If the Birds can do it....

Yesterday in the hour just before dawn, I laid in my bed, semi-conscious listening to a lone bird across the street in the bush. There is a stretch of wooded area without houses that is home to hundreds of birds, but this bird was the first one to make a sound. In the still and quiet at that time of day, his song was crystal clear and loud. It was as though the trees had parted to create an amphitheatre for his performance. His song was rich and precise and repetitive but not annoying as it was so beautiful. I could not identify the species like I now can  many others. 

I could only imagine what he looked like based on his voice. He was surely large, the size of a sulphur-crested cockatoo I figured. A small bird would never accomplish the depth of his cry. I imagined him to be an older bird, wise and owl-like, but not an owl. His sound was not a hoot. He must have been perched high and his chest would be puffed out, his head lifting with each note. There were three distinctive notes, spaced evenly and with purpose. I wondered if he was in charge over there. Was he the rooster of the bush community? Were the other birds wishing they could turn him off like a snooze button? Or, did they look forward to this wake-up call each  morning? 

He sang his song for about 15 minutes, unaccompanied. A bush solo. Just as the first glimmer of morning light appeared, he was joined by a single kookaburra. The kookaburra used his soft voice, not the loud cackle we  generally hear. The two of them were in a duet now.  There was a slow and gentle rhythm building. After about two minutes, a couple of other kookaburras chimed in, still using their softer more guttural voices. It was as though they were honouring Sunday morning and giving their human audience a peaceful concert to start the day, unlike their weekday revelry-like blast of crazed laughing to which we have grown accustomed. 

Then, one by one, other birds joined in. They joined in distinctively one at a time. Who was conducting this avian choir? It did not seem random to me at all. Yet, despite the seeming order of this concert, there was an ease to it that made it flow and rise and fall as it should. Each species seemed to know when to start their instrument at a certain volume and time. They clearly followed in numbers and volume with the incremental increases of light with the rising sun. 

It occurred to me how simple life can be when we follow our instincts and allow nature to guide the way. These birds did not resist adding their voices. They knew just how and when to join the chorus to create this Sunday morning symphony of song. A cooperative collaboration of species, sharing their talents, using their skills as nature intended. As each new flock joined in, it only added to the depth and richness. There was no evidence of one group of birds trying to out do the other or silence another's voice. They were different, yet alike. And they worked together to produce a thing of beauty. 

You see, I thought to myself, it is possible.

Are we really Listening?

Tropical hideout

In my constant quest to find meaning in the ordinary moments of everyday life, this morning I am pondering a situation out on my patio. For the last hour as I sat here doing a bit of work at my computer, there has been a Noisy Miner doing what Noisy Miners seem to do best...making a racket. This is not uncommon and I tried to ignore his refrain for the first thirty minutes or so until I was compelled to go see if there was a reason for his seeming distress.

As I made myself a latte, I watched him from the kitchen window as he yapped on and on and kept hopping from surface to surface within about a two metre square above a bit of garden next to the patio that is fairly dense with tropical foliage. I knew there was something in there that he was worried about, so I went out to take a look. Sure enough, this grey and white cat that has been frequenting my garden in search of easy prey was hunched down in the middle of the garden bed. Now, the funny thing about this cat is that it is an exact re-incarnation of a cat I used to have for many years back in the 80's and early 90's.  He lives somewhere in the neighbourhood and is clearly well fed and quite friendly, so he/she is not a stray. One morning, I even called out to it, using my old cat's name and he immediately turned and looked toward me. Spooky.

I have always been open to and fascinated with the concept of re-incarnation and this cat is really convincing me it is possible. So, what has this cat come back to say to me? I am so tempted to really welcome him to hang out but since I know he is just visiting and probably has owners who love him, I won't start feeding him or enticing him to stay. As it stands, he visits every day anyway, so I don't really have to do anything to encourage him. I am not too happy that he poses a threat to my feathered friends, so when I see him near the feeder, or crouching in hiding to pounce on an unsuspecting bird, I shush him away and blow his cover.

