Mary was a precious soul. Her poetry paints beautiful pictures with her unique vision, style and language. My life has been enriched. Thank you Mary.
Photo :Iris~ vcl©️
Mary was a precious soul. Her poetry paints beautiful pictures with her unique vision, style and language. My life has been enriched. Thank you Mary.
Photo :Iris~ vcl©️
I remember Mr. Murray well. Designated as our homeroom teacher, the grade 11 class regarded him warily. Perhaps it was the ascot knotted at his throat, unusual apparel for a Nova Scotia fishing town. Or it may have been his pasty skin, the unwell appearance of an unhealthy person, wearily moseying along the road of life.. nearer to the end than the beginning. Every movement he made was languid. I remember the class atmosphere as whispery, as if we were all in a hospital waiting room. It was instinctive that we felt compelled to best behavior.
He taught us English Studies. I loved to listen to him speak about the characters in the stories we studied. He had a lovely way of shaping words. One instance, I cannot remember the name of the book, he stated how over dramatized and “gushy” it was, and that any minute we could expect violin music emerging from the bushes, highly unlikely in the circumstances. We were encouraged to envision it. The girls giggled, the boys rolled their eyes. His danced merrily.
My Father was a religious zealot. He was quite firm on what literature his children should have access to. It was with a sinking heart that I brought home the designated reading for the semester. Of course it had to be “The Apprenticeship of Duddy Kravitz” by Canadian author Mordecai Richler, newly minted, off the presses and reallllly controversial. My Teacher was that kind of man. Controversial. My father was angry and impetuous. Pulling open the kitchen coal stove lid, he thrust the book into the flaming fires of hell, and slammed the lid shut. No child of his was going to read that garbage!
I was a nervous child. It was not easy living with a Father that talked directly to God. Unfortunately, neither he nor God accompanied me to school to explain the situation to my teacher. Approaching his desk, I gathered all of the little courage I had, and I told him my story.
I must explain here that I am an eye watcher. Eyes say everything, especially in unguarded moments. I can read even the faintest twitch of untruth. My children despise me for it. I remember his eyes that day as they changed from curiosity to interest in my story and then to pain. No anger, I was used to anger. Smiling sadly, he stated that he would give me another assignment. “I want you to write an essay “he said.” I want you to write about Success. Tell me all you can learn about Success.”
Then turning to the class, he called it to order. Pulling an armload of envelopes out of his satchel, he proceeded to hand them round to each student. “ I am going to teach you something that will be the most important information you will ever need to know as you venture out into the world. I am going to show you how to fill out Income Tax forms.” We spread them out on our desks, rolled up our sleeves and got to work.
I wrote my essay on Success. I do not remember much of what it said or the mark I received. I left for another school at the end of the term. I heard that Mr. Murray did not return the next year either. After a I graduated I got a job. I got married. I felt the most happy feeling each year as I got out those forms and filled them out because I had the knowledge my husband didn’t have yet. I felt needed. As the years past and the taxes became more intricate, I willingly passed them over to our tax man.
Oh yes…One quote I do remember is “Success is not the key to happiness. Happiness is the key to success. If you love what you are doing, you will be successful. “~Albert Schweitzer
BTW I picked up the forbidden book later in life. Funny thing, it is a story about a young man desperately determined to be successful. And he wasn’t. Thank you Mr. Murray. ❤️
I started real work as I call it when I was 15 years old. I went away to a church run private school and paid part of my tuition by working part time in a book bindery. My classes started at 730 am till noon then I worked the afternoon 1 until 4 . Oh yes…and all day Sunday. I worked as a cover layer ..rebinding old and putting new books together. Covers were cut and glue (old horse glue) was melted in a machine that was plastered on the covers and another machine was used to fold and trim the corners and edges. I was so efficient at my job that I was asked to make the year books. It was a huge task. Oh and all the work was done standing btw. And the hot glue smell? …..phew , especially if you forgot and it started to burn!
Those years cemented a lifelong love affair with books because an added bonus to my job was being able to read the books that I was working on during my lunch breaks. Books of poetry, books about the world, history books, books of maps, and magic…… all kinds of books.
I have also noticed through the years that whatever work I have done involves a lot of reading…❤️.
There is a song that I heard as a child that goes “I’ll work till Jesus comes” and I joke that I took those words literally.
