Field of Mini Wheats

My first painting - completed in October 2014.

My sister thought it looked like a field of mini wheats.

#oilpainting #oiloncanvas #landscapes #painting 

Lorelei

I stumbled upon these words, thinking it was a poem of sorts (well, I guess it is to some extent - isn't music, poetry set to music?) Realized it was done by the Scorpions in 2010. 

There was a time when we sailed on together

Once had a dream that we shared on the way

There was a place where we used to seek shelter

I never knew the pain of the price I would pay

You led me on with a cloak and a dagger

And I didn't know you had made other plans

You had me believe we were meant for forever

I really thought my heart would be safe in your hands

Lorelei

My ship has passed you by - And though you promised me to show the way, You led me astray

You were my Lorelei - What kind of fool was I. Cause I believed in every word you said, And now I wonder why

There was a time when we held one another - Bearing our souls in the light of the flame.

Those were the days now I've lost my illusions

Sometimes I wake in the night and I call out your name

Lorelei

My ship has passed you by - And though you promised me to show the way, You led me astray

You were my Lorelei - What kind of fool was I. Cause I believed in every word you said, And now I wonder why

Now there's a light that shines on the river

Blinding my eyes from so far away

Shot through the heart but now I know better

As hard as it is to resist the song that you play

Oh Lorelei

My ship has passed you by - And though you promised me to show the way, You led me astray

You were my Lorelei - What kind of fool was I. Cause I believed in every word you said, And now I wonder why Lorelei

The Scorpions

#scorpions #lorelei #safe #dreams #fool #love #soulmate

Goodness and Purpose and Light

Tonight, I walked in from the store with my arms full and a brand new candle in my bag. As I struggled to get it all on the counter, one bag dropped and I heard the glass break. My brand new candle was ruined as the glass shattered. Frustrated, I was ready to throw the whole thing away. My husband refused to let me do so. “It will still light; it will still serve its’ purpose,” he stated. Immediately, I began to argue back.... “But it’s broken and ugly and glass is everywhere. It’s just not the same.”

I walked away and when I came back, he had placed the candle on the counter and lit the wick.

My heart immediately was drawn to the light. How often do we do this in our own lives or with others? Things don’t turn out the way we want them to. Plans fail. Dreams shatter. Goals hit the floor. People break our hearts. And we are ready to throw the whole dang thing in the trash. Even though it can still light.... still shine.... still bring the fragrance of goodness. It just may not be pretty or in the package that we wanted or imagined.

Tonight, may we all be reminded that even in the brokenness and cutting edge of life, there is still goodness and purpose and light. We simply must be willing to not throw it all away and allow the redemption to take place. There are times that our story will simply speak a little louder and impact even more people when we are willing to allow the broken places of our life and story to shine for others to see and understand.

Liz Wagoner

#broken, #goodness, #light, #shattered, #itstillshines 

Believing in Big Love

A truly great post by Heidi Priebe

I talk and I date like I don’t.

I don’t have frivolous expectations for romance. I’m not looking to get swept off my feet. I am one of those rare, perhaps slightly jaded individuals who actually likes hookup culture and is happy to live in an age in which monogamy is not necessarily the norm.

But I believe in big love because I’ve had it.

I’ve had that massive love. That all-consuming love. That ‘I can’t believe this exists in the physical realm of this planet’ kind of love.

The kind of love that erupts into an uncontrollable blaze an then simmers down to embers and burns quietly, comfortably, for years. The kind of love they write novels and symphonies about. The kind of love that teaches more than you thought you could ever learn, and gives back infinitely more than it takes.

It is the ‘Love of your life’ kind of love.

And believe it works like this:

If you’re lucky, you get to meet the love of your life. You get to be with them, to learn from them, to give the whole of yourself over to them and allow their influence to change you in unfathomable measures. It’s an experience like nothing else we have on this earth.

But here is what the fairytales won’t tell you – sometimes we meet the loves of our lives, but we do not get to keep them.

