't been plucked in a while offer us a simple gift of our lives affirmed. They have the ability to make our dry eyes well up in fountains of tears. They soften even the hardest of outer shells. Hymns open our eyes to see the beauty in a moment of reflection which often is tucked in the middle of chaos. They can halt the immediacy of a crisis, can tear down the defences of an enemy, can hold out it's harmony in trucefull honesty, can express the indescribable, can bring people into a gathering place of peace Hymns can make you believe in the unbelievable.

No matter wherever you are or however busy you happen to be, please take a moment to enjoy this meditatively brilliant version of Simple Gifts. I think you'll agree with me. It's a gem.

"I will rise now...."

I waited for the sunrise this morning and was disappointed to see the day emerge void of life affirming colour. Clouds full of snow threatening to drop down on the landscape seemed to cloak the sky's breath and depth of possibilities. Omnipresent like a sneering bully on the playground, they hovered....arms crossed, immovable and bossy!

I walked away, determined to ignore it's wintry threats and began to focus my attention on slipping into the beauty of the imagination where the spectrum of possibility perches on the precipice of eternity. Over a cup of tea of course. Imagination and tea are happy partners in generating thoughts and feelings. No cloudy bully was going to break my spirit! HA! Not when I had a steaming mug of tea by my side.....especially when the mug, purchased on my trip to the UK, has a quote by Billy Connolly printed on the side of it....(love that man!)

"Never trust a man who, when left alone in a room with a tea cosy, doesn't try it on...."

OK.....imagination, tea and a twisted need for a sip of the absurd....my ingredients to bite back at the bully clouds....to see the world around me with a new set of eyes.

Pretty soon, I swear I heard Bono singing in my head....a beautiful backdrop to my own imagination fueled by my happy tea mug. Like a whoosh, I was pulled into it's orchestration. The music memory awakened expressed love like the opening of Solomon's Song of Songs.... it's breeze clearing way for enlightening. Ah......love's stirring yearnings....

My spirit automatically lifted. Amazing how the harmonious blend of lyrics and sound can do that, even if it's a memory playing just to yourself. Sure there are days when dirges can fill the spirit if you let them. Today, however, there seemed to be no need to push any sorrowful tunes away. Bono was prayerfully present to stir my thoughts! With my eyes closed absorbing the words, the sound and my feelings, I smiled and took a couple of meditative breaths....

It's a beautiful day

Don't let it get away

It's a beautiful day

Touch me

Take me to that other place

Teach me

I know I'm not a hopeless case

I looked up and out the window again. Day had broken without the cresting colour just above the horizon. That time had come and gone. Instead, it had patiently held onto its empowering beauty, joined forces with the words of the wind and braided its luminescence through the bullying clouds. Shadows and light tasting colour seeped out its drama, like a life living its dramatic score.

Still in my sexy red plaid flannel pyjamas, I exchanged my cozy slippers for my furlined boots, slipped on my big woolen coat, grabbed my camera and headed out the door into the crisp coldness of a January morning. A fresh layer of snow cleansed the salt and sand on the street. The front yards covered by knee deep powder reflected the new light of day, it's shadows forming in the windswept drifts. The winter nesting birds warbled their own welcoming sound.

I felt alive and connected to my part of the world......alone standing in the middle of my street.....I enjoyed the unveiling of a beautiful day. Let the drama begin.

destination greenbelt.....someday....

Dreams, like thoughts need to be spoken, written, owned
sewed into the fabric of destiny.

Photos elude my dreams

captured only by the expanse of the imagination

fueled by lyrical descriptions and poetic harmony

where worship spills out in tender cadences

among the sea of receiving minds.

I've been told the air is thin

allowing gasps of reverence to filter in scoring beauty

like jetstreams crisscrossing a clear blue sky

like orange wisps reaching out of the morning dew

like a hummingbird tickling nectar from a pink flower

like a smile, eternally soaked by tears of recognition

If I close my eyes, I can see

the deep green of late summer

a cup filled with the warmth of cointreau cheer

fluttering coloured ribbons touching from the breezes

a buffet of venues under sunshine bigtops

a hand held out for me to hold

and one which guides.

If I open my ears, I can hear

songs of hurt, hope and hallelujah

comforting silence floating in midair

deep discourse reaching level 5 feelings

and words smothered in an embracing welcome.

Everywhere is walking distance if you have the time.

Dreams are within walking distance if you know which way to go.