If there is a heaven…(and I believe there is) …this quote says it all… book paradise.
“I have always imagined that Paradise will be a kind of library.”
― Jorge Luis Borges
To be or not to be
But we insist
To do or not to do
Is our mantra
With least regret
So as we spiral
Down to death
And do our best
To be content
May we see the
Irony of our intent
That what we do is what we be.
I watch the falling snow
The whirling edges
Sparkle into night
Windblown fingers grasp
The naked branches
Cavorting in the light.
Endless snowflakes fall
Like ageless dancing angels
Heeding winter’s flight
I am making shortbread
Cutting small shapes just right
Wishing you were standing near
As you do in every year
Judging the sugary cookies a delight.
Anticipation is something we experience even before our first memories are formed. This story is a revisit of happier times…to be mindful that there is meaning, wonder and even worth in the waiting.❤️
It started out innocently, the first year I was old enough buy a gift for him with my own money. As the oldest child, I felt I had done something that reeked of specialness, of significance. That first Christmas sweater was grey. It had large buttons and a cable knit design that my mother loved to knit when she was not mothering eight children. Boxed and wrapped, I placed it under the tree in high anticipation of its appreciation. (Mom said so.)
Here I must point out that my Dad was taciturn in personality. Christmas was the one time of the year that he broke from that self-imposed formalness and actually seemed to be more jovial. He ate chocolates and played games, and joined in the fun. When someone squealed to him that there was a present for him under the tree from me, he made a huge production of it. That long, drawn out week before Christmas morning, He would pick the present up as he sat in his favorite recliner chair by the tree and shake it gently…trying to guess the contents.
Was it a violin? I giggled and shook my head, no. A wallet then…boxed to fool him? I refused to answer. He would have to wait for Christmas like the rest of us. Then disaster struck. Christmas Eve had finally arrived and Mom was brewing up a batch of spiced hot cider in the kitchen. My younger siblings and I were stringing popcorn garlands for the tree. Dad reached down, picking up the package that had become a nightly ritual and looking at me intently in the eye said. “Does it have buttons?”
My face betrayed me. Viewing my crestfallen face, he crowed triumphantly. I was tearful but turned my face away. My surprise was spoiled. Another game he had won. That is another story. He, on the other hand was quite happy with his gift that Christmas morning. For the next ten years, I bought him a Christmas sweater. I never put it under the tree until Christmas Eve.
Each time I would put it in his hands he would look me wickedly in the eye though with his Cheshire cat grin and still try to guess, “Does it have buttons?” Sometimes it had a zipper.
Let me ask you this: What’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to you? How quickly can you recall this memory? Now try this one on: What are the most hurtful words anyone’s ever said to you? What about instances where the words uttered weren’t even intentionally mean, but they still stung deeply? I suspect this list would be the longest. Words that sting have a way of lingering.
My daughter’s untimely death has caused me to remember conversations, especially in the final weeks leading up to her suicide. It is not easy, not being enough for her to keep holding on. We always accused her of being cryptic…But my last conversation was clear as a bell. It will ring forever in my ears.
“It’s never been about you Mum. Bye. I love you.”
Her last text to me until the unending silence . A last gift. A last kindness. Even in her pain she sought to soothe. That’s why I love her. That’s why I’ve always loved her. Because she loved me. It was the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.❤️
Our favorite reindeer
Whose nose glows mindfully
*Poetry style ~ 1-2-3-4-1
Christmas ~ It makes us feel.
We inwardly wail and gnash our teeth
Or stoically keep a stiff upper lip
We wrap our gifts
Trim the tree, rearrange the Nativity…
And in the ritual, hope
To pass along the memories
To those who listen
Perhaps our children
Paying tribute to those we miss
Playing down the agonies
Elevating the bliss
A seasonal thaw, as if walking on stones
On the winter river
Frozen in place but beauteous ever
We find ourselves transfixed in this space
We’ve set aside for lost warm embrace.
And we hold it tight
For it is all we have
This celebration of lives lived, loved and lost
Consoling ourselves that we are present
With our presence, the best present,
Not a memory erased, hoping to return
At the end of the new glittery year that awaits.
She said, stop praying for me, Mother
I never prayed enough
to stop her
I have stopped praying now
Death whispers her name.
Time has slowed
Silence has replaced
The susurrous swirl
I whisper her name
I miss you more
Because your loss
They have died too.