We do not get to marry them, to pass our years alongside them, to hold their hands on their deathbeds after a life lived well and together.

We do not always get to hold onto the loves of our lives, because in the real world, love doesn’t conquer all. It doesn’t resolve irreparable differences, it doesn’t triumph over illness and disease, it doesn’t bridge religious rifts or save us from ourselves when we’re corrupting.

We don’t always get to hold onto the loves of our lives because sometimes love is not all that there is. Sometimes you want a tiny country home with three kids and they want a bustling career in the city. Sometimes you have a whole, wide world to go explore and they are scared to venture out of their backyard. Sometimes you have bigger dreams than one another.

Sometimes the biggest, most loving move you can possibly make is to let each other go.

Other times you don’t get a choice.

But here’s another thing they won’t tell you about finding the love of your life: not ending up with them doesn’t disqualify their significance.

Some people can love you more in a year than others could love you in fifty. Some people can teach you more within a single day than others could teach you over the entire course of a lifetime.

Some people come into our lives only for a particular period of time, but make an impact that no one else can ever quite match or replace.

And who are we to call those people anything but the loves of our lives?

Who are we to downplay their significance, to rewrite their memories, to alter the ways in which they changed us for the better, simply because our paths diverged? Who are we to decide that we desperately need to replace them – to find a bigger, better, stronger, more passionate love that we can hold onto for a lifetime?

Maybe we just ought to be grateful that we got to meet these people at all.

That we got to love them. That we got to learn from them. That we got to have our lives expand and flourish as a result of having known them.

Meeting and letting go of the love of your life doesn’t have to be your life's single greatest tragedy.

If you let it, it can be your greatest blessing.

After all, some people never get to meet them at all.

The Lost Art of Letter Writing

I am on a mission to declutter, and purge my home over the next year or so. It is not that it’s out of control “Hoarder” episode material. It’s just that on our last move, I brought several boxes, and extra things with me that I really didn’t need – it was just an “oh, just throw it in the moving van, and I’ll deal with it later” situation. My house is very small – and I want it all gone. It’s been almost 5 years!

This past week, as I dug out my Christmas cards, (Yes, I still do send Christmas cards to a dozen or so people in my life), I found a box of old cards and letters from years past. Well over 35 years ago! I poured a hot cup of coffee, settled into my chair, and started reading, and sorting, and laughing, and reminiscing, and crying a little too, over the memories of times gone by. I miss those letter writing days.

Sadly with our current means of communication, there really is no need to actually sit down and write a letter. Email, Facebook, texting – something like “video killed the radio star”, “internet killed the writer”. Don’t get me wrong – there are some positives about technology, but that’s another post.

A letter can communicate so many things that an email never could. They are personal – they contain your effort, your handwriting, and your choice of stationery. Before the words are even read, you have sent something that no one else could send. No one else has your handwriting or taste in cards. In a way, there is something vulnerable about this. You are revealing part of yourself to the recipient, and that immediately softens the heart. I found myself picking up a letter, and before I knew who it was from, I recognized the handwriting. It made me smile.

Letters are hard work compared to texting or typing. It takes work to find your cards, a pen, stamps, and then to trek to the post office to mail your letter. To physically write the words you could type a lot quicker, communicates value to the recipient. It tells them, that they are worth the effort. They are also inexpensive, yet the impact is sometimes bigger than a $50 gift.

Letters can be reread, and be encouraging in difficult times – they force you to speak slowly, and writing your words forces you to think before you write.

Letters can give the gift of time. The recipient hears your words without the pressure to respond immediately, or to respond at all. Face to face, emails and texting puts pressure on one to respond within a certain time frame. Letters are less stressful and gives the recipient the gift of time to process your words, and respond in their own time – or not! Sometimes sending a letter is just a way to remind someone they are on your mind and that you care. It’s like leaving the door open. “I was thinking about you. I care about you. I would love to see you.” It’s my way to remind them: my door is open whenever you want to come in.