There have been a few feathers left behind when he has been successful and I am thankful he has taken his trophies elsewhere to eat them or present them to his owners perhaps. Knowing he is on the hunt in my garden daily keeps me on high alert for possible victims. So far, I have not seen any solid evidence aside from the scattering of feathers and my hope is that they got away.

Is this the lesson? Could this seemingly commonplace occurrence in nature be trying to tell me something? By turning my back on the fate of the birds and allowing nature to take it's course, am I guilty of complacency? Should I be doing more to protect the birds? Should we all be doing more to protect the innocent birds from the bad cats?

The only answer to this question is yes. Yes of course we should be doing more. More for the children of our world who have evil and violence thrust upon them in war-torn countries and impoverished lands all over the planet. What must it be like to live in that kind of fear? We live in a world where birds awaken us each day, not bombs. The caretakers of children in these places - the mothers, the fathers, the grandparents...they are the Noisy Miners.

We need to hear them. And help them.

Now I just have to figure out how.

Cry a River

Today there is a memorial service being held in Melbourne for the victims of the Malaysia Airlines flight MH17 tragedy. A day of mourning. Flags are flying at half mast here today and as I write these words, the ABC is playing In the Arms of The Angel by Sarah McLachlan. 

I wondered while I listened to her haunting lyrics if there were other people just like me in that moment feeling the sad emotions that song brought up in my throat and heart as I imagined the horrendous pain of all the families and friends of the victims of this tragedy. I was no doubt not alone with my feelings. I thought about the contrast of that harsh reality compared to mine and felt grateful and lucky. I was not on that plane. I am still alive. But it could have been otherwise. It could have happened to any of us that day. 

So, what do we do with these overwhelming feelings? I stood in the kitchen and cried for a minute. For the families. With the families. When I stopped crying, I thought, that had I not been alone, I would have held back my tears. There are people who don't understand why you would feel so sad about lives that have nothing to do with yours. I am not one of those people. I do feel the anguish of strangers all the time. So, even though I allowed this sadness to flow out of me, when I was finished, I felt as though my short spurt of grief was insufficient. My day would go on and my life, not directly affected by loss, would move forward grief-free for the most part. 

But the more I think about it, the more I realize that we are all affected by these lost lives. Everytime something like this happens, we are changed. The only difference between a direct association with a lost life and those of us who did not know them is the scale of grief we feel. Or, allow ourselves to feel. When I stopped crying in my kitchen, I was listening to all the voices in my head that were telling me to stop. And I did. I listened to those voices, grabbed a tissue, took a couple of deep breaths and told myself to buck up. However, I could have ignored the voices and just kept crying until I had no more tears to cry. Instead, those uncried tears will be pushed back into my heart lying in wait for the next inevitable tragedy. 

I have held back a lot of tears in my life. There is a fear of losing control associated with just letting sadness rip. The truth is, that the few times I have actually let myself really sob with abandon, it does end eventually and once all the tears are spilled, and the tightness in your chest starts to release, some of the sadness drifts away too. 

So, my wish for all of the people who lost precious loved ones on that flight, is the ability to sob with abandon. Let it all go until you cannot summon another tear. Do it as many times as it takes to let some of your grief go and don't listen to those voices that tell you to buck up or suck it up or be strong. Your grief is your gift to those lost lives. 

Make it count.

I need some distraction

Or a beautiful release

Memories seep from my veins

Let me be empty

Oh and weightless and maybe

I'll find some peace tonight

- Sarah McLachlan, In the Arms of The Angel

Against all Odds

Over 80% of blogs are abandoned within the first month. This is a statistic that I just read. I have always known it was a big number, but this is even a little more grandiose than I thought. The number one reason most are abandoned is "fear". Apparently most blog writers are worried about failure, not being relevant, not being able to succeed, not being able to come up with fresh ideas on a regular basis, etc. etc. etc.

The blog I wrote two blogs before this one was my 400th blog since 2009. I have no plan to abandon my blog any time soon. I try to keep fear at bay by bringing myself back to the reason I started writing my blog in the first place. For me it is a creative outlet. Pure and simple. I don't have a gazillion followers, nor is my blog attractive to advertisers. I don't care about any of that. I do it for the sheer joy of putting words together on a page and adding some visuals and expressing whatever I happen to feel like putting a voice to on any given day. 