This has been a long, devastatingly hard week since the passing of my daughter Stephanie. If there is any light at all, it is to be found in family who have taken time to support me. One particular person is my brother Les. His support and willingness to do the hard tasks will always be remembered in my heart.
We’ve been having lots of opportunity to reminisce as siblings do and during one of our conversations he told me about an occasion when he worked as a councillor at our church camp, with children who had various disabilities. One boy, he remembered, probably about 15 years old at the time, in an advanced stage of multiple sclerosis was confined to a wheelchair. My brother assisted him by pushing him around to meals and various activities. He couldn’t play softball but he liked to watch, and my brother said he stayed with him so he wouldn’t have to be alone.
The conversation turned to the ocean, the boy lamented that he had never been to the waters edge of a beach. The beach wasn’t easily accessible for a wheelchair. There were a lot of stairs to navigate. Les told the lad…”I can take you down the stairs….but you ain’t coming back ….haha” He laughed.
The boy continued, He hated being a bother to people, as if others had made him feel that way and Les said, “that it was no problem for him.”
Smiling up, He said to Les, “Everybody has a problem, it’s just that you can see mine.”
My brother, with the same kindness he showed to me this week …found a way to honour the boy’s desire. He said… I know a place… there was another access 3/4 mile away and he pushed the boy all the way there. Because He couldn’t get out of the wheelchair, Les cupped water in his hands, the boy tasted it and thought it was pretty neat.
As the sun was setting on another day, they slowly returned to the camp for supper. As Les helped him get ready for the meal, the boy asked….”Soooo, how does feel to be hanging out with a * gibble* ? Les said “Funny you should ask. I’ve always wanted a friend that was a *gibble*. Now I have one.
38 years have passed since that conversation, with its triumphs and failures, ( more of the latter he says) yet the memory of that day remains clear.
I think Confucius said it best: ❤️
Life is really simple, but we insist on making it complicated.
I do not feel the demons now I do not feel the fear today She is at rest and cannot be reached Her angel guards this space I hear God whispering i will never leave you comfortless I’ll come to you I’ll stay.
You were built from the stones
No proof needed, open ended
But before you go off aimlessly
Wandering through the forests
Of sandalwood, and high places
I will take off my glasses
Watchful as a big cat
For the sound of footprints
Lest on too close sight, I miss this
Darling illusion, which struck fear and terror into me.
The art of losing is not too hard to master
I desired my dust to eventually mingle with yours
Anticipating the splash,
The forsaken cry , a rock skipped on water
Rippling, then smoothing the Holy surfaces
Knowing that I have left mine too late
Misjudged your frailties
What draws friends together
To never be alone forever.
My wing is ready for flight,
I would like to turn back. If I stayed timeless time,
I would have little luck. Gerherd Scholem
I heard that God died
For this seriously flawed
Death has not much
I held forth
Despite the chance
I stood someday
That day has come
The stars have lost
Their shine, for
”Twas in my angst I realized
That one of his was mine.
I want to scream, and scream . And scream some more.
I want to grab those flowers, rip them petal by petal
crush them under my heel
order them to leave and never return
But I cannot. I dare not.
For all my crushing and ripping
has released the sticky-sweet aroma that death brings
the memory of wizened old aunts and grandparents
linger in the ancient air…..exposed in all its fragility.
Woe, o Woe, how can it be so young to choose
I am stuck in concrete walls/ nothing natural / I press the remote button / nature sounds emanate / from the lonely TV / stretched out on the wall.
Crickets, bird songs, cicadas trill / basking in the warm summer sun /not real / but the memories of real / somehow soothe my soul.
The sonorous splash of waves / that beat upon the shore / the screech of hungry gulls / intersperse the musical crescendos / seed heads of wind tossed crabgrass jiggle / the surfer intently gliding /all crashing down /to silence.
My heart aches / for the generations to come / who will have no real memory / and are forever stuck /beating against concrete walls.
I’ve found true joy comes from serving others. If you are feeling blue, turn on your servants heart and it will bless you. Unknown.
I’ve been feeling blue. Life hasn’t followed the pattern I expected. I’ve agonized over who’s to blame and have no concrete answer.