I will walk on.

I will walk on.

shalom. shalom.

sticky songs

love is flowing like a river

flowing out through you and me.......


Do you suffer from songs stuck in your head syndrome? I do, though I must admit it's sometimes difficult to hear the song over the voices in there too.

Kidding.......well sort of.........

Today, for some reason I have had a little church hymn keeping me company. The same lyrics kept looping back over and over whenever I stopped for a breather in between work tasks where I had to remain focused and not thinking about little hymn ditties. It actually acted as a soothing reprieve on a day that was fraught with intensity and the need for me to remain on task.

What's bizarre about this particular song though is that I didn't even know the whole hymn. I couldn't even place a time when I have even sung it aloud. And yet there is was, drowning out my silence. I do know the origin however. It was the word "flow" which had originally captured my thinking. I had used it to describe my feelings to a friend this morning and from there the word seemed to hook onto the hymn and pull it into my conciousness.

peace is flowing like a river,
flowing out through you and me.


A gentle flowing river of tranquility, an essence I sorely lacked during the counselling, adversity and group dynamic facilitating I was involved with today. I've always loved the visualization and feelings of the word flow..........there's a sense of reiteritive movement, never ending in nature.....which is exactly how sticky songs feel like too. I think this is often the case. You start with one idea, one word, one concept and all of a sudden it has theme music accompanying it.

joy is flowing like a river,
flowing out through you and me......


Some people suffer from hearing the same sticky song for long stretches. I'd find that really annoying. Mine usually last a day or so, and then I tend to move onto another one, most likely from a different venue. Van Morrison is a regular vistor to my noggin. Old camp songs show their harmony too..... both the loud after dinner "99 bottles of beer in the wall" kind and the early evening "fires burning, draw nearer" rounds. Recently John Denver made a comeback for some reason........weird.......hadn't thought about Sunshine on My Shoulders in years, but there it was. Yeah, I could list ten songs off the top of my head which have recently flowed all through me during a brief visit and then pulled out only to be tucked away again.....and all different venues and different genres.

hope is flowing like a river
flowing out through you and me.

I could almost taste the refreshing springfilled essence coming from that river hymn.....engaging and reassuring. It gave me energy.

I was thinking about this stickiness phenomenon tonight as I searched for the rest of the lyrics for my flowy hymn which had stuck to me today. After I found them, I decided to seek out more about the syndrome. It turns out one of the most common songs to get stuck is "Who Let the Dogs Out...." Thank GOD it's not one that visits me!

The other piece of sticky song information I learned? It happens most often to neurotics. Good to know I have another descriptive word to identify me. I can live with that. It's better than worrying about it. Right? It is right? I should just accept the label and move on, right??

Morning Grace

Morning has broken

Like the first morning

Grateful are we for

All that we have

Praise with elation

Praise every morning

God's recreation

Of the new day.

These were taken this morning from my back deck. Enjoy the new day.

finding the lost chord......

I spent a day getting lost on purpose. Getting lost on purpose frees you...........strips you of the bag of rocks you've accumulated and have made you feel bogged down weary. It allows you to carry only what you need for the journey.....yourself. For me, it seems like its the only way to search for a lost chord needed to recapture the harmony. I knew it was missing, however I didn't even know what it sounded like. Perhaps I had never heard it all on it's own.

I let my feet take on the prayer.......one which began without the parameter of words or phrases.........just a pounding of the pavement, a rhythm of my movement, a cadence to help me release unhelpful energy and to replace it with preferred focus. I was in search of that one lonely chord lost in the cacophonic noise called busy anxious life.

And so I began with one determined step after another.....with no clear direction.......with an uncertain destination.....with hope that my prize would be at the end of my untangling. It's not a comfortable feeling. But Pip's message played in my head...... growth does not reside in a place called comfortable. And when the journey is full of fraughtful curves and unknown curbs, when the brain is churning unfinished, unclear, unresolved worries you can either sit in the puddle of inertia or get lost on purpose. I chose the latter.......

Getting lost on purpose is driven by an intuitive pull fed by a sense of curiosity, similar to the urge one has to continue reading a mystery book. As much as you want to flip from the beginning right to the end, in order to grasp the meaning, in order to know how it all unfolds, you have to take the time to use your intuition to pick up the cues, to guide your senses through the process. Sometimes it takes a much longer time than one day to solve the mystery of the lost chord when there's a need to unclench before the untangling can occur.