I have always dreamed of being a columnist. It would be nice to be paid for my random musings, however, the way I saw it when I first set out, was, like, OK, Deb, if you really want to write a column, go ahead and write one. Don't attach a reason. Just do it. Write and write and write and see what happens. So I do. I write when I am in the mood. Sometimes I write when I am not in the mood. Sometimes I want to write about things that are too personal to share and sometimes I write about things that probably are too personal to share but I write about them anyway. I find inspiration in the most mundane as well as the most controversial. In the early days I found myself ranting quite a bit. Now I try to take a more placid approach. I still throw in the odd rant, but more often than not, I find ranting more of an energy drain.

Today's blog was supposed to be Chapter 5 in my Decades of Designing Deb series, but since I did not feel inspired to write about that this morning, I am not going there today. This is the wonderful part of not being paid or having to answer to anyone. I can do whatever the hell I want, when I want. If I were being paid to do this, I would likely have been given a topic by an editor and told to produce 500 or 1000 words by such and such a time and in such and such a manner and although I am quite capable of writing on demand like that, it is wonderfully freeing to not have to work that way.

I am also working on a novel when I am not doing this. The blog is really a distraction from the hard slog of the book. Kind of like my version of recess. Sometimes I feel like writing a poem. I fear those postings the most, which is why I think they are the most valuable. I worry about being judged and laughed at and criticized. Overcoming those fears has been hardest of all. Allowing myself to be that vulnerable has it's challenges and rewards. Thank you Brene Brown for encouraging me to be vulnerable. If you have not read Daring Greatly, I highly recommend it. 

There are days when I ramble (like today), and days when I focus more on the prose and days when I immerse myself in research but in the end it is all about the words. The stringing together of words to tell a story or share a feeling or convey a message is a joy to me. It matters not that I do it well or better or worse than other writers. What matters is that when I am doing it, for a time, I am transported to a place that feels like home to me. 

And not many places feel better than that.

Riverdale Reminisce

SOLD - 148 Victor Avenue - RIVERDALE  (click on this link for photos)

I am going to backtrack a bit today, since I have come across something really interesting here. This house at 148 Victor Ave in Toronto was one of my early residences in my twenties. I spent my final year at Ryerson living on the third floor of this Victorian beauty. It has been completely renovated since of course, but scrolling through these photos still brought back a flood of memories for me. 

The photo of the bedroom with the exposed brick chimney was my living area and the adjoining master ensuite in the next photo was my kitchen. There was a small bedroom where the rooftop deck now sits and I had an antique drop leaf desk in the front dormer window where my cat used to sit and watch the world go by from above. That garret apartment was my first time living completely alone. However, having said that, the woman who rented it to me was an acquaintance who became a friend for a time, and she and her boyfriend lived on the first two floors. As there was no separate entrance to my space, I had to cut through the house to get to my door. More often than not, if they were home, I would stop for a chat, which inevitably would lead to drinks and sometimes if I was lucky, a dinner invite. They were both chefs - one at Scaramouche and the other at The Four Seasons Inn on the Park so the food was generally pretty outstanding. Either that or they would both be completely exhausted from the demands of their gourmet preparations and we would end up with something very simple like an omelette or even the occasional pot of heavily peppered KD. With wine of course. Or beer. We weren't too fussy.

I hammered out many papers on my manual portable typewriter in that attic, so it was a good thing they worked at night. I too worked part-time waitressing and bartending, so when we all three arrived home late at night, we would all unwind until the wee hours recapping the various dramas of our shifts. As for the space, I had some fun with it, although it had such great features on its own, I barely had to do more than paint the living area. I arranged the furniture so I could lay on the sofa looking up through the skylight on starry nights. It was an operable window as well, so on hot summer days, it could be opened to allow the warm air to escape. Still, I needed a window air conditioner for the bedroom. It was a used clunker from a garage sale that was noisy but did the job. 

