"Awayness"
12/08/2003 07:46 p.m.
"Mark Yourself Away" the top of my screen invites.
So simple, so intoxicating the invitation.

Away. It’s how I feel, where I want to be right now. Just away. Not on vacation. And not away from the poetry site or people, family or courses, but just to float away a while from my own everyday beingness.

I mean in the Jane Urquhart, down east kind of definition, as in her lyrical novel "Away" . The Maritimers and down easteners really understand that need to follow tangents and curves unseen to disappear, sometimes, go missing. Emotionally and physically gone.

It’s not a trip you tell everyone you’re taking, and then save and pack up for, somewhere to which you have reserved tickets. Nor is it chemical. You want to be fully cognizant and pure-headed. Sleep is almost the route, but not even that does it.
Go without leaving a trace to connect you to this life, for whatever length of time it takes.

"Away", the novel begins with an epigram, this Irish triad:
"The three most short-lived traces: the trace of a bird on a branch,
the trace of a fish on a pool, and the
trace of a man on a woman."

The last line doesn't seem credible to me. Did a scientist write this, not a lover? If true, how tragic it seems. The closest embryo to my "awayness" yet was listening to violin, harp, and choir in different venues this week, from a restaurant, where a celebration of a life was held, to the Church on Sunday morning, lifting me off into a beautiful escape. Then, in those moments, I was starting to be away.

I just know I need to find a way to feel this absence, because I need to follow some external, private path without being able to reached by anyone. Not to elude them, to test if they miss me, I don't even want them to miss me. I want no weight at all of being looked for. Just to be somewhere else unimaginable, and for some reason I can't explain or analyse or remember or foresee. Somewhere that cares not that I'd be invisible, naked and immeasurable, ungradeable even. Even to myself. After all, I'm not an egg in a carton, or an inventory item. After all, I can't always be slotted in the same places and peg holes chronically associated with. I say this from no external demands or pressures, except perhaps what I've let myself feel, leading me a little burned-out, and exhausted lately. But it's kind of a peaceful, happy journey I will take.

Perhaps like Agatha Christie did once (not for as long a period as depicted in the movie Agatha,) but the writer did actually disappear from the world's being able to locate her, for a week. In the movie she sets it up to look like suicide but has another purpose. My "Away" is not even negative. Nothing dark or self-endangering. It's a positive, peaceful removal of myself to somewhere I can hear God and Destiny or perhaps, just a beautiful silence, for a while. And not be heard myself. Or see anyone.
Like a Buddhist monastery, perhaps?

"Mark yourself away," the top of my screen invites. Making it look easy as a click.


I am currently Detached
I am listening to my imagination

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Speed Bumps
12/01/2003 02:50 p.m.
Riding to my husband's office for three days last week for a retirement course we took together, I was appalled (as I have been before on this exercise in the underground parking lot there) at the way those government workers, vast numbers of them, start their day and jolt their bodies, without cushioning, and my tummy, back and neck didn't appreciate it. I thought of pregnant women and know when I was pregnant, especially in the first four months, I'd have not trusted this to be good for us (child and me). OF course I know friends who have these at their residence areas too, and it's something I've thought about for them too. With lots of children in the area, they're warranted, but seem so obtrusional health-wise. Has anyone done any studies of repercussions, I wonder? So I wrote this poem draft in my new birthday journal from my sister, (I've been so spoiled by family and friends for my 50th I can't get over it, but that's something else to write about one day.)
~~~~~~

Speed Bumps

Some people have to drive over speed bumps
every day, three or more in a row, twice or more often
enduring the ritual jars to stomach and back
without shock absorbers in their bodies

speed bumps! a necessary evil?

who knows the long-term
or immediate damages incurred from this man-made impediment
to the pace of motion?

Speed bumps!
(they repeat, like I do here)
sometimes follow warning signs
before they are encountered

perhaps relationships should have
speed bumps
external controls set out in advance
to protect more than one party, from themselves
and/or others
keep the risk from passion in check
reactions in slower motion

but likely
even if one knows the bumps are inevitable
and where they'll present themselves
no bracing or avoidance would work
to soothe or eliminate the impact

if that road must be the one taken
the driver rides them out
and if it becomes routine

after years of de-sensitization
to the jarring,
he seems to accept the assaults
as part
of a better or vital package
rendering him oblivious to
the disruption and its eventual toll
~~~

It makes me think of Garth Brook's song, The Dance, one of my favorites, in which the conclusion is I could have missed the pain, but I'd have had to miss the dance.

