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
In the dead of night I ponder
all my stones of awkward weight
Mentally skipping them o’r the water
of my mind’s achromatic lake.
Casting stones of dreams and wishes
skimming hopes and fears obscure
Tossing far across the tide line
stones I’ve gathered on the shore.
Sweet release I feel unburdened
As they sink down into the calm arcane
Yesterday’s stones are now a memory
I stoop and gather an untouched day .
If at the end of the day
If there was a magical way,
That clouds could suck up the fear,
All pain, bloodshed, the tears,
Angry words people say
And carry it on red wings of wind
Beyond the abyss of time
Never to return again
We would celebrate cloudy days.
Photo:Evening Sky~©️Val Letkeman
Happiness is a butterfly, which when pursued, is always just beyond your grasp, but which, if you will sit down quietly, may alight upon you.
I was working in my garden today (actually I was playing) when I noticed this butterfly alight on a leaf near me. It looked so pretty, sunlight bouncing off its wings that I stooped in for a closer look and a picture to show others. Truthfully it made me feel happy. How could that be? It wasn’t doing anything special. But it’s very existence was special to me. Butterflies speak of peace and good will. They speak of change, rebirth and happy endings. I had one of those mindful moments. Questions fluttered through my mind.
What has this little butterfly seen of the world in its journeys? Does it think about how important it is to the flowers as it flutters along , pollinating the natural kingdom? I picture it singing a happy tune, and even though it’s life is short I doubt I’d hear a mumbling word of complaint. What would that song sound like? Does it know it’s creator? Could it lead me there? Or do butterflies just soar? Some questions don’t get answered do they? I weave these thoughts, coccooned around my heart as the butterfly flies away.
The day has been long. Night has drawn its shuttered eyes, and I will do likewise. But before I go I leave you with this little Cinquain to ponder❤️ Vcl©️
Tissue white, graceful
Chasing the wind, laughing
Happy little thing
Ya’ll remember the lines spoken by the minister at a wedding ceremony that go like this. “If there is anyone here today, who knows of any reason why this couple should not be joined together in Holy Matrimony, speak now or forever hold your peace.”?
45 Years later I now daydream through that scenario…picturing someone, a sister, mother or even one of the church potluck team ladies jumping up and waving from the back of the church, “Raisins, he hates raisins, your marriage is doomed!” Then they exit with maniacal laughter. (It’s my daydream 😀)
We thought we had covered all the important stuff, like children, money, pets and who’s family to visit on each holiday, but like so many couples we felt completely blindsided by seemingly trivial preferences that can change the relationship landscape forever.🤭
Like raisins. “I thought raisin pie was your favourite?” piped up my husband’s mother after he refused a slice at a Sunday meal visit soon after our marriage. “No,”said Ken emphatically. I dislike cooked raisins actually. I prefer pumpkin. I hate how cooked raisins squish in my mouth. Like polyps I imagine.”
I wondered how many raisin pies he had choked down through the years and now, as a grown man at last he was taking a stand. No more cooked raisins for him! Free at Last!
Well it actually turns out that there have been very few cooked raisins for anyone in our family. You can pretty well say it has been a raisin free environment. Thank God(truly) for cranberries. Life has been tolerable. I must admit though it has made me a bit of a raisin warrior. Today, while travelling, we stopped at Tim’s for a coffee and donuts treat. There in the case before me I spied the most amazing oatmeal cookies with raisin deliciousness.
I ordered one and my husband ordered a luscious peanut butter. The clerk accidentally placed two raisin cookies in the bag. My heart stopped…for just the soupçon of a second…waving frantically I alerted her to her error. “Sorry, she said. “Now you have 2 raisin cookies because once out of the case I can’t put it back. Do you want both? I indicated that while I was excited about the prospect of TWO raisin cookies….but my husband was not. She added the peanut butter one. Phew, crisis averted! My husbands eye rolls were hard to miss. He whispered that I could enjoy twice the punishment.
So today I am mindful that We need not think alike to love alike.” ~Ferenc David
In fact for me in that moment, while I recognized my raisin cookie need, and fulfilled it, I was entirely conscious that my husband wouldn’t feel the same bliss. And then I realized I cared. Somewhere, all wrapped up in our childhood memory of the seemingly miles and miles of raisins, we had reached two different conclusions. And that is ok. Because we love each other in spite of our differences.
Me: I hate guacamole. Ken: What?How can you hate guacamole? 🙄
I read that the sunflower’s name comes from its tendency to reposition itself to face the sun. It’s genus, Helianthus, is rooted in two Greek words — “helios” meaning sun and “anthos” meaning flower.
The ancient Greek myth of Apollo and Clytie is one explanation of why sunflowers turn towards the sun. In this story Clytie, a nymph, adored Apollo. At first, he loved her back, but soon he fell in love with Leucothoe. Because of her jealousy, Clytie told Leucothoe’s father of the relationship and he punished her by burying her alive.
In anger, Apollo turned her into a flower, but even in flower form she still loved him and would spend her days watching him as he moved the sun across the sky in his chariot, just like sunflowers move to face the sun. 🌻
In 2013 my husband and I visited the Rikkmuseum in Amsterdam. We were excited to view amazing art and I particularly liked Van Gogh’s Sunflowers.