The bedroom has become a rooftop deck now. It does not surprise me as I actually used to dream of how awesome that would be. There was a step up from the kitchen to go into the bedroom that always seemed to me to be an afterthought which it likely was. The ceiling was low and there was only one small window and on howling blowing winter nights it felt like the whole room might blow away into the sky and land somewhere else like Dorothy's house in The Wizard of Oz. It was cold in the winter and too hot in summer. It was only a matter of time before it would need to transform. Become the open space it was meant to be.

The kitchen had old vinyl tiles in a sapphire blue and the appliances were what would be considered retro by today's standards. The fridge had one of those handles that you had to pull forward to open the door and I always had to do a double check that it was closed tight. With no choice but to work with the blue floor, I went for a triadic colour scheme in the kitchen, adding a small red and white painted free-standing cabinet, a red metal drop leaf table top and bar stool under the window where I could look out at the neighbouring house and blue sky while I ate breakfast. There were no closed cabinets for dishes, so they sat on open shelves above the small counter and it was there that I was able to have some fun with colour. Pops of red and blue and yellow made it kitschy and fun. 

Interestingly, I was in between relationships while I lived there. It allowed me to fully express my creativity without the need to consider another person's opinion or needs. There are few times I can look back on my adult life when this was the case. I think it is true for many women. The times we are on our own with no partner or children can be wonderful therapeutic pauses in our journey through life. 148 Victor was such a time for me. I met my first husband at a party I hosted for the entire Journalism Class of 85 at the house. All three floors rocked until the sun came up. There is likely a police record for disturbing the peace in the archives somewhere. A few months later, he moved in and it was never meant to be a space for two, so we left to find a larger place. I was sad and happy all at once.

That house has completely transformed into something beautiful and its potential fully realized. The exterior was pale pink back then. The interior needed attention and the gardens were in need of much TLC. It has no doubt been through a few incarnations since 1985. 

Not unlike myself. Funny that.

Southwest in the Northeast

Yesterday I admitted that I had dabbled for a moment with the Southwest trend back in the late 80's. I did resist until it was just about over, but the end of my first marriage and a resulting empty office/guest room space (he took the desk and computer - I took the car), left me with an opportunity to make a fresh start in that room. 

You will recall, I did not have a solid grip on choosing paint colours at that stage, so what ended up on the walls was a bloody awful salmony version of terracotta that was an epic fail, however, I lived with it as I was too lazy and in too big of a hurry to transform the room to re-paint. There was also the question as to how much longer I would be living in that apartment now that he was gone. Most older apartment buildings in those days (a 3 story walk-up) had the old 2 inch strip oak hardwood floors that were stained a sort of orangey-gold, so the paint colour did not work at all with the floors. I remedied that problem with an area carpet in a toned down shade of the room creating what could only be considered the equivalent of living inside a giant acorn squash. 

A fold out Ikea sofa bed was purchased and since the colour choices were limited, I went with the most unoffending of the lot. It was a taupey stone colour - khaki brown at best and the most likely colour one would find in New Mexico or the desert where this decor trend must have originated. The thing with colour schemes that work well in other parts of the world is that they don't really translate all that well in an apartment in Toronto. I persevered. Next I would need some actual terracotta pots. The room did boast a fairly large north facing window which meant it kept fairly cool in the summer, but was not the ideal location for the row of cactus that now graced the windowsill. Nor did it do much for the grouping of larger cacti in the corner of the room. 

The jump off point for the colour scheme was a Mexican blanket I had carted home with me from Mexico a few years earlier. It had never really found itself at home anywhere at the time, but now it was time for it to shine. It hung on the wall adding some much needed texture and doing double duty as a cover-up for the paint mistake. The art that I hung over the sofa was a watercolour of The Hooker Track in New Zealand that I finally had framed after many years rolled up in a cardboard tube. I chose a rather rustic looking wood frame, and the painting was a moody grey and cloudy version of that landscape, so it worked perfectly.