And yes, I agree, our lives are better left to chance. But I also agree we need something better but like speed bumps along the way on the concrete road, for cars, (to protect everyone)and something better than pain and loss in relationships, as necessary evils along with the benefits, but being human, we are flawed. And so need speed bumps. The irony is that sometimes caution and slow pace can still get take you into dilemmas.

I am currently Creative
I am listening to the good hum of computer

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A poem by my Great-Great Uncle
11/29/2003 07:16 p.m.
Uncle Alex H. Sutherland was a well-published poet living in Western Canada, as well as a government employee. There are several of his books in our family collection, and also a letter from the poet John Masefield, to Alex, commending him on his poetry and encouraging him. I chose his first poem from the book Victoria. He was a Manitoba native, but fell in love with Vancouver and Victoria too. His books (nice leather-bound volumes, in some cases) include: Manitoba Memories, Selkirk Settlers, Victoria,
and others. One includes a poem about a poet, and one volume is based on King Arthur, with miscellaneous poems further to the back.

I grew up cherishing the times when we were allowed to take them from the special cabinet of Mom's, in the living room, and read them. He was probably my first inspiration to love poetry, and eventually become a poet.

Victoria

Draped in her mantle of green and brown,
Queen of her spacious bays,
Unheeding the swift world's tragic frown,
The slow-eyed, leisurely, lovable town
Clings to her ancient ways.

A flame of gold sweeps over the sky
Where the wild Olympics range,
Their craggy crests, upreared on high,
Through tireless centuries defy
The challenge of time and change.

A sheen of silver is on the seas
In the light of the rising moon.
Beneath the quaint arbutus trees,
We sip the scent of the salt-sea breeze,
'Til darkness comes too soon.