Eyes wide, ears alert..........possibilities open........I walked lost in a sea of unknown faces, in a relatively unfamiliar city where the daily rhythms were unattached to me. I let myself move into a flow of others.........strangers who offered me anonymity to regain the silence inside needed to tune in. I felt insignificantly small as I walked along soaking in the architecture, the history, the beat. No one seemed to notice me and I was fine with that knowing I could make myself be noticed if I needed to. There was a sense of security in my steps as I wondered what she would sound like, my lost chord.

Every now and then, I would stop to take notice of the people and the places..........faces with their own stories behind their facades..........places with intricate deliberate designs etched on the exteriors. I wondered what was on the inside of the people and the places.....what stories could they share? Sometimes, I stopped to take photos which allowed me to catch a breath snapshot. Sometimes I would decide to walk through the doors to peak inside where more beauty would be revealed. Grandiose, elegant, awe striking............

I liked the solitude in the crowd of ebb and flow strangers. I began to listen to my own thoughts as they passed through me, one untangling at a time. I began to feel an unfurling of limbs, a stretching of muscles, a letting go of the burdening rocks which had been so heavy to carry. I could feel a lightness as I exerted energy to move forward. This motivated me to keep going. This motivated my curious mind, knowing that if I just kept going, the lost chord would perhaps find me. Would I know when I heard it? Would I recognize that it was my own or would it feel like someone elses? Would I have to share this chord with others, or would it be uniquely mine?

It was mid afternoon. Save for a few quick stops to listen in places I kind of expected to hear something, I had been walking for nonstop for over 4 hours. I found myself in front of a smallish church (in comparison to the grandiose elegance of St. Pauls just up the road. The intuitive pull tugged on me as I stepped out of the hurried city and into this small cathedral, through a heavy wooden door.

Right away I found myself in silent comfort, pulled by the aroma of the wooden pews, the light filtering onto the brocade of worship, the colour cascading all around me. I was pulled right into it's reverence. No sound, except my own steps.

As I walked through the entrance and into the main body of the cathedral, I saw to my right a person sitting hunched over on a wooden chair completely covered in their outergear.....hood pulled up to hide the face. In front of this person were two bags. Their sole possessions possibly? My heart opened in empathy looking down at this crumpled person, broken by life, exhausted by their journey to find their own chord. I didn't even know the sex of the person.........all I could see was a shape....the outer shell of a sleeping feeling human being who escaped into the cathedral for respite and nourishment.

I wanted to touch the human being......put my hand on their knee......to let them know they weren't alone..........I wanted to reach out to them and see if they needed anything. While I was standing there beside him or her pondering it all, I heard something very faint. It was the softest plink, like a waterdrop on porcelain. plink.

plink.

I decided to leave the person in silence, realizing it was presumptuous of me to even think that I could help them. I realized that perhaps it was the other way around. Their presence helped me......helped me find focus. I then heard the sound again......plink.........like a raindrop falling into a birdbath.

I moved up the middle aisle, quietly opened the door of one of the middle pews and slid in. Though I was the only one sitting in the pews, I chose the middle. It felt right to be surrounded on all sides by a balance. Behind me slept the unmoving crumpled soul whom I could feel. I wasn't alone. We weren't alone. The air was thin with a presence I hadn't felt in a long time.

I heard it again.............a soft, faint plink which felt like it had touched me on the top of my head....a dewdrop of light emanating from above..........warming and seeping into my skin.....inviting me to gaze upwards.

plink.

It was then that I realized what the lost chord sounded like. It sounded like peace. As I looked up at the beauty I was sitting below, the peaceful chord reached my lips and left a tinge of salt. Peace and salt.

My feet settled, my soul felt less tangled...... I bowed my head like the crumpled person behind me to let the lost chord touch the back of my neck and shoulders while I sat inside the words of a prayer.....one which included a plink or two of my own tears.

The dome of St. Dunstan's church, on Fleet Street. It is the "home" of writers. I wasn't aware of this until I read the brochure I picked up on my way back out onto the busy street.

Morning Has Broken

"Beauty isn't a thing. It's a way of seeing."

Anthony de Mello

Clarity is found in the simplicity of beauty

Nothing in all creation is so like God than stillness.

Meister Eckhart

A clear crisp Canadian winter morning produces a stillness in the landscape. The sharpness of the cold initially feels like a slap on your comfortably warm face when you take your initial steps through the front door into the outdoors. With no breeze to speak of, the only audible sounds were my own....a swishing of my coat, and the squeakcrunch of my boots on the snow covered walkway.