Letters can build relationships. You can communicate through letters that you love and care for people – tell them they are important to you. Over
time, letters can build up a failed relationship, or be a solution for strained family relationships.

Letters cannot be debated. If you have trouble getting your thoughts and ideas communicated, sometimes letters force people to hear you out. They may not read your letter, but it’s hard to resist a hand written letter, so they likely will.

Letters can console the grieving, strengthen the weary, and soften hearts. Letters can ask forgiveness, or gently confront. You can send them to family members, neighbours, friends near and far, and even your "enemies." You can leave them for your spouse or roommate. You can give them to your Starbucks barista, your mail carrier, your grocery store clerk. Sadly, in this day and age, the latter may seem a bit creepy!

I miss it. I treasured every moment of the last few hours reading, and re-reading some of your old letters. Thank you, for bringing me that joy today, and all those years ago, when I first received them.

A recipe... Mushroom Soup

INGREDIENTS

2 tablespoons olive oil

1 yellow onion, diced

1 cup sliced celery

1 cup sliced carrots

16 oz. baby bella mushrooms, halved or quartered depending on size

2 tablespoons dried sage

1 teaspoon dried thyme

½ teaspoon garlic powder

5 cloves garlic, thinly sliced

1 teaspoon balsamic vinegar

64 oz. vegetable broth

1 (13.5 oz.) can full-fat coconut milk

1.5 cups uncooked wild rice blend

3 tablespoons corn starch

2 tablespoons fresh chopped parsley

Kosher salt

fresh cracked pepper

INSTRUCTIONS

Heat olive oil in a large pot over medium-high heat. 

Add onion, celery, and carrots, along with a couple pinches of salt and pepper. 

Cook for 8 minutes, stirring frequently. Then add mushrooms, sage, thyme, garlic powder, sliced garlic, and a large pinch of salt and pepper.

Cook for about 5 minutes, stirring occasionally.

Add balsamic vinegar and a splash of veggie broth to deglaze the pot, scraping all the yummy bits off the bottom. 

Then add veggie broth, coconut milk, and rice blend. 

Dissolve cornstarch in 3 tablespoons of COLD water and add the slurry to the pot as well. 

Add a couple pinches of salt and pepper. 

Stir to combine and bring to a simmer over medium high heat.

Cover pot and reduce heat to low. 

Simmer, covered for 30-35 minutes or until the rice is almost cooked through. 

Stir every 10 minutes or so to make sure the rice doesn't stick to the bottom of the pot. 

Remove lid and simmer for another 10-15 minutes or until the rice is cooked through, and the soup has thickened. 

Stir in fresh parsley, season to taste with salt and pepper and enjoy!

Sounds pretty good, eh?

#soup #comfortfood #mushrooms

Saddest Feeling

The saddest feeling is when the one who gave you your best memories, is now just a memory...

The Things You Find on Kijiji (TTYFOK) # 5

I haven't posted a #TTYFOK lately, and I kind of miss it. They still make me laugh. So here you go!

I think I'll run a poll on this one. Let me know what you think the seller is giving away for free. :) 

Lanark Through the Lens

Moving forward on my journey, I am resurrecting my old Canon Rebel XT, (perfectly decent camera by the way) and will be wandering the Lanark Highlands in Ontario, Canada, shooting the ordinary, and the extraordinary people, places, and things, throughout the seasons. 

Iron Mine Road, Lanark, ON

 

I hope you follow along, and enjoy this part of my journey with me.

This is Lanark Through The Lens #LTTL

If this is ever my story

If my life ever gets to this, please order me a chilled bottle of Veuve Cliquot, a Clint cigar, and call Mary...you know...Dr. Mary Harris,  (Caroline Dhavernas) from "Mary Kills People"
I do not want to live like this...even for a little while.

This is a note from an old friend, about an old colleague and their current health situation. As I read each line, my heart sunk, deeper and deeper into a sad state of "Dear God, make it stop".