Go forth ye bargainers of the mart,
Ye truckers of trade and gain.
Your greed is a pitiful thing apart,
Here in the calm of the world's great heart
Is a wealth ye may not obtain.
~~~~~~
(c) Alex H. Sutherland (year not available)

On another note, I wish I could be thanking people for their comments more right now, but as my technology is acting up and I need to use the library computer, I don't have much freedom to do so. So thanks to any and all for reading my work and commenting. Happy Thanksgiving, too, to all my American friends.



I am currently Affectionate
I am listening to voices behind me in the library

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Irony
11/25/2003 02:11 a.m.
I don't believe this! Groan. This silly thing's happened to me once before on another site, but tonight there are reasons why it's both very funny and ironic, in its timing, to happen in this instance (except for the fact it's also tragic in what it means for discussion of novels, plays, history). I was disallowed (I guess by the automatic technology) from including in a comment on a poem, the name of a chief literary character, (very moving and key) in the old classic novel, also a well-loved play, The Secret Garden on here because of the similarity to a curse word or expletive it could resemble. Although that would have been in two words, (the curse term) and not with the first word in upper case, and it made no sense in the context. My first comment was totally wiped out and I knew I'd seen it appear briefly, so I tried again with, naturally the character's name, since I was making a comparison, and this time the name got bleeped with asterixes etc.

It's not something I run into much, as the poem I was just drafting for class about something I hate, shows how I feel about cussing in a poem, or the inclusion of foul language in writing, and why I'm not prone to this in my pieces. To get bleeped twice this same day, that I wrote my poem, on swearing, is quite funny. Once a lovely plant I referred to in a poem on another site got bleeped, (I found out if I made it two words it'd pass, although it's not be correct that way) and now one of my favorite literary characters doesn't pass here.
What about historical people or politicians whose names might resemble or have in their roots a bad word?
Or a country? Or a Shakespeare quote? Maybe some of his titles of plays? Are we supposed to alter these, because of the limited judgment of today's technology's censorship? I know Quentin Clingerman experienced this once, with a classic too. Whether he and I are just not the type to be using expletives isn't the point. Of course technology doesn't know that, I realize.
But it's a shame when we have to omit or tiptoe around authors' names or references that are part of literary history. Or have our comment look like it was offensive, when in reality it wasn't at all. And it would be nice if we could receive an explanation, so we'd know our comment was gone and why. I just happened to look back and noticed. So poets lose comments, for this reason! And I might have easily not looked again and not noticed.
The tragic joke's on our archival history, from great authors and their works, since there are several then that will fail. And it wasn't even a journal or poem title, but a comment.

How can we keep a literary site stimulating and rich if it we are rendered unable to make references and discussions about the classics? Even if it's just a technical glitch, not human misjudgment, it sure doesn't make any sense. Now I think I will post my poem on swearing. I was going to tonight anyway. But it doesn't solve the problem. And is not posted to prove I'm not the type who needs to be censored. It was written for a class exercise in syllabic verse, on something that we don't like.

Since I hadn't used the crude term, just a name it resembled, in part, and as I said, I used upper case which means it's a proper name, it's rather absurd.

I guess even half the contents of the dictionary mightn't pass in this technology either. The inability to use these references is more than an irritation, it's a major inconvenience and loss, not just mine, but all of ours, and literature's too.

I am currently Awestruck
I am listening to my daughter's giggle

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Our Lady
11/21/2003 06:44 p.m.
Now that Penny Lane, our cat (our daughter calls "her" cat, but really she's the family's, he he)has more free roam of the house in the daytime with she and I beginning to share more time and space together, (she was mostly in my daughter’s suite of rooms at the back of the house, while the dog was up, since her moved back with Valerie in August, the cat having a brief but scary track record of some vicious moments with the much smaller, deaf and slower-to-move, rarer to win, little dog) I’m experiencing some interesting moments of my own.

She wasn’t wearing her collar and bell the other night, and I was lying on the bed reading Genesis, about the creatures God was putting on earth, and thought I was alone in the room. Out of the corner of my eye I saw something move, and then swoosh, Penny Lane jumped up to the bed and I almost fell out in surprise. My nerves weren’t the greatest yet since losing Angel, and it really threw me.

Must find that bell, so I don’t go crazy. But we had a great cuddle after that. She lived away for two years and I got out of practice of what she'd do, and we had to re-acquaint. Every time we visited Montreal, she avoided me and my husband remembering, we think, that the last times we were with her we took her in the car for very long rides sometimes. Val said she was associating us with that, and so stayed under the bed in Val's room there, and sort of stayed estranged on those occasions.


When I was reading on the couch today, she jumped up and stretched across my upper body, taking ownership, and planting me firmly out of the ability to get up and do any work (hey, that's ok) she purred away and brought her face right up to my neck and face. No problem, except I didn’t know I’d requested a massage. She kneads me like a loaf, and if it weren’t that she sometimes forgets about her claws (no we didn’t have them removed) it feels kind of neat.

