Today Is the First Day of the Rest of My Life.

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “If You Leave.”

Leaving or being left has been a consistency in my life from early on.  I was very young when i attended my very first funeral;  the tragedy, a young girl who attended the 5th grade at my school died while riding her bicycle. She looked both lovely and perfect as she lay in her small white coffin, long sandy blonde and wavy hair carefully placed around her shoulders.  I was just 7 at the time,  but this was not my first death.   Much of our summers were spent visiting friends on a farm in rural Quebec.   The river that flowed near Joliette was where i learned to swim.  Currents  were strong and tricky and the waters proved dangerous as lives were claimed by it’s rapid flow.   I remember my father boosting me up onto his shoulders, at my insistence,  so i could see what the crowd gathered around.  There before me lay a man, flat on his back,  not breathing,  his neck and head a deep blue.  Images can stay with us a lifetime.  I was just 5 at the time.  That was the same year i was struck by a speeding taxi just yards from my home;  it was i who darted out, no driver could have breaked soon enough.  I lived.  I had no fear of death,  i examined it, understood it’s finality,  and,  had a healthy acceptance.  Children do i find.

At ten, my dad had left us.  He was my primary parent,  a strange division existed in our household; my mother partnered with my sister, and i had my dad.  Life changed considerably after that event.  In between there were school changes, and then, my sister left.  She was three years older than me and at 19 was hired by CPAir, and stationed in Vancouver;  3,000 miles away from Montreal where i remained with my mother.  Shortly afterwards,  my mother remarried and i went off to Toronto to start a new life.  I have started a new life so many times i have lost track.

At seventeen i flew to Vancouver from Montreal,  again a new start… A year later, i was on my way back home where i would stay for another three years only to return to Vancouver… all new starts.

I remained in Vancouver for approximately 25 years,  but don’t kid yourself, there were many new starts within that span of time as i darted about to different areas of the mainland.  In the year 2000 I fled to Salt Spring Island where i remained for 4 years.  I moved three times in those 4 years.  My next move would be Vancouver Island.  Here i remain,  but my life has been less than settled.  Often i have met people who have described their lives as living in one house, or one town, for decades and i think to myself  “What might that be like ?”…. I could not know,  but i imagine that to have that sense of belonging which i guess comes with years spent in one place must be a comfort.  I have had to find my comfort in that which i carry with me,  my thoughts, my feelings and my sense of belonging to a global family .  The idea that i am one of many that makes up our humanity… and that God and Humanity are One.

Comfort First.

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Style Icon.”

Some people have a very distinctive style  all their own. As much as I would like to be, I am not sure I am that person.  Hence the first word I might use to describe my personal style is “muted”…almost indistinct.   However,  neither am I devoid of style.  Casual is probably the second word I would use.  My personality, or rather the mask I wear in the world and the funnel with which I view things is an odd combination of a serious point of view,  always seeking purpose but motivated by playfulness, and a flair of drama.

I may have mentioned this in a previous blog,  but I enjoy the thrift shops.  I find it a perfect venue for those, like me that want to express themselves as unique in some way,  off the grid,  the road less travelled, all that good stuff.  In the thrift shops, the selection of clothing apparel spans decades and not what shoppers who are concerned with staying current may be looking for.

I enjoy putting things together in my closet and think I am rather good at it.  My downfall comes as I often find my favorite article of clothing and just wear that almost everyday until it’s worn out and ready for the bin. Not a pretty picture.

When I look at my closet  I see an array of earth tones;  browns and ambers, dark greens and accents of yellows and reds,  fall colours enjoyed through out the seasons.

If I were to compare myself to any of the celebrity icons out there I would have to say my style best mimics a Katherine Hepburn or Lauren Bacall look in that I too am a pants wearing female.  I imagine that if they were around today they may go into my closet and be perfectly comfortable in a pair of khaki coloured capri pants,  topped by a comfortably fitting button down shirt.  A pair of slip on sandals and maybe a necklace made of some semi precious stones like amber or tourmaline.  Pretty casual, and suited for a lifestyle that is a bit of “get up and go”.