I was in a hurry. Work beckoned. But as I put my bundles of books and bags down to open the car door, I looked up and around and saw what had been left on the branches of the trees the night before. My "way of seeing" shifted from closed focused goal driven busy-ness to an open minded sweep of seeing what was all around me.

take the time.........it whispered.......take the time to gaze.

Snowfrost, in splendour sparkling beauty adorned the branches of the normally naked trees. It had dressed them up in wonderland. Each branch was delicately brushed by the winter faeries who had quietly (and busily I might add) sprinkled diamonds of snow in the night when we were all asleep. It left a feeling of stillness, a natural holy space of contemplative presence.

I saw a pastel colour filtering through the fog.......a pale hue contrasting with the predominant morning white fog. I saw the glistening of snowbranches on a bush which would easily had blended into the snowbank behind it if it hadn't been for the shadows of the light reflecting onto the snow.

All alone..........not another person in sight........and yet I felt far from alone enjoying these gifts. After I took a few photos, I stood at the end of my driveway where I could see the river and a sweeping vista of the whole area. So peaceful. So quiet, even with the moving traffic on the road below. It seemed like the faerie dusting had muffled the sounds........ I took some long deep breaths of my cold crisp canadian air.........and felt empowered by the meditational gift offered to me and I swear all of a sudden I could hear a familiar hymn of peace fill this natural holy space.

Mine is the sunlight, mine is the morning

Born of the one light, Eden saw play

Praise with elation, praise every morning

God's recreation of the new day

..........a blessed new day........

...........gazing........

love like you've never been hurt......

I've discovered and rediscovered life paradoxes during my travels this week, which have left me circling around my mixed thoughts and feelings which have remained unspoken.....unwritten because I don't really know how to describe it.

I want to paint a picture with broad strokes and light handed wisps at the same time.



I want to create an abstract montage on top of a canvas of stark realism.



With my brush I will attempt to uncover blurried impressionist lines accompanied by black etched scoring smeared by tears of dewdrops under a canopy of marginalized sentiments.......or is it the sentiments of the marginalized?



I want to tap into the echos of long ago voices seeping through the cracks of old homesteads where their silent ancesters are lost and lonely......



I want to describe deep pit hunger feeding on fear of the coming winter cold, stoked by wet wood that smolders and forgets to give off heat.



I need to share the soul eating frustration of living within an impatient and judgemental system that controls the every movement and daily decisions.......so much so that one hides small truths in order to keep their tired spirit sparked under a moth eaten fisherman knit.



Distrusting, disconnected, disabled......where basic needs......the FUNDAMENTAL needs we take for granted are often tossed in a garbage heap of mangled pick-ups, rusty metal, stuffing strewed sofas discarded and unnoticed anymore because somehow it has become part of the backyard landscapes camoflauged by grassy vetch........and sap sucking alders.




I want to paint all of those sentiments to bring them out of the margins and into the centre of our collective Body. Where it belongs. Where brokenness is healed by our hymns.




And yet........... at this time of year, when the trees emerge wearing their Sunday best and take firm control over the wilting flowers, my drives into the country are like entering a endless cathedral of sun glistening colour, where light dances through the mist floating up off the harvested fields, where the leaves look as tastefully inviting as a roll of lifesavers. It's like the hymn turns into a gospel hallelujah and it doesn't feel quite right........



I want to share this hallelujah too!!



The beauty of the season sometimes took my breath away as I drove up to the crest of a hill only to find an expansive vista of old rolling hills covered in green pine and autumn colours as far as I can see. Like a colourful patchwork quilt, it blanketed the earth with such warmth and humour. Undulating roads winding through the countryside offered me snapshots upon snapshots kept in my memory. Sometimes I stopped to try to capture the essence of the scene, as it was much too bountiful to fit within the circumference of my lens, and the colours were so vividly alive that a photo just couldn't match it.


I did stop on occasion to capture one particular majestic tree, or the end of an abandoned dock stripped of summer, or some driftwood at my feet where I was standing to try to capture the illusive vista photo. And I shook my head in wonder at how blessed I am to be living in such a magnificent setting. And yet..........and yet.................