I do know I feel too much. Truly, these last couple of years have been arduous. Words are spoken or not. Decisions get made or not. I’ve felt that the world is an unkind and unsafe place for the most part. I’ve found myself asking “If you can’t trust your tribe who can you trust?” Where is the loyalty, the trust? Everybody scurries for cover when you ask the hard questions.
I can’t fix everything. There, I’ve said it out loud. Actually a lot of things aren’t fixable in this world. More stuff is made to be disposable. Even the toaster eventually quits toasting. But you don’t feel the same pain throwing the toaster in the trash as when someone you love trashes you.
The pain is real. But reading the above quote this morning I was reminded that the world is full of other people who feel blue and if I look beyond myself they show up. Every day. People who appreciate your words of advice. People longing for words of hope. A hug. A coffee. I may never have the answers I crave in this world, but I can concentrate on how I respond to the sadness my heart feels every day. I choose joy in service. It’s what I do. I do it because I want to. I do it because it gives me joy. It eases the burden.
I’ve turned on my servant’s heart and I don’t want to shut it off. ❤️
Give not over thy soul to sorrow and afflict not thyself in thy own counsel. Gladness of heart is the life of man and the joyfulness of man is length of days. Ecclesiastes
Today my husband was blessed with another birthday. He has been blessed so far with 66 of them🤭 Today we were again reminded that his father passed away at the young age of 59. He did not have the opportunity to grow old.
Each year that passes finds us having the same discussion…what he must have felt leaving this world too soon. Now, he had heart problems and finally a stroke, but as I look back I remember sitting in the hospital thinking how quiet and resigned he seemed to be. I was young. I didn’t know how to tell him that I would miss him not being there. Then my husband’s aunt passed away in her 59th year. That felt scary. Heart disease runs in the family said the Dr to my husband and he was also at risk. He was assured that exercise and healthy eating were better for him than Perogies and sour cream. ❤️
The year my husband turned 59 was really stressful, and felt he had dodged a bullet …in fact when he hit his 60th we celebrated with a big party. Each year since has felt like a victory.
But ironically we have also learned that longevity has its downside. Aches and pains we didn’t have at 59, people asking when are we retiring….when we aren’t ready to think that way yet, children that don’t have the same time for us, grandchildren growing and finding their own interests. Life adjustments. Finding where we fit, what we’re fit for.
i took this picture of flowers awhile ago on one of our vacations. In observing it, I am reminded that some flowers have short lifespans and others are perennial….but they all spread a joyful essence to the atmosphere they inhabit. The natural world has an order to be envied if you observe closely. I am mindful that all time in this earthly space is short and seasonal. But it can be oh so beautiful.
So we celebrate another year. We will be glad in the length of our days.🤩
Oh how I longed to be
The roots of trees,
Anchored deep into the earth
To sway contentedly in the breeze.
But I see that I’m destined to be
The leaves that scatter free,
Travelling along in my little world
Anchored to no one else but me.
I thought of you today
as standing in a cope of trees
nearly naked limbs dangling
in autumn’s rheumy breeze
i glimpsed you in the broken light
refracted through the falling leaves
too bright still, restless, mortal
beams spilling through the edges
I thought of you today
Here and there, and in between.
One day I will find the right words, and they will be simple.⠀ Jack Kerouac, The Dharma Bums⠀
I can identify with Jack. Sometimes in an attempt to find the right words that will allow me to communicate with you, dear readers, I find myself with nothing to say. Nothing. Sometimes that makes my friends and family nervous. Because it’s not that I don’t have words. I have tons of words. Words that weave and dance, that caress and cajole but usually they are more complicated than I wish. I occasionally need to look for simple.
So I went to the sea, Cuba. Sunshine. Sand. Sleep.
I went to the sea today
Raised finger tips
to sun kissed lips
Tasted the salt
Of a thousand tears
Words that have never been heard
Just evaporated, disappeared.
~I feel recharged. We are and then we are not. Simple as that. 💫
Don’t worry, we aren’t decorating for autumn in our home quite yet, but it was fun pulling a few things out the other day when I was rearranging the storage room. I was excited to find my box of pumpkin carvers. It is an art in our family and we look forward to the pre-planning …picking the design, finding the right pumpkin, exploring new ideas and dream of spice and everything nice.
Wait for more fun pics 🎃 friends.
But first I’m packing those suitcases I dragged from the storage room with summer clothing and flip flops.