Although clothes do matter to me,  comfort has gained priority  There was a time that I was willing to put myself through considerable discomfort for the sake of what I thought was looking good. +++++++  I do not know how I endured it but I would squeeze my foot into a pair of shoes that were a full size smaller than what my feet really needed.  Ouch !

After writing this I am inspired to change, create a new look and take on a whole new colour scheme… why not ?  In the spirit of play !

Carpe diem

Guess Who ?

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “The Sincerest Form of Flattery.”

Leaves idled downward cushioning the ground with ambers, reds, yellows and tans.  It was undeniably fall and the city was enjoying the tail end of what had turned out to be a long and succulent Indian Summer. It was the best the seasons had to offer with the humid heat of summer abated and winter’s bite not yet on it’s way. The countryside shared it’s rolling hills,  gentle valleys,  stumbling brooks,  giant oaks, elms and birch lined woods with whoever ventured out to claim them.  They had found an idyllic spot and under the canopy of a giant oak,  spread their sheet.  Giggles and laughter could be heard from the distance as they teased and tempted each other while sips of cabernet moistened their lips and unleashed the heat that up to now had been suppressed.

You could  set your clock by her ritualistic visits to the Corner Café, appropriately named as it sat at the intersection of 4th Street and Peel .  It was her pit stop, picking up doctored coffees and custom salads on her way to the office.  He was a newcomer to the scene; his chiselled features, Davidian physique and crowning head of ebony locks made him impossible to overlook and from the start, sizzling glances suggested a clear attraction between them.

She was a high powered impassioned attorney who was driven and had already brought attention to herself with the recent victory over a chemical corporation that had promoted a new sedative claiming the lives of four women who were prescribed the medication to aid them with their anxiety disorder symptoms.  She was a dynamo when motivated and had a genuine heart based desire to empower the vulnerable and crush those whose greed was fodder to exploit them.  She was overt and one of her most winning features in the court room was her blatant display of raw emotion coupled with stream lined evidence.

He on the other hand was a Scorpionic mystery.  Dark and quiet with an intensity that needed no words as his energy could raise the small hairs on your arms and the back of your neck with mere proximity. Seething with a magnetism both alluring and unnerving  he spoke with an accent from a foreign land that she just couldn’t quite place.  Even his voice was seductive.  A velvet dulcet sound that set free the vibration of some primal nature.  Who was he and where did he come from ?  What was his purpose here ?  Was he here to stay or just passing through ?  Questions that seemed to lose all relevance with just a passing glance.

It had been three years since she felt the embrace of a man’s arms around her and more than once she imagined what it might be like to press up against his firm body and feel the warmth of his breath on her neck.  Her toes began to curl and tingling sensations reminded her that she was a warm blooded woman who had sorely ignored her carnal needs for to long. She had been ignited by thoughts of the handsome stranger and had no desire to stop the pulsing surge of desire that was taking her over and laid herself on the down covered quilt which adorned her king size bed. She closed her eyes and could see them walking hand and hand on a long stretch of sand, the warm ocean waters at their feet.  Suddenly he stops and crushing her against his hardened limbs lays her down on the moist sand and begins to press soft kisses downward from her neck and shoulders.  She is in a bliss that sends her body reeling with want and feels herself surrendering to his every move.  He seems to know her inside out and with the slow and steady rhythm of a loving embrace her trust carries her forward to know a freedom she has never felt.  She is released and the warm salt waters of flow and ebb caress her with every breath.

Oh !  That was fun……. guess who I am flattering ?  Or not,  if not… just read and enjoy … maybe, and I hope….

see you tomorrow… maybe and I hope.

A Shocking Discovery.

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Finite Creatures.”

It is an odd combination,  but my debilitating shyness seemed to be coupled by a strange fearlessness.  At the age of 15 when returning from a night of dancing I would not think twice of walking down darkened back allies if it saved me steps. I was fused with the resilience of youth and had not an inkling that any danger could ever befall me.  Alive and teaming with energy and ideas was my lot.

