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
Upon reflection
Sometimes things
Get broken
And you just can’t
Fix it
You just can’t
Kiss it
Make it better
It just won’t move
Or improve.
It gets caught
In a groove
And you’ve wiggled
And waggled
Without success
But stepping back
You’ve learned to live
Without something
Important
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 . . . .
Howard Moss
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.” 💝
Threads
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 .
©️vcl
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.
Nathaniel Hawthorne
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©️
Butterfly
Tissue white, graceful
Chasing the wind, laughing
Happy little thing
Wings
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
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