It’s so cute though, how she presses with one paw (ginger and white) and the other (grey and white) in turn, and it does feel kind of nice, rhythmical. And it’s free. I've talked to her a lot since losing Angel, about things humans might not be ready to hear, or understand.
She seems to. There were lots of times in earlier nights when she and Angel bundled together, and enjoyed one another. And their adventures.

Hearing her motor running in contentment is great too, so positive in the emptier house, as is her fluffy, beautifully-coloured calico coat with fantastic markings. I like the deep shock of black in one check, near her chest, and the ginger on one side, and the grey tabby parts, with all the white contrast.

She’s going on diet food, (she's become a small lynx lately)but now that she’s getting a lot more space than she had in the Montreal apartment, and the whole house to prowl, and her old stairway to command, I think she’ll get more fit. She’s still Our Lady of the Stairway(a poem I’ll post sometime soon) .

There is nothing to me that can compete with the type of love reciprocated between human and beastie. You can just count on their eternal devotion, listening, company, and the esteem they give we flawed humans whether we deserve it or not. They kind of make us Gods to them, when we're really knowing we're so ordinary. It becomes hard to believe we don’t hear their words, there is so much sharing anyway.

When I was standing out the backyard alone yesterday enjoying the sunshine, I turned to the corner window, behind me, (of Val’s bedroom) and there she was, sitting like an ornament (the cat I mean, not my daughter)gazing out with huge green eyes (a lovely green I can’t place right now but sort of pale emerald) at the sun and the yard. She’d love to be outside, but would go snaky and get lost, as she’s no longer an outdoor cat and wouldn’t cope. Nor would we if we lost her now. She has sneaked out the other day when I got the mail, but I retrieved her immediately. Perhaps we’ll start taking her out on a rope like we used to, and even tie her to Angel’s dog house, make some use of it, but we’d be right there. There are too many cats running loose in the neighborhood, and I’ve seen too many catfights. My nerves right now aren’t up to it.

Anyway, I think a bundle of warm animal life jumping up on me, forgetting her claws a bit, and digging in, even by surprise, as if a ghost, is a treat right now. Is that masochistic? No, it's the joy of feeling life around you! And that’s precious.

Am I crazy?


I am currently Bemused
I am listening to oldies tunes

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A tough night
11/17/2003 03:14 a.m.
Tonight is tough, as our little old dog is ill again, very weak, and won't take her pills at all, quit taking them yesterday, won't eat, and is barking in a strange yelp and having breathing trouble again for congestive heart failure and water in the lungs(which is why she has to have all these pills). She's walking weird and seems so lost. But she is in her nineties, in human years.

If anyone on here's gone through this, and has any supportive advice for me, I'd appreciate it.

Of course, I've consulted over and over with the vets, had her in and out, several times, and had her medication and diet changed and upgraded, and even discussed euthanasia only briefly. I've never had to have a pet put down, and know we have to face the very real likelihood of such a decision very soon, if this keeps up. After strenuous effort and diligence, running back and forth to the vet's to find a food she'll tolerate, lately, and leaving her sometimes for overnight stays, having her pick up, only to later fall down again. It's too much to watch her tonight, and hear her cry, and I've had her in my arms or lap much of the night, then sleeping in bed with me, which gave her more peace. I'd feel like some kind of murderer, conspirer, to plan for and take her in for euthanasia, and yet if I have to watch a deterioration and near starvation, kills me and the family. I'll talk to our vet again tomorrow, but tonight will be a long one, I know.
I feel guilty to say it, but I'm praying she just gently passes away in her sleep at home, if she's not going to get better. I guess that's the best we can hope for.

I thought I'd post an exercise of journaling for images (all five senses) that we're doing for two weeks for class. It's an intriguing and revealing exercise, worth doing. The discipline's great, and I've skipped a few days but still think I have some potential poems (haiku, tanka or regular) or inspirations for some. Meanwhile, I'm praying for God to advise me, give me a sign, re the little "Angel," who was my first ever dog, or pet for that matter, besides all my sister's at home when we were kids. We had two budgies in succession, Julia and Perky, three white mice that ended up being 31 and broke loose in the basement and had to all be rounded up before Mom went mad, (we had two males at first with one female, for some stupid reason, and I guess out of jealousy the males chewed parts of each other's tails off. That was gross, but the beautiful day was when we discovered, one morning before school, the litter of little pink bodies that began the over-crowding of our family mice population. We were so excited we could barely leave them to walk to school.
Other than that there were various stray cats, etc. that never got to be kept at our place, which broke my sister's heart in particular. She later turned to larger animals, to fall in love with and sometimes have break her heart, the horses.

Considering I'd no idea how to look after a dog when I brought the little pup home in June, 1988, I guess we didn't do too badly and she certainly has had a good life and contributed hugely to ours. Especially the kids', but ours too, and is so close to me that when I was away ill with my lymphoma, apparently she barely ate then and cried a lot. But most of the time she's been a very lively, perky, noisy sometimes but great pet, and even moreso, family member. She adores one of my friends from here and our poetry circle, immensely, and always likes his visits.
And when she's well, she still loves to bat my husband in play, with her paw, a little game that only happens between them. She is the star of my first image poem.
Some have dates, some don't, and they will be edited and continued or modified later.

Oct 28, 03
old little dog
in the night’s leaf pile
startles a hare, and herself
~~~