Hi Everyone

Thought I would send a quick update.

Mom (Olivia) has been at home for almost two weeks and I just managed to join her after the same number of weeks in quarantine. Sara and Dad have been visiting daily and managing the daily progression of caregivers and assessors marching through the house to help create a little hospital service / room and to forge a path for comfort as cancer takes its nasty course. Personal support workers have been visiting daily but we are trying to reduce them from three times a day down to two. The Occupational Health Therapist has prescribed some special support bars, a walker and special mattresses and pillows for the bed and wheelchair to help Mom achieve some mobility in the house. To date, Mom still can’t stand or sit for more than a few minutes at a time as she finds it painful and tiring. We are working on ways to improve comfort time in bed but also make it easier to get out of it as she has been bed ridden for almost two months.

Mom will undergo another form of somewhat experimental chemo-therapy in the coming weeks to attempt to slow the growth of Cancer in her body. She is feeling a little better now and is able to rest a little more during the day’s and evenings.

As the weeks progress we’ll try to increase her mobility and reestablish a routine in the house to be able to rejoin Bruce on the couch and for dinner again.

Please keep your well wishes coming and excuse the lack of personal responses. Mom is getting the best of care and is spending any time between visits resting as best as she can after suffering many restless nights at the hospital.

We will attempt a few a few zoom calls later this week.

Emma

Names have been changed for privacy reasons.

Invisible

As a young woman, I was somewhat pretty, with a smallish frame, and a great Farrah Fawcett hairstyle.  I did take care of myself - but I wasn't full of myself. I knew I was not unattractive, and I could hold a decent conversation.

I walked everywhere. Around the neighbourhood, along the beach, through the malls, downtown, through the market.  A regular occurence was a stare, a second glance, sometimes a whistle, or some crass cat call.  It bugged me, but I just assumed it was part of life, and boys would be boys, and dirty old men, would be dirty old men.  You learn to live with it.

Even into my 30's and 40's I remained attractive, blessed with barely a wrinkle, in average shape, and a great hairstylist. I still received a "look" now and then, the nervous conversations, and suggestions to "get together". I was married, for gawdsakes, but that didn't seem to stop them.  I put on a few extra pounds in my late fourties, (which felt like 100 extra to me), but it was still the norm for me to be approached for mindless chit chat, deep conversations, an occasional flirty encounter by all ages of men.  I recall one time, sitting at the bar in Kingston with a friend, and an older gentlemen leaned over, smiled, and said "gosh I wish you were older".  It was sweet, and made me laugh.

I recently turned 60, and I've noticed that things have changed somewhat. The hair is now grey, and there are several more extra pounds to deal with. But I digress.  I was sitting outside with a friend the other day, and a young man came by and the three of us were engaged in a casual converation.  After a few minutes a younger friend of ours came by and joined us. The young man immediately switched his attention to our young friend. Our attempts to contribute to the conversation were futile - we were totally ignored. He carried on the casual chat with her for a few more minutes, eventually said his good bye's and left.  I remember thinking. That was odd. And frankly, a bit rude.

A few days later I was outside fixing something on a gate, and a nice looking young man was approaching with his dog.  I turned and smilled and he smiled back. I said "nice day for a dog walk"! He responded with a smile, "it sure is" and kept walking Just as he was getting close to the building, our younger friend comes out the door, and the young man literally stopped in his tracks and mumbled some nonsense to her.  I laughed, and added something to his comment. He totally ignored me and directed the rest of his conversation to her. The encounter continued for a few more moments, and then he left.  I remember thinking again.  He totally ignored me. That was odd. And honestly, a bit rude.

Then I remembered a conversation I had with a dear Psychology Professor friend of mine, back in the early 2000s about love, life, relationships, and aging.  He told me "it's very strange - one moment you are young and attractive, and meet all kinds of interesting people - the next minute you turn 55, and you seem be at that invisible age. No one notices you, no one seeks you out for conversation in a social gathering. You are quite literally, invisible"

Then it hit me. I had reached that "invisible" age.