It was not until my 40th birthday that a new notion crept into my stream of endless possibilities.  There was something about the number.  I remember the thought clearly.  What occurred to me was 40 plus 40 is 80,  suddenly I was faced with the notion that it was feasable my life was half over.  This very insight put me in line with the mortal, something that up to now had not come to mind. It was shocking, some accident of nature.  I felt no different than I ever had.  I was ageless, I felt no connection what so ever to this idea of anything being half over.  But I could not deny that the number that now described some part of my experience was 40, half of 80.  It was a conundrum that sat quietly in the corner of my mind, and whispered words of concern to a presence that stood in defiance of the whole idea.  A “head to head” was in the making.

Well, I am back at feeling ageless, and I do not remember how long I was plagued by the gross idea of mortality,  but it got old (pardon the pun)  and I must have eventually dropped it.  Instead, I ‘ve developed a new found respect for this body that is what my consciousness has to play with.  I may treat it a bit gentler and give it considerations that were in the exuberance of youth overlooked.   It appears my body is embroiled with some sort of chronological dance,  but that is not me.  I am back to being immortal.  That which animates me is spirit and energy which may transform but not de-vaporise. So upward and onward.  Enjoy the dance and if you choose,  jump on this band wagon of waking up to the knowledge that eternal awareness lives on.

Hug Yourself.

Deadline Doer.

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “The Heat is On.”

It is the absolute pressure of a deadline that fuels the juice to create.   I am not a little by little doer.  Plodding along in my own quiet way, making progress without the fire of being under the gun simply does not motivate me.

When given an assignment or having a task that has a time line,  is at the very first a bit of an excitement.  It is the deadline that  suddenly looms larger than the task at hand.  And, unless it is something I have done a million times already,  the doing of it begins immediately in my mind.  I can spend days approaching it from all corners,  dwelling on the most efficient way to get the job done, and with this focus in mind new insights might emerge without notice, and when I least expect them.  It is as though I quite unconsciously am working on the project non stop.

As the days zero in towards the deadline a certain tension, if you will,  or, another way of putting it would be a heightened almost feverish pitch becomes attached to thoughts of getting it done.  Most often just before it is due, I begin.  There are no questions of what  “should I do next “?  In fact it simply unfolds as though it has all been done, and now it needs only to manifest.  Like osmosis, it takes form without interruption or pause.  There is no trial and error,  no building and dismantling, no re-does…. It already knows itself and appears.

This little system of mine is not for the faint of heart… and it does come with an element of tension. The closer the deadline, the more I must embrace that the outcome remains in the “Unknown”  in the black hole of  “where is it” ? The added frenzy is a  component of the final download.  The relief that comes with completion is joyous.  Down to the wire,  I guess that is just the way I like it.

All I can say is… do not try this at home… do it your way.

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “The Heat is On.”

It is the absolute pressure of a deadline that fuels the juice to create.   I am not a little by little doer.  Plodding along in my own quiet way, making progress without the fire of being under the gun simply does not motivate me.

When given an assignment or having a task that has a time line,  is at the very first a bit of an excitement.  It is the deadlie that

Mother Is a Mystery.

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Dear Mom.”

Oh mother you’re a mystery, so many things kept hidden,

Stories of the early years have all but been rewritten.

I have no information of your mother or your father,

And ever time I’ve asked for some you’ve told me not to bother.

Conversations that we share are shallow, my questions overridden,

It pains me that my right to know has somehow been forbidden.

You’ll take your secrets to the grave, I’ve no one else to ask.

What shame could be so great ?  If it’s pain that you so mask,

Remember it seeps through to us who carry on from you.

So tell us all who are the ghosts that linger in our queue.

I doubt you would suppress the names of donors to our genes

If they were Royal blue bloods and Officers or Queens.

And so the greatest sadness that surfaces for me.

No matter how I wish it,  there is no family tree.

Telling It Like It Is !

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Well, I Never……

When I read this mornings prompt, I had an immediate response.  The question is do I have the courage to publicize something I have for decades kept to myself.  I have an urge to disclose my shameful experience and am easily embarrassed to think of the few people that know that me as the writer of this blog.  I am not completely anonymous.