On another wall, I hung a framed Tapa cloth from Fiji that I had found on that same South Pacific adventure in 1979. I also hung a hand carved wooden bowl and a pair of cannibal forks creating a bit of a sculptural element in the room. A bentwood rocker (remember those?) sat in the corner by the window. The frame was painted black (every room needs a hit of black!) and it became a reading corner where I devoured self-help books by the truckload on my healing journey through heartbreak.  In the end, it did not look too bad considering the minor mistakes and looking back, I can see that creativity was my therapy. The devastation I felt at the collapse of my very short marriage left me wondering who I had become and feeling I had lost myself in the 6 years we spent together. 

The arranging of all these elements of  my past travels and the expression of the solitary new me got me through those first few months of grief and reminded me how far I had come versus dwelling on the failure of the marriage.  I did not live in that apartment for much longer. Eventually the cacti that had been over-watered started to long for a sunnier spot at about the same time I was ready to move forward. Or sideways as it turned out. 

Vancouver. The west coast. It was there, that I really started to pursue interior decorating, as well as an entire new chapter in my life. 

Stay tuned.

Forgive me Father, I know I sinned

Vintage Polished Chintz fabric 

Interior decorating is not unlike the quest for perfection. I am quite certain that the best decorators and designers are perfectionists to one degree or another. Since attention to detail is tantamount to creating a magazine-worthy outcome, anything less than this focused quest would find you standing in the unemployment line, as tired and defeated as a wallpaper border. 

And, like most things in life, we get better at it with experience. There are some young ones out there who are creative and are full of original ideas, but you are not truly expert until you have made a few mistakes along the way, most of which usually have manifested in your own spaces. Choosing paint colours is one skill best left to a professional. It took years of ghastly choices and an awesome colour theory professor to help me fine tune this part of the job. Case in point. Before I switched my career path from Journalism to Interior Decorating, I painted several apartments without any real colour education. I just gravitated toward colour. BOLD colour. I gave no thought to the transition from room to room or how light might effect the depth of colour throughout the day and into the evening. I paid no heed to natural light versus artificial light, paint sheens, flat vs eggshell vs gloss (I liked gloss!). Despite my unfamiliarity with the colour wheel at the time, I did seem to have a natural inclination toward complimentary and triadic colour schemes. But I always made the mistake of going way too dark. 

In an effort to block out the harsh streetlights in one townhouse I rented, I decided to forfeit the street facing master bedroom to an office space and turned a very small second bedroom into what can only be described as a small cave once I slapped three coats of the darkest, glossiest forest green on the walls and a black-out window covering. Were it not for the all white duvet cover, you would not have been able to see the bed in the dark. It was the most dreary, depressing place to start the day, but it did make for the perfect room to sleep in after a late night. You never knew what time it was and we once spent an entire super hot humid Saturday in July holed up with the A/C blasting watching movies and eating popcorn, transforming it from bedroom to private theatre by just closing the door. It was 1986. Forest Green, Rosy Pinks and polished chintz were de rigueur.

Joining the fray of "what were you thinking?", was my next apartment painting frenzy. Again the bedroom took centre stage (guess I figured I could go a bit crazy in there away from the public eye and all). This time I was all agog over candy pink and apple green. I believe lacoste was doing a line of tennis and golf fashions in those shades around that time as well. They were way ahead of Lilly Pulitzer for the time. So, off I went in search of duplicating that combo. I found some Laura Ashley wallpaper with co-ordinating polished chintz fabric giving me that much needed jump off point. The paper had a creamy background with a shade of that apple green in a vertical stripe over which were layered ever present pink roses (gagging here now). I took the paper sample to the paint shop and was certain I had matched the pink and green perfectly. So if you can imagine, a feature wall in that paper, the facing wall in the pink and the two side walls in the green. Neither colours were perfectly matched but close enough I reckoned. And, a set of corner windows covered in ruffled balloon shades to top it all off! Then I painted a couple of garage sale bedside tables and stenciled the roses on the drawer fronts. OK, this is beginning to feel like a confession, only I am admitting my sins to more than one person. My penance is going to require a lot of Hail Marys for this one. Let's not forget, at the time, my closet was full of dresses and blouses with giant shoulder pads. I was in the second year of my first marriage and it ended in that apartment shortly after our fourth anniversary around the same time as we were ripping out the shoulder pads and sending Ms. Ashley packing. 