crackles first
before trickles
fall morning rain
~~~~~~~~

from out of the blindspot
of my rainhood -
the caped mail carrier passes


from the corner
of my rainhood -
I sight the mail carrier in his

30/l0/03
rotted fencepost
brown and wet
slants today

~~~

cross-bred oak leaf
in my poplar
over the pond
~~~
or
my poplar tree
with oak leaves -
mixed marriage?

~~~~
white arbor trellis
dappled in early morning
sun and shadow
~

soggy bum
rain overnight
on the picnic bench
~~~

last one hanging
the two-toned
maple leaf
~~~~~

hanging alone
the marble cheese leaf
my favourite
~~~~

Oct. 30, 03
over the long distance lines
a friend’s early morning voice
describes the Rockies
~~~~~~~

doorstep pumpkin
still lit
the morning after
~~~~~~Nov.l, 03

over the huge leaf pile
one branch hangs
rake-shaped

Nov 7 03
cranes creaking, hammering echoes
planks dropping
8 am and the chickadees chirp
~

one unseen neighbor’s dog
barks, another answers
morning in my backyard
~~

sales clerks interrupt mine
with questions of her supper plans
she answers them all the while she rings up my charges
~~
jostled hard
by fellow shoppers
in Giant Tiger aisles
~~~~~~

commercials screech
and sound pollute
my radio
~~~~~~

two chickadees
explore the in and out
of a piece of my eavesdrought
~~~

crunch of shell chips
beneath my nails
then smooth film of membrane
as I peel hard-boiled eggs
~~~~~~~

Indian flute
hollow peace summon
from the celtic whispers CD
~~~

tucked within
the blue spruce
the crimson of a cardinal
~~~
Nov. 9, 03
clumps of formed
wet geriatric dog food
pressed by my fork into mush
she leaves untouched, getting
grosser

~~

Around the corner
on my routine walk
a surprise Roman-style platform
supported by grey fat-pillars
water main work starts soon
~~~~~~

thin stream of
running mud
later caked
on our boots
construction in November
~~~~~

bright orange caution
triangle sign imposes
in front of our property
~~~
flashing beacons
huge blue pipes
gravel hills, at my mother’s
~~~
at the train station
waiting for our son's girlfriend
the female voice on the p.a system
syrupy exaggerations of some cities
and another late notice

- warm in my lap
hanging on
my Angel dog
~~~
I am currently Depressed
I am listening to Angel crying for me

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A silent moment for....
10/29/2003 01:37 p.m.
After the devastating long August through to the present (to some degree) battle with forest fires in Kelowna and surrounding areas in B.C., (and now the terrible flooding in B.C. and remembering the hurricane off Nova Scotia recently,)yet another disastrous affront in California with the fires stuns us into more shock and grief. And the recognition that despite the ability to venture onto a couple of other planets, to maneuver technology via computers and seeming to command instant powerful communications etc. man is still terribly vulnerable to the elements. In some cases, our own manipulation and alteration of the landscape, changing forestation to accomodate our houses, and affecting nature's ecological s defenses,enhance and increase the rapid spread of fire. From what I'm hearing on the news, there is suspicion of arson involved in the start of at least one of the series of fires in California, and human error in another.

In the 80’s my mom and I took a lovely trip to California, and were delighted with the Napa, and San Francisco areas. We couldn’t obviously cover all of the state, but I have a painting in my living room of Highway I along the coast, a friend here who grew up there created, and it’s an area we enjoyed on our bus trip down. California’s also seemed closer to me recently, being the origin of this site and my friends from there, and with Palabra Productions contests (and Don Campbell's literary sharing of these) being very good to me, that group awarding me second prize in their August publication, for Childhood Summer Vignettes, and earlier publication inclusions. I’ve often wished I could go to one of the readings in San Gabriel. I don’t know if they’re anywhere near the fires, I pray not. But all of California is in mourning, indeed. And the States, as we have been for the disasters here, when human and animal life are taken especially. Watching the news last night, I was upset about the description of a mountain area now lacking the wildlife it had been known for. I thought of the innocent little and large beasts, fallen victim. There hadn't been human life taken at that section, thankfully, but it struck me when the reporter stressed it was so lively with animals usually. The material and economical hits are considerable, but it’s brought home yet again to citizens that it’s the lives(human and non) that are always an unredeemable loss.