Well, damned the torpedoes,  full speed ahead.  After all,  this is not who I am but a part of a past experience that in the end was a worthwhile lesson, firstly,  on how I think and feel about the human body,  and secondly,  not to act to quickly and do the research.  This second lesson took me years to acquiesce to and recently I had a slip and needed to relearn the value of saying… “I need to think about it”.

Back to the experience at hand.  Allow me to set it up.  I  was 30 if I remember correctly and had my daughter and my son.  On some personal level,  I was attempting to reconstruct myself as a young woman.  I had always been modest in the breast department, but after albeit a short breastfeeding sojourn with my babies,  I was left with frighteningly deflated looking boobies.  I imagine you have guessed where I am going with this.  It was the 70’s and breast augmentation was surfacing as an acceptable viable alternative to breast considerations.  I had heard of it, and immediately approached my husband.. Well he almost raced me into the surgery room, no questions asked.

Within just a couple of days of recovering at my mother’s house,  I knew I had made a big mistake.  As I lied there convalescing with tubes draining fluids from my body with these odd breasts sitting up in front of me, I felt an annihilation of the delicate bond I had with my material self.  These feelings were kept private.  Healing took place, and I dismissed any negative thoughts I had about my quick choice to alter my body and carried on with my tasks at hand.  I had discovered that the sensitivity around my breasts was greatly reduced, and was sadden by this.  The Doctor gave no warning that the cost of a more attractive bosom was the loss of sensitivity.  I had not thought to ask the question.  I have realized the we as a plastic surgery obsessed society have truly traded a look for all the joy that makes our bodies pleasurable, it’s extreme sensitivity to touch.

Within a year,  I experienced a hardening on my left side, and my breast had become unmoveable and hard as a rock.  Again I visited the Doctor and he explained to me that it was quite common and happens in a high percentage of surgeries.  Hmm, why was I not briefed on any post surgery probabilities ?  Nonetheless the only solution was to clasp the breast on each side and slam the palms together as hard as possible breaking the scar tissue that formed around the prosthetic causing the hardness.  This was extremely painful and comparable to smashing your thumb with a hammer.  Within five short weeks the hardness had returned;  I was now afraid to come near or hug anyone.

Gratefully I was introduced to a Doctor who’s life’s work was correcting faulty plastic surgeries.  I learned that the Doctor I had randomly selected from a phone book was the worst in the city and responsible for much trauma.  I was scheduled for surgery and at last I would have these saline sacs removed from my precious body.  Upon waking my Doctor approached me holding the prosthetics in his hands.  He informed me that I was lucky that neither had burst as was also common,  as what he held in his hands were actual silicon sacs and not saline prosthetics.  I have since heard of horror stories from women that have had the experience of these breaking and the silicon traveling around the body causing large open sores to appear in random places.  The silicon is impossible to retrieve.

In closing,  I love my breasts as they are and through the miracle of time they have returned to being quite normal and handsome enough for me.  The sensitivity has improved but is not to compare to what it once was.  If you are like me.. advice of any sort is something we can live without.  People will do what they do.  But I have since told my story on a couple of occasions, each time to a stranger who had disclosed to me the desire to have breast surgery augmentation.  I hope my lessons can benefit the young woman who thinks that a change in her breast size could give her LASTING pleasure.  I say look within and change the way you perceive yourself.

The most precious experience that our bodies can provide us is the sweet sensation of being touched.  When we loose that sensitivity to the severing of nerve endings and no longer feel a stroke or a caress,  we have forfeited a great deal of our human experience.  I wonder if it is just not ever mentioned.   Do lips that have been botoxed still feel ?  When the lights are dim and you feel the closeness with someone you love,  how you look looses it’s relevance. There are young women being implanted with artificial prosthetics and I wonder how that might interfere with the organics of breast feeding should that time come.

I am grateful that I have moved to where I am now with my body. It is precious to me.   One key in the  grand piano of humanity and I would hope it to make a pure and glorious sound.

Think twice before you leap.  Love yourself,  give yourself a giant Hug,  you are a treasure as is.

Apples and Oranges.