Inside, I still feel young, reasonably attractive, and definitely approachable. I am bursting with interesting conversations, just waiting to be had. However I realize now, that on the outside, I'm a piece of the furniture. I'm just there. A #fatoldgreyhairedlady that no one pays any attention to any more.

I'm ok with it - I'm a bit of a home body, and I do appreciate solitude and alone time. But I found it a bit sad.  Sad that age changes us physically so much that we fade into the back ground and become invisible.

Word of advice: youth and beauty fade quickly. It's gone before you know it.
So you better have a great personality, lots of interesting conversations, and dear friends to have them with, to hold you over into old age.

Show Up

Sadly, the #covid19 situation has exacerbated the long term care issue.
It's not an excuse, but a fact.
The world is realizing long term care homes are understaffed, and loved ones are suffering. 

The workers are pulling gawd awful long shifts, with barely any thanks with the exception of a few signs, a few strategically placed rocks here and there, a free coffee, or a donut.  I'm sure this is all appreciated, but in the meantime, they are putting their own families, and their own life at risk.  It's not an ideal situation.  I hope they get a well deserved raise - I'm not sure what else we can do.

Even with the pandemic in full force, families are still in need of long term care for their loved ones. It's a sad situation. Once they are admitted, they are not allowed to visit. Unless it is a compassionate situation.

This note was written for a time without a pandemic - it's a bit difficult right now, but once the pandemic is over, and for those facing the task of looking for long term care for their loved ones - a bit of advice.

Try and choose a small one - with the short staff roster, a few dozen is still overwhelming, but at least they are not trying to take care of hundreds.

Once your loved one is admitted, be sure to visit frequently.  Not just once a month, or every other week. Daily if you can - but at least twice a week. Three or four times if possible. 

Take part in activities, and their care.
Grab an activity schedule, and "show up" for Bingo, or Music time, or bean bag toss.  How many times did your Mom or Dad, play games with you?

Join the advocacy group for family members
Be a part of the family council.
Have your say - voice your opinion - you can be a part of the solution.

There a minimal standards for long term care - food, shelter, clean sheets, and a bath twice a week.

Consider hiring a personal support worker on your own dime to take them out for fresh air, sponge baths on off days, changing up their blankets, tidying up and light cleaning their room. Holding their hand, brushing their hair, rubbing their backs, plucking a few chin hairs, a mini facial, or a quick manicure in between regularly scheduled manicures.

Hire a hair stylist once a month, an estetician, a manicurist, and a foot care specialist.  Pamper them like they did for you.

Family members still need to show up. Do their part.
It's a part time job.

Yes, things must change.  If not for our parents, but maybe for us.  Our parents would want us to be taken care of better than they were.

We need to be part of that change.

In memory of my sweet wee Mum...who appreciated my sister filing her nails, and plucking her chin hairs, and mini facials, and back rubs from me.

I Hope They Know

I hope they know, I still remember

I hope they know, I still care

I hope they know, I am wishing happiness, for this milestone day

The Anniversary

The place was a busy, but quaint little pub, tucked on the edge of a sleepy subdivision, just off the 401. Gently worn, red carpeting, and fresh little tealight candles sat in their crystal holders on the sometimes wobbly, wooden tables. The dark, oiled hardwood panels on the walls kept secrets of comings and goings of locals, friends, and strangers taking in beer, blues, and conversation until the late evening hours. The comfy, plush winged back chairs were tucked in strategically by the cozy stone fireplace, sitting face to face.

I recall fondly, the heartfelt laughs, the oaky wine, the long meaningful chats, as we sat in our spot in that place, with the dancing yellow flames, burning the evening away, much too quickly for our liking.

As the days turn into weeks, and the weeks turn into months, the memories try their hardest to push deeper, and deeper into the boxes, in the archives of my mind. But, I promised myself I would keep some special times alive, and reopen those boxes that mean the most to me, every now and then.