Proving once again that art can imitate life.

In the next edition of Decades of Designing Deb we will explore my adventure into the Southwest craze  and even more polished chintz as it hung on like decades old wallpaper to an unsized plaster wall.

Until then, stay on trend my friends. ;-)

Decades of Designing Deb

Lately I am obsessed with small houses. I seek them out on-line. I subscribe to Small House Bliss and Tiny House Swoon and gravitate toward little cabins and treehouses in the countryside and on islands and in the mountains when searching for travel accommodations. I marvel at the smart and functional designs. I imagine myself living in them. Cooking in them. Sleeping in them. Bathing in them. The mere thought of living in a massive square footage house now, sends chills down my spine. I long for simple and compact interiors. No more than 2 toilets and more than likely only one. Were it not for visitors, there would never be a need for more than one.

However, there is one caveat. I want lots of outdoor space surrounding the small house of my dreams. For the last year I have been busy researching and scrolling and pinning and narrowing down the details of exactly what I want in a house now. I have had a bit of a trial run in the small house we are renting right now. It is only about 1100 sq ft. The three bedrooms are small. There is one bathroom. One water closet. A small but functional kitchen. A living area that barely gets used. A small dining area off the kitchen that does get used every day. It is all on one level. The main areas are tiled and the bedrooms are carpeted. It is easy to clean and is more than enough space for 2 people. 

What makes it really perfect is the large covered patio and front porch that doubles the usable space and where we spend a lot of time when the weather is warm...which here in Queensland is most of the year. The secret to managing in a small house is to avoid clutter. In other words, keep STUFF to a minimum. Easier said than done. Already, in 6 short months, the cupboards and closets are close to full. The double car garage is currently only housing one car, as one of the spaces is slowing filling up with tools and garden stuff and 'future projects". I look at how quickly we accumulate things and it actually scares me a bit. Do you ever drive by a "hoarder house"? When I see places like that it actually causes a physiological response in my body. I shudder and avert my eyes as though avoidance might restore the temporary loss of qi it just caused. I could never live that way. Stuff would bury me. Bury me physically and spiritually. 

This knowing is useful. It has informed me. I know how I need to live to feel peaceful. Even as a child I always felt better when my bedroom was tidy and orderly. It would get messy and cluttered, but never for long. I liked it to look pretty and I would often spend an entire Saturday re-arranging the furniture and my things until the vignettes were pleasing to me. My mother would help me re-decorate my bedroom every few years when my tastes changed as I got older. One of my fondest childhood memories was the day I came home when I was about 7 and I had a new bed and dresser. It was sort of white french provincial looking and the bed head had what could only be described as a faux canopy. The posts went almost to the ceiling and were joined by a valance box that contained a ruffled swath of billowy sheer fabric. I felt like a princess sleeping in that bed. Years later when my tastes matured and I became aware of quality and design, I would look back on that early introduction to furniture and simultaneously grimace and smile at the memory.

The dresser was matching and the lamp that sat on it was a hideous looking thing with a poodle base and one of those wavy plastic shades covered with a stiffened muslin-like fabric. I recall I did not like it even then.  Once, when I was playing make-believe and trying to create a dim atmosphere, I put a tea towel over it and as I went about my morning as mistress of the manor, the plastic started to melt and I only noticed when the smell started to permeate the room. From that day forward, my lamp took on a whole new look of deformity. It was only a short time later that a bottle of nail polish spilled on the dresser top creating a patch of bubbly veneer giving the unsightly shade some company. For weeks I tried to hide the damaged spot from my mother with embroidered doilies (aaack!). 

From this early foray into the world of decor and design, I went through many phases. For a time in my late teens and early twenties I was mad for anything Victorian. Gasp! My last bedroom in my parent's house featured a wall of imported wallpaper from France that was a collage of antique posters of Victorian women in full period costume. It was one of the first really expensive interior design purchases I made. It became the focal point in the room and everything else was chosen around it. Dark navy blue carpet and walls and mahogany furniture created a feeling of old worlds - exactly what I wanted - a world completely different than the one I was living in. Someplace dark and mysterious and exotic.   The previous incarnation of the room had been a bright yellow and white theme. We had even covered the hardwood floors with a crazy vivid floral vinyl lino that featured slightly raised, padded daisies. Big bold happy daisies. So, the departure from light and airy and happy to the dark and dreary and heavy Victorian theme was not unlike the progression from light-hearted pre-teen to brooding, smoking, know-it-all 15 year old. 