My music, sweet background lilts kept me company and fed my thoughts of the paradox I was witnessing. Knowing I was headed to meet with different people living in dire poverty, who are struggling with serious health issues and yet can't afford the proper nutritional sustenance to help alleviate some of the symptoms, I felt guilty for having a life that allows me to stop and appreciate the freedom of the beauty. It's like I wasn't supposed to feel so good about what I was witnessing in between home visits.

Ah, but......as I reflect on my countryside travels I am beginning to see that the paradoxes are somewhat of a facade, for they are only in my own thinking. Yes the living conditions in the rundown houses hidden by the canopy of orange leaves are deplorable. No doubt about it.

Am I thinking that just because one is living such an existance doesn't marvel at the beauty all around them as well? Of course they do............and we talk about how wonderful this autumn has been.......that it has been warm longer than most years, and drier too so the wood can ripen so it will crackle in late November. In fact, it is the beauty of the season............the shared stories of deer sightings and Canada Geese......of favourite places to visit in the area, the fresh cool breeze which fills lungs much more easily than hot muggy air...that allows us to connect. Every single conversation I had began where we both admitted to feeling blessed for the quilted rolling hills, the sharp blue sky, and the canopy of lush colours.


Distressingly, we live under very different circumstances......which is a black etched scoring that digs deep into the pit of our stomachs. Its a sad reality, which I believe is erasable. Where we come together always, however is when we can acknowledge that the hymns we sing are the same.........some are quiet and sad and some are open hearted hallelujahs........we all know the hymns.

Be Thou my battle-shield, sword for my fight,

Be Thou my dignity, Thou my delight.

Thou my soul's shelter, Thou my high tower.

Raise Thou me heavenward, O Power of my power.

It is at that place.......where we begin to work together to get rid of the paradoxes and to replace it with harmony.



the beautiful imperfections of fallen leaves....in harmony together

more than you know................

outstanding shasta

taking front row in garden of delight

shastas never grow alone

though they stand alone showing off their simplistic beauty

they always have companionship

intertwined at the roots.

_________

If

flowers depict the beauty of our soul

And

friendships reflect the image we share from our soul

Then

music is the harmony rising from our soul

one note accompanying another note

intertwined at the roots

Our songs, our hymns, our melodies envelope the moments we choose to remember, just like a photo can. They both have the capacity to stop time......... And when you hear the song, all the emotions you felt in that captured slice of your life rush back with the same intensity. Familiar places you may not have thought about for a long time.......familiar faces you had put away in the back of your mind..........resurrect in an instant, sometimes flooding you with feelings so REAL that it seems like you're right back there living the moment.

Most or perhaps ALL of our important relationships have an "our song" don't they? As do key events in our life. And as I write this, I am flooded by a cornucopia of tunes filtering through my memory bank.

Amazing.........an overture of connections with the people who intertwine at my roots.

............cue Mr. Piano Man please...............................

ps. thank you Katie for kickstarting my thinking today with your post.

like a river

View from Springhill Road, Saturday at dusk

Calm before the storm

Love is flowing like a river,

Flowing out from you and me.

Flowing out into the desert,

Setting all the captives free.

Peace is flowing like a river,

Flowing out from you and me.

Flowing out into the desert,

Setting all the captives free.

Joy is flowing like a river,

Flowing out from you and me.

Flowing out into the desert,

Setting all the captives free.

Days when words fall short, we should let hymns speak for us. I heard this hymn sung in the background of a news story about a church service which happens once a month in the town of Oromocto New Brunswick where Canada's largest armed forces based is located. Last Wednesday evening over 100 people gathered for a service to sing and to pray.........to share and to gather strength........and to collectively send it to their friends and family members who are deployed. The service also allowed the first opportunity for some to come together after the 6 soldiers were killed. 2 more New Brunswick soldiers were killed that day too, though the news hadn't been announced yet............

flowing like a river.......

Now as we learn about the senseless killings in Virginia........what can be said?

No words...........just a hymn............flowing like a river

And for the third day in a row, the eastern seaboard of the United States and Canada is being pelted by angry rain, ice and wind.................

It feels like the sky is crying with rage.

Let us seek some solace in a hymn.

Love is flowing like a river,

Flowing out from you and me.

Flowing out into the desert,

Setting all the captives free.

Peace is flowing like a river,

Flowing out from you and me.

Flowing out into the desert,

Setting all the captives free.

Joy is flowing like a river,

Flowing out from you and me.

Flowing out into the desert,

Setting all the captives free.