On this date, I purposely curl up in my easy chair in front of the fireplace, with a glass of smoky cabernet. Read the little book of John Donne, with soft blues playing in the background. Once again, my mind visits the romance, the laughter, and the love that blossomed in that quaint little pub, in the winged back chairs, and I wonder if you remember that place, the memories we created, and this date, that we called "our anniversary".

Fifty 9

Its early morning.

A crisp, cool breeze is blowing through the gardens bursting with daffodils, hyacinth, and tulips.

As I sit alongside the shore of the river, the angry, restless, rapids rush past me.  Still in a tizzy from the spring runoff, it surely is on a mission - in a hurry, reaching for something. Its destination unknown.

I sip my strong, hot, coffee, and close my eyes, lifting my face to the sun.
I'm 59 today. How did that happen?

It's beautiful outside, but, inside I am still bruised, and bloody.
I can feel a few broken pieces stirring - there is a lump in my heart. 

Normally, I would have heard from you by now.
Your deep, morning sleepy voice, saying "good morning".
A song, out of tune, of wishes for my birthday.
I would smile, and look forward to another call later in the day, and even again in the evening.  You were thoughtful, kind, and attentive like that. And never forgot.
Just that once.

No call this year.
Life has turned to a new page, to another chapter.
A new path.

I will push through the day, and move through these feelings once again.
Mopping up the blood, and coddling the bruises.
Sweeping the broken pieces out of the way; pushing them into the river, to join the rapids on their journey to somewhere...to make room for the wishes, from those that truly love me. 

I will carry on. Remembering your voice, your words, and your birthday song, with a smile inside. 

My phone beside me, just in case.
Just in case, you just forgot.

May 22, 2019

The Paring Knife

To the left of the sink, in the top kitchen drawer, on the right hand side, sits an old, worn out, wooden handled, paring knife. It's about six inches long, with a dark wooden handle, held together with a small, metal screw. It is old, and has weathered two or more lifetimes of use, I'm sure. You can almost see the shape of someone's hand, imprinted on its' handle. When you hold it, you can almost feel my mothers' hand, or perhaps it's my grandmothers', who held it before her. The blade is no longer perfectly rectangular, but has worn away into a crescent shape in the centre - most likely a result of my grandfathers regular honing with his sharpening stone.

The blade has greyed, and the steel has completely lost its lustre. There are dark spots, and a few places that accumulate rust, if not taken care of immediately after use. It is dangerously sharp. You could end up with a very nasty cut if not careful, and if my memory serves me correctly, it has always been this way. My father, was also an expert in the honing department.

I stumbled upon the old wooden handled paring knife, while my sister and I were sorting through my mother's belongings. There is still, a plethora of household items, in boxes that have been in storage for almost two years. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of the little wooden handled paring knife peeking out of an old dish towel, at the bottom of a box. When I spotted it, my heart jumped, and a flood of old memories, of my mother coveting, and guarding that old wooden handled paring knife came over me.

I quickly grabbed it, and placed it among my stash of various bits and bobs I planned on taking home with me. Sheepishly, I looked at my sister, as I tucked it carefully into my bin.
"You don't mind, do you?" I knew my sister would surely have nicked it for herself, if I had not acted quickly. But my fail proof line, when I really, really want something that belonged to our mom or dad is; "You know where it is, if you really want it". She hesitated, but did not challenge me, and into my bin it went.

There was something magical about that old knife. It's not that it brought back any significant memories, just familiarity, and a comfortable feeling. I knew that knife, as if it was part of our family; almost like a sister. Trust; you could rely on her "fail proof" sharpness. Routine; she was used every single day, for one thing or another. Normalcy; she lived in the same spot in that same drawer for 44 years. Reliable; in that she would always be there. She sat in the top drawer, to the left of the sink, on the right hand side, my entire life.