My journey in life has always been reflected in my decor. 

Tomorrow I will look back at my 20's. 

Yes. Russian Balloon Shades will make an appearance. Yikes!

Alarmed and Saddened

The wise words of wisdom you see in the photo above came from a 10 year old boy. This was posted on Facebook by The Huff Post a couple of days ago. I clicked on the link thinking it might be a cute and amusing tidbit.  As I read through his list of advice to his teacher who was getting married, I was fine until I got to the last piece of advice. It actually disturbed me to the point I felt compelled to comment.

My comment was as follows: I find it alarming that a 10 year old suggests carrying a hand gun. Alarming and sad.  It was a simple statement of how reading it had made me feel. If a 10 year old thinks the solution to living in a dodgy neighbourhood is to arm yourself with a hand gun, how sad is that? How old was he when he came to this conclusion? Who taught him this was a good idea? Do his parents own handguns? Has he seen one? Has he used one? Is he just chomping at the bit until the day he gets to own one, as eager as I was to get my driver's license the day I turned 16? Is this the new norm for American children? Are handguns added to their Santa wish list each Christmas?

So far, (as of about 20 minutes ago), 35 people have checked "like" on my comment. However, as encouraging as that seems, there were several who have commented that they see nothing wrong with carrying a hand gun and why shouldn't they be able to, and if you know how to use one there is nothing wrong with it....etc. etc. I am stunned by these responses. There seems to be no understanding whatsoever among these pro-gun carrying folks as to the point I was trying to make. They immediately get their feathers all ruffled about their "rights" to bear arms and their "freedom" to hunt for food and protect themselves. Do they not hear what they are saying? Clearly they did not hear what I said.

For starters, no one is debating your "rights".  My comment is very straightforward. It is a statement of how I felt. And still do feel. Will always feel. If a child by the age of 10 is already hard-wired to believe that the way to confront violence is with more violence, then how will we ever walk the path to peaceful resolutions as a society? It has to start at home. We need to be teaching our children how to resolve conflict with conversation and reason. 

As far as I know, hand guns are not used for hunting. So, if hand guns were only issued to law-enforcement, there would not be any need to "protect" yourself from other citizens carrying hand guns. I realize this Utopian scenario of the banishment of hand guns is just that - an idealistic dream world that will likely never exist, however, can we at least begin to work toward changing the attitudes of our children and our communities? Walking down the street with a gun in your pocket is not the answer kidlets. 

It may be too late for young Ethan, but people can change.  

Here's hoping.

  

Some hearts don't Bleed

No one is born hating another person because of the colour of his skin or his background or his religion - Nelson Mandela

I woke up in the wee hours today and as I am often sleepless at 3 or 4 am and I picked up my iPad and brought the rest of the world into my bed with me. I found it so bittersweet as I saw that Google had created a birthday tribute message to the great Nelson Mandela reminding us all that we are capable of unlearning hate. The next thing I saw was the tragic result of that hate. The unwarranted attack of a Malaysian passenger jet over the Ukraine near the Russian border...295 crew and passengers dead.

As early as I can remember, as a child of the sixties, I have been listening to words such as Mandela's. Haven't we all? Martin Luther King Jr. Gandhi. The Dalai Lama. Maya Angelou. Musicians. Poets. Writers.  And all the while,  as these great men and women who have stood before us and spread their messages of peace and love, we watched wars and hatred continue to unfold daily. It is as though their words have fallen upon deaf ears. Educated nations and leaders (and a few uneducated ones too) continue to support these violent methods as their path to winning. I don't get it.

When we teach our children how to get along with others we don't tell them to injure or kill their playmates over a game of Monopoly or on the soccer field or at a dance competition. And yet, these same children grow up, supposedly into mature adults