Sites renowned for comfortable climates and superior scenic beauty are now victims of destruction, and hosts of unsafe and random risk. For the people who live in the places of disaster right now, I send my deepest concern and prayers. A friend of my husband’s at work just lost her nephew in the Whistler, B.C. area flooding, and he was only twenty-six. It seems an unpredictable and cruel fluke that he was crossing a bridge in his vehicle when it was taken down by the flooding, and some of his friends with him survived, but his body is still awash.

I feel a sense of guilt when I think of how I’ve envied travelers and citizens of B.C. and Nova Scotia, etc. living there, at times, and that propelled me to write Kelowna Called, this September, a new version of a poem I’d written - Kelowna Calls, when wishing to go on a trip there when my husband went last year on business. Soon after, so much was altered, that the new version had to be created. Perhaps soon I’ll post it.

So blessings to all affected, and may we learn better as humans to prevent further crises, and accommodate nature and safety more readily and wisely. Those pages of the Bible that we as children (and particularly my daughter)dreaded, of the disastrous floods, and the words of fire, seem to haunt....
I am currently Devoted
I am listening to the news in the distance

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The Sabbath and sweet autumn leaves
10/19/2003 11:17 p.m.

Oh, what a day of glorious sunshine on the leaves and the sweet smells of autumn beneath the rays, warming me from my miserable flu and moments of feeling down, preoccupied, stressed. Church this morning was splendid, and I’d missed it so in the last few weeks. We are an amazingly tight, strong family at our church, particularly the women, but there are plenty of delightful and endearing people of all ages, both sexes, and the children are phenomenal.
Humour and informality always lighten the services, and there is an incredible level of intelligence, talent and creativity overall.

We are familiarizing ourselves with (and helping him to do so with us), our new minister (temporary), plus our new musical director (temporary too). I am enjoying Daniel’s leading us in his gentle, giving way, while at the same time I inevitably miss the preceding minister, but not in a comparative competitively rating fashion, but he had been so receptive and inspiring to me at a crucial time, and to many others. He facilitated my return to my girlhood church so beautifully soon after my lymphoma remission began, four years ago, and it was a time when I so wanted to return. It had been a driving dream of mine throughout my hospital stays, but when I first was back home permanently (more or less) recuperating and starting over, I couldn’t bear exposure to many with colds, etc. possible, to catch, as my counts were low and my immune system, so I waited a while. But the visit to the November Bazaar in which I met the minister at the time, who chatted with me and was so informal and welcoming, cinched the deal for me. And I never looked back.

Luckily, he lives in my ’hood and we keep in touch, even on e-mail, as he does with anyone from the congregation who chooses. And I must say our current minister is stepping in with an open, reverent (pardon the pun) attitude to the fact that many of us were very distressed to see our former one leave, but that we are not resentful or closed off to the new one, who had nothing to do with that change. He’s humourous, understanding, and revelatory of his own trials in life, and his own happy family life etc. And addicted to his banjo, which he plays for the kids and all of us, and has much to give and teach.

When I have to miss for a few Sundays for illness, visiting or other matters, I really miss it. Not from guilt or any oppressive expectations, it’s not like that there. But because I find it fulfills so much of a need in me, at this time of life. In truth, I always loved Sunday School and Church, as a young girl. Don’t laugh, but I wanted to grow up to be a ballerina-missionary, (somehow combining the two seemed natural) and when I’d wish upon a star at night, and say my prayers, that’s what I’d vow to be. I don’t know if I imagined myself doing arabesques and jettes and such across the terrains of the Third World, and somehow spreading the Good Word at the same time, or what, but I am a direct descendant of David Livingstone, so maybe that had something to do with it? And ballet was a big part of my life then, (later switched to drama, and writing). I still love to watch dance, and incorporate it into my yoga sessions, or private dance parties in my room.

Anyway, today I did what I’d been meaning to a while now. I filled out and submitted a prayer request, for my brother-in-law (my sister's beloved hubby and a long-time friend of the family)suffering advanced multiple myleoma (bone marrow cancer) for which he’s now hospitalized and has received his first transplant, but now enduring terrible side effects) and for a woman friend too.

He just had a transfusion.