Yeah Cuba….see you soon!❤️
“Light is prettiest in the dark.”
A number of years ago I had the pleasure of traveling to Europe. One highlight was a visit to the Rikkmuseum in Amsterdam. There I absorbed the old art by famous painters such as Van Gogh, Vermeer, Marten, Asselijn and Rembrandt. It was a truly delightful experience.
One of the portraits that intrigued me most was the famous piece by Rembrandt named The Night Watch, Rembrandt van Rijn, 1642
Undoubtedly his best-known masterpiece, which is said to have marked a turning point in the artist’s career, takes pride of place in its own gallery. The large-scale painting depicts guardsmen getting into formation, with a young girl in the foreground rumoured to be modelled on Rembrandt’s late wife. The grand space is dedicated to Rembrandt’s vision .
There was seating all around the centre of the room where one can gaze at the painting from various angles. I was struck by the darkness of the room and the picture itself , which was huge along the wall. My gaze centred on the people depicted in front. This was my first introduction to what is called Rembrandt lighting.
Rembrandt lighting was named after of the great master, who often used it in his own portraits. The idea is to create a small inverted triangle of light on the subject’s cheek that is opposite the light source. This is very flattering (especially for people with prominent cheekbone structure) and was often used in old Hollywood portraits. Teachers say that it is important to ensure that you get catch lights in both eyes.
Since then I’ve been mindful of this thought. There’s no wrong in darkness, only a brief departure from the light. To understand the darkness in others, it serves us to know our own darkness. Rembrandt knew his subjects well.
Let’s show ourselves some light. Allow yourself to be inspired to let go of the need to stay in darkness—your entire life isn’t meant to be a struggle, but if you think it is, that’s what it’ll be for you.
The trick isn’t to drown the darkness with light, or to replace the negativity with positivity, but to bring the darkness to the light, like an offering.
This is my offering today to you.❤️
I am not a writer~
Oh, I have stones crammed inside my head, collected
stuffed into an abandoned trunk of old forgotten valuables
left to expire in the dusty attic~ but I am not a writer.
I am a holder~
holding the talking stones of childhood memories, sibling quests
love gained and lost, birth pangs and the fool’s gold of age.
I hold the stones, smooth to my caress ~I feel the words speak.
vcl poem /photo ~ Lake Athabasca
We really are very lucky. You know…US… the gardening people. We have had our annual joy…..and a busy time recently gathering in all the fruits and vegetables of our labors. Abruptly…just as every year feels that way, cooler weather has descended…I find myself contemplating socks….saints preserve us!
This is the time of year when we can’t go around with a new plant (family member) as in warmer climes, chanting under our breath “Where are we going to put you?” Here in northern Alberta….the land of the blue line on seed packets I call it, we are now asking ourselves “How are we going to protect you?”
My husband states he saw frost on my car in the early morning…which I’ll have to take his word for as early is a dirty word in my vocabulary. 🤩 Hearing that though, I am instantly thrown into a protective stance. Do I grab the peppers and tomatoes (still quite green due to poor sunlight caused largely by the forest fires that hid the sun and the rest of the skyline most of the summer) ? Or do I leave them be, alert for just a little precious Indian Summer?
That’s the dichotomy of gardening friends. The cycle of birth and death. It gets played out on the gardening stage every year. It’s been a great run, but now we look for ways to cheat the calendar. It could mean the difference between a bountiful harvest or no harvest at all.
As for me, I went down to my garden today. I picked some tomatoes, cukes and onions. I grabbed a couple of peppers and a lone zucchini too and made a delicious salad for our supper.
I pronounced it good.
I picked more sage to dry, anticipating Thanksgiving in the pungent autumnal odor lingering on my fingers. I contemplated covering the Tom Thumbs. Maybe tomorrow.
Mother Nature winks at us all. I Winked back!😍😉
And you just can’t
You just can’t
Make it better
It just won’t move
It gets caught
In a groove
And you’ve wiggled
But stepping back
You’ve learned to live
And You did not die.
vcl©️ Photo & poem
You can take it away, as far as I’m concerned—I’d rather spend the afternoon with a nice dog. I’m not kidding. Dogs have what a lot of poems lack: excitements and responses, a sense of play the ability to impart warmth, elation . . . .