Mom used it for everything. I can see her standing in the tiny, galley kitchen in our apartment, with her hair tied back in two pony tails, one on top of the other. and her little black slippers, with "a bit of a heel", peeling potatoes, and carrots, practically every day. Cutting up a lesser cut of beef, to turn it into a steaming pot of stroganoff. Cutting up cheddar cheese, to have with crackers with her afternoon tea. Sectioning her daily albacore, tuna sandwich, into six smaller pieces. Trimming off the harder crusts of bread for me, when I asked her to, as a small child. Slicing up cream cheese, pinwheel sandwiches, to serve when her friend Joan, would come to visit on Tuesdays. Sweet, yellow onions, sliced with precision, to accompany that gaud-awful beef liver, that was force fed to us every week.

After each task the little knife would perform, Mom would meticulously wash it by hand, dry it carefully, and tuck it back into the usual spot in the drawer. The story was, that this little knife travelled to Canada, from Belfast, Ireland with my grandmother, in 1924. I'll bet my mother also snapped up that little knife, when purging her own mothers belongings. Perhaps it sparked fond memories for her; of peeling carrots, potatoes, or slicing onions. Reminders of her mother, memories of her father - or maybe it just gave her a sense of familiarity, and comfort, in some way.

I cherish that little knife. I also use it daily - to cut up potatoes, peel carrots, or slice an onion, to portion out a sandwich, or cut off hard crusts, because I want to. When I pull it from the drawer, I think of my mothers' hand holding the handle, and notice that we hold it the same way. I feel my grandmothers presence too; watching over me, as her treasured little knife performs it's duties for me now.

My hope is that the old knife will land with my daughter, Valerie, when the time comes, and that she can appreciate its comfort, and simple, but important impact over the generations.

For now, it will get used daily, living the next chapter of its life, in my home; in my top drawer, to the left of the sink, on the right hand side, until it gets wrapped in an old dish towel, packed into a storage box, and my children stumble upon it down the road, and recall the story of the old, worn out, wooden handled, paring knife.

Also published at: www.story-quilt.com/the-paring-knife/

Memories...

A familiar silhouette in the shopping mall.
A magazine cover in the bookstore.
The bookstore itself.
The faint scent of him, that catches you by surprise.
A laugh that sounds exactly the same,
you freeze in your tracks.
The voice, a few seats over,
ordering a dirty vodka martini.
A photograph you come upon by accident while looking for something unrelated.
That's all it takes.
To transcend the spectrum of emotions that take you from even keeled, easy going, normalcy,
- to gut wrenching pain, mixed with anger.
You feel those sharp little chards of glass,
the broken pieces of your heart stirring again.
You pull yourself together.
You look at the photo with maturity, and strength.
...and remember the day you were behind the lens, sitting at the little table, alongside the water, in a foreign, but familiar place - with a smile in your heart and love in the air.

Also published at www.story-quilt.com/memories/

The Words We Want To Hear

I was thrilled to have my little 18 month old grand daughter home with me for a few days over March break. She's so funny... smiley, happy, and has a wee bit of a temper too!
She has a whole vocabulary of mumble jumbled words, that make sense to only her, I'm sure. But, she's also starting to form words that we can actually understand. "mommy, daddy, shoes, puppy, wow..." and a few others. Adorable, to say the least.  One word, that caught my attention was "Nana"!
My eyes lit up, I smiled, and said "YES, Nana"! and I pointed to myself.

She said it a few times over the visit, and it melted my heart. One day, we went into the kitchen to get ready for lunch, and she looks up and points to the counter. "Nana" - my heart sunk, as I realized she was saying "banana", not "Nana" :-(

I don't care - it's "Nana", and it's ME - and I'm going with it.

Signed, "Nana Banana"

Messing up something good...

"Most people mess up something good, by looking for something better, only to end up with something worse.." ICE-T

I think we dream...

I think we dream so we don't have to be apart so long. 
If we are in each other's dreams, we can be together all the time.

Winnie the Pooh

Sometimes insomnia is a blessing.