I know we don’t have to write such pleas on little papers for God to hear us and know and care, doing all he can to help in the cause. But there is scientific evidence now that patients who receive a lot of prayers can do better, this has been reported in medical journals. So having a congregation sharing in the support can’t hurt, right? When I was very ill I received prayers and notices of them said by both the Roman Catholic church via an aunt who’s a nun, a dear dear lady, who gave this Protestant patient little cards of Elisabeth Bruyere (a Saint who one of our hospitals is named after) and Mary, etc. and I still treasure them and use them.

And another aunt and uncle of the Protestant order (we talk about these divisions, and all feel they are made far too much of) who had their congregation say prayers for me too. Of course family and friends did too, and also gave me many of my little angel collection which I still add to.

So my spirits are helped by the feeling of togetherness when trials and sad tests are faced. Like the loss of my dear dear Tom, in July.

I mustn’t get started on these matters now, but one day I will share the Talks with Tom poems and stories in a chapbook or novel. He is with me always, and I still talk to him of course, but miss him in person, enormously.
Things are picking up for the little sick Angel at home (our Maltese of l5 yrs who has congestive heart failure, (controlled by meds and diet) and sometimes edema on the lung). It was a tough last few days though, after her latest attack and rush to the vet's, with her gasping and looking pretty scared, as I drove her over there, plus with my flu and laryngitis.

Family is so strengthening (as are dear friends) and my daughter Valerie deciding to cook and serving me noodles and sauce or soup, when I was unwell, as I lay on the couch, was so touching. Often she'd ask me if I was alright. Both of our kids have memories of me barely able to breathe in my worst stages, so they are attentive, without coddling.

Her move back home is turning out wonderfully, overall, and at 22 and after 2 years away in Montreal in University, she brings back so much to this home life again and it's much more full of energy and intrigue now. Sure, we had emotional ups and downs in the re-adjustment and trying to get everything done well in a hurry. Computers and servers' disconnection problems being the greatest pain in the process, and their bad timing of acting up during the early stages of her university, and my busy writing fall. But it's been great for my husband too. Now that the worst of the renovations are behind us, and the boxes put away for the most. We still have a telescope in the front room, but hey, that is kind of fun and different. Sort of like Admiral Boom's home in Mary Poppins, though it's not on the roof.

We're a family who’ve suffered many trials of health and disability, (three major illnesses) and we all have strong individual minds, so it’s not always easy.
But we go on in our crazy, busy, hard-working way. Trying to improve communications sometimes (often) necessary, but we're truly blessed on the whole. Especially for our kids, even though they are my toughest editors and critiquers in a way. They keep me honest, (most of the time) and more conscious, of what I say and do. And how it affects people. I do the same for them I think

Valerie and her dad are very close (so is her brother, with him, (as they are with me too) but he's currently living out of town still). Valerie's been grand company and a lovely support and fun with me. She even took me shopping for a friend's birthday gift last evening, and we had a good ole time hunting for the item, from store to store at Bayshore Mall, and deciding together on it. She actually found the best one, finally, of what I wanted and they're getting less available. I can't say what it is, since the recipient belongs here.


There is a great wealth in the togetherness though, obviously building us to better strength for the changes in life. My sister, mom, brothers, my husband and his family, and my son and his gal, are all part of the dynamics of knitted hearts too. Sure, we have tense times and hurt feelings, and make errors, all of us, but we are still growing and learning every day.

I am also well-fortified by my close friends, and those on here, fine neighbors, and poetry and writing itself, yoga and faith in the Superior Being. And the scenery outside, the beauty of a crisp lemony-crimsoned leaved day, or a walk like last week’s, up in the Gatineau Hills looking for a waterfall that turned out to be dried up, but also enjoying Kingsmere Estates and the ruins I visited as a little girl with my folks, and our young ones after that....perhaps soon they’ll bring theirs. I watched children sitting in the stone arches our former prime minister of long ago, MacKenzie King, imported to his country home by the lake there, and arranged in a fashion resembling ancient ruins, and remembered home movies of my sister and brothers and I sitting in those same arches. I have photos of our kids there too. Walking the trails with my son and his gal, who'd never been there before, on a rich fall morning, made up for all the camping I've missed at Bon Echo for two seasons now.

Well, on to my next draft, perhaps a word sonnet about the colours and the textures of Ottawa fall.
I am currently Devoted
I am listening to spirits

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