I share his enthusiasm evidently…..❤️ I wonder if he would prefer regular seasoning or all dressed?
“The sunflower is mine, in a way.”
― Vincent van Gogh
I make things complicated for myself and chaotic, so I feel unsettled, and then the challenge is to make something structured and complete emerge from that.
I am packing for a trip. A short jaunt. But packing unsettles me. Do I really need 3 pairs of shoes? What if it rains? Where are my sunglasses?….and the beat goes on, la dee dah. Experience has shown that I overpack. If I’m not careful I will let my joy get stolen. And the ransom may be more than I want to pay.
So I’ve taken a breather. My packing will be complete. It always does. I am writing a poem to celebrate my freedom from packing blues, spilling chaotic thoughts, into a summer night wind that’s reflecting summer’s heat. ❤️
As the wind
my mind is wafting
in and out
of conscious thought
whirling in a sea
Stirring up what
they aught not
old barriers worn
o’r what really matters
Unsettled as the wind. vcl©️
“The Louvre is a good book to consult, but it must only be an intermediary. The real and immense study that must be taken up is the manifold picture of nature.” – Paul Cezanne
I was perusing old photos today and amongst the pile, this one kinda stood out. There is an old saying by Osho that sums up my thoughts.. He says….
I was mindful. I didn’t pick it up with my hands. I did snap a picture though and take it home with me. I now can pick up this flower whenever I choose and it still gives me joy. The same joy that I felt when I first saw it. See the lush tones? The pinks and greens, each petal and flower a masterpiece? The open invitation to smell its nectar? If only it was scratch and sniff…if only to share with you dear reader…for my memory can conjure its perfume even now. 🎶I’ve got the joy, joy, joy, joy, down in my heart …where? …down in my heart to stay. 🎶
I know that everything essential and great originated from the fact that the human being had a homeland and was rooted in tradition.” Martin Heidegger
This past week I received a call from one of my daughters asking if I would like a jar of her first batch of crabapple jelly. I was so excited to be picked as a taste tester! It was her first try at canning and her excitement was catchable, as she had not shown an interest in this ancient art, although I had done a lot of it in her growing up years.
Canning brings back so many memories of my childhood. I remember my mother carefully washing jars, lids, and rings. While they air dried, I can remember her washing the cucumbers and making the brine for the dill pickles. Then taking the jars and filling them with either sliced cucumbers or whole small cucumbers.
She’d pour the brine into the jars and lower them into the canner. After they boiled for a time, she’d carefully lift them out, line them in neat little rows, and cover them. We’d all anxiously wait for that loud “pop” that let us know that the jars were sealed properly. Oh the memories!!!
Each newly harvested fruit and veggie had its own place in the canning que. One year I counted 82 quarts of strawberries. They were all gone by New Years 😳
Well, needless to say, the crabapple jelly is delicious, especially on Cobb’s bread transformed into French Toast that was to die for…..❤️ There’s the picture to prove it😍
Next we tackle dills…but canning is so much easier today because after you fill your jars and close them, you just stick them in the dishwasher and after a complete cycle…voila …Done! Except we still wait for the “pop”. It’s just tradition.
“I’ll have 2 of those Nutella donuts” I smiled at the cashier, fumbling in my bag for change. Handing it to her , I reached to grasp the bag she extended. When she handed me a second bag I realized she had got my order wrong. “You are giving me the wrong ones, you silly girl” were the words on the tip of my tongue.
But I didn’t spew them out because I was thinking of Words as Roots. Angry Words that become rooted in the soft flesh of the heart and grow unchecked until they choke the life out or get ripped out.
I thought “Let that not be me today, let the words I say have soft roots with lovely fragrant flowers that can be gathered from the heart and passed along to others. So I said ” No worries, I’ll take them…for later, so don’t worry about the overcharge. In fact I will take the others I wanted too. I saw the relief in her eyes as she filled my order.
Later, after my husband returned from a class he was attending, we had coffee at the hotel and I presented him my offering of 2 slightly squished Nutella donuts. “Yummy” he said.❤️ #Timhortons
Saudade, the melancholia remains
after someone is gone.
Causing a sonorous emptiness,
melding emotions that overflow,
Ever mindful of your voice,
Your warm embrace.
I long for what cannot be.
Yet am content in what was.
We celebrated our 45th Wedding Anniversary yesterday.
With ice cream. Hot fudge brownie sundaes. Two of them.
We joke as usual, we aren’t ready to share, yet.
But we bought the same flavour. Perhaps that’s the secret of 45 years and beyond.
“All that is not eternal is eternally out of date.”
― C.S. Lewis,
I thank God for ice cream ❤️
Today I wanted to hold
Not chain your soul to the chiseled blocks
of raw silence
promises so brittle
come and gone.
I had no words
one by one at the news that you had left
had just been passing through
I had no sound
my words evaporated
to the ground
to the silent earth
conjured up prayers
that taste like stale communion bread
on my tongue
seeking nourishment for
*Aztec stone sculpture