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Memory on the Menu.”

The flavor,  texture and resilience of memories can be as vast as the Sahara.  Those that are recent, vivid and kinetic are more readily interwoven with the fabric of our daily lives.  Often after having extreme fun with friends I have enjoyed rerunning the tape and immediately upturned lips morph into a smile and my mind is filled with the joy and warmth that were part of that special event.  Like a tool or a nest egg,  a memory that is fresh can be relived for the purpose of sprucing up the present moment. A welcomed past opens into the present.

Unlike the memories of old that carry a patina of a treasured antique;  they are structured, solid, unchangeable and the feelings that are conjured are slightly removed from impacting the present day in the same way,  instead, they seem to display portions of who we have become.  They are interwoven into the fabric of our cellular selves.  More often memories reel the mind back to a corner of our personal experience as it was then.  Although the feelings are readily available it is I who must travel back and submerge myself into the memory as opposed to having a memory metaphorically speaking at the end of a fishing line spinning back to today.

I myself enjoy having memories, all sorts,  the good the bad and the ugly.  It fortifies an idea that I have roots and am part of a community.  I like having a history.  At the same token,  I believe we can outgrow our memories.  As our understanding and acceptance of who we really are becomes undeniable;  and being present,  or another way of putting it may be . .. “Being in the Moment ”   becomes a more frequent practice,  memories become obsolete.  In the moment we occupy a fullness that seems to embrace all there is.  Our memories are no longer broken down in the mind as events, dialogue,  time and place but are perhaps just part of the ether that exists in the stillness of our eternal awareness.

I have a desire to add, in closing,  that these are just my thoughts and musings and a sharing of my own experience of what memories are to me.  I am not a specialist at any one thing, and my only aspirations at this point is to “Know My Self “.

Blessings to all who travel here.

To Sing Again.

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Practice Makes Perfect?.”

Some talents are arrived at through years of practice. Most often, by the time an actor stands at the podium proudly holding an Oscar or an Emmy he or she has been in the industry hard at work for decades.  Many artists do not achieve any level of recognition until after their death.  Does this mean they were not talented throughout most of their lives ?  Recognition for work done does not neccessarily designate talent.  I would narrow the definition of talent down to the protégés that have emerged on the scene.. The Beethoven’s. the Mozart’s to name a couple;  those who had an uncanny ability almost from infancy.  As though the entire purpose of their life here was to fulfill the act of providing us with their amazing gift.

Outside of these extraordinary talents, most of us select something we are drawn to or for what ever reason hold fantasies around becoming  and pursue that field of endeavor.  Then,  abilities are honed,  but, I believe that any of us can become astute at our chosen craft if we continue to pursue it and do not give up.

From my own experience,  when the idea occurred that I might want to paint,  like by osmosis, a colleague of mine very spontaneously gifted me with her art materials as she had decided to give it up.  I had never taken a course and was terrified when I began,  but because I stuck to it, I arrived at a place where I could give myself over to it and some thing of some value began to express itself on the canvases.  I discovered the same thing when I pursued Theatre acting.. relatively untrained,  getting past the fear/terror and giving my self over  was the key to becoming present, animated and of course flowing with the words that were indelibly marked and waiting for retrieval in the left brain.  It is my belief that the very fiber of our being is a creative force and that if we can in fact get out of the way of this playful and able divine resource,  all manner of creative ability is available to us.

Now to get back to the question posed by this prompt,  if I were to pick a talent for myself.. it would without any doubt be singing.   I took such joy in singing when I was younger.   I once sang for seven hours straight on the bus from Toronto to Montreal.  A girlfriend and I had gone for the weekend and on the way back we sat right behind the sub driver.  She would name a song and I would sing it…When we disembarked the bus driver looked at me and said “Thank you”.  I was quite touched and slightly embarrassed,  but obviously he enjoyed the show tunes,   and other songs that I softly sung right behind him separated only by a curtain.  No longer can I hold those notes the way I used to,  and I wonder whether with practice I could bring myself to produce a desirable sound.  Although my ability has clearly diminished… the bliss I feel when I am engaged in song has remained the same.