Tomorrow is National Dog Day. We humans like special days, don’t we? I guess it’s about the warm fuzzy feelings they evoke in the memories of happy times. This one occurred when I was eleven.
My Father spent some years as a salesman. He had a sales area which because of its size meant that he was gone for days at a time. Returning home from one of these trips he arrived at the back door carrying a large cardboard box. Setting it on the threshold he hunkered down, unmindful of his good suit and as we children gathered around he proceeded to open the box. What to our wondering eyes did appear but the cutest, most adorable little black, red tongued puppy we thought we had ever seen.
He was so energetic, trying to kiss everybody’s faces as we passed him around. Then he peed on Mom. I remember Dad setting him on the stoop and as we all entered the house Rex (that was his new name) had to be helped over the threshold as he was too fat to wiggle over it. We all laughed.
Rex , Dad explained was a Black Labrador Retriever. He grew and grew in physical size and love, big sloppy love was his specialty. He mostly stayed outdoors as he was added to the family because Dad was away a lot. Guard dog was his primary role,but occasionally on cold winter days he was ushered into the back pantry with a special blanket and snacks. Oh the love then lol.
He turned out to be a kind, patient companion alert to rabbits and squirrels along the path to the gardens. He was the first to flush out the porcupine with her babies, much to his chagrin. He never missed an opportunity to chase a stick. He seemed to sense when we were feeling blue and would sit close letting us pat his head, almost like he was offering a prescription for what ailed us.
If he had any flaw we never found it. That is until some years later we moved to a new home near a rural highway . It seemed that he had found the one thing that caused him some excitement in his quiet country life. Added a little spice he may have said in human words. He liked to chase the pea truck.
In the early autumn the peas are harvested in the Annapolis Valley. With it begins the steady procession of overloaded trucks taking the peas (with vines still attached) to the canning factory close by.
Rex just couldn’t seem to help himself. No amount of reproof made him change his ways. Every time he heard a pea truck rumble down that road he was sprinting along beside it barking, snarling, grabbing the occasional pea vine that fell off in the breeze in his teeth, shaking it back and forth as if he had captured the flag of sorts. The truck would soon disappear out of sight, then Rex’s demeanour would relax and he would saunter back to the step as if nothing had happened. Yawn.
Sadly, that is how Rex met his demise. I wasn’t there when it happened thankfully but that darn old pea truck obscured the view of another driver passing and didn’t see Rex as he crested the hill. One thump and he lay mortally wounded in a heap on the road. The commotion that followed , children crying, strangers apologizing, and the horror of the suffering friend I could only imagine as the story was relayed to me later. Gathering around, my siblings recounted those precious minutes where hope died. It was quickly apparent that the vet wasn’t an option. Fortunately a neighbor pulled up with a hunting rifle just then and Dad put our friend to rest.
it is said that “One bad trait can ruin a whole person”. I guess that can apply to dogs too.
Rex was buried deep in the woods among the old Apple trees the area is famous for. I have never visited. My brother mourned there. Boys and their dogs are another story.
RIP Rex. I’m glad we have a day to celebrate you.❤️
Photo credit: Dirk Vonderstrabe
While skimming through some YouTube videos recently I viewed an excerpt from the 1968 motion picture Funny Girl. One of the things that most stood out for me in this movie was the song Barbara Streisand introduced by the name of “People,” often known by the line in the chorus “People, people who need people are the luckiest people in the world”. I still remember that song for many reasons. One of these is the deep-rooted notion that we are never alone in this world, furthermore that we depend on others for more that just mere survival.
People do need people. Together we comprise the real “fabric of our lives.” It is up to us to work with one another in creating unity. By understanding what we share in common, and better defining the boundaries of what makes us different, we can embrace our connectedness and our diversity in the long run. And this affects our own reality, both as individuals, as well as at large. The sooner we come to this realization, the quicker we are able to fall in sync with our life’s purpose and find fulfillment. If we are to survive the challenges of our changing world, we must trust ourselves, open our hearts and bond with others through the real experiences that enrich our spirits. Only then will we rise to the call of our true nature, As the song says “you were half, now you’re whole.” 💝
Today I overheard the term “fabric of life”
Not as a complete sentence, certainly not sure of the context
I think of criss-crossing threads, a cloth of existence
That we can wrap around our selves. An assurance of realness
Soul dressing ©️Vcl
via Tears of heaven