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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.


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October 28, 2015 · 6:10 am

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

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August 4, 2015 · 5:08 pm

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.


July 22, 2015 · 8:04 pm

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.


July 20, 2015 · 4:47 pm

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.

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July 20, 2015 · 3:34 pm

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

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July 20, 2015 · 2:54 pm

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.

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July 16, 2015 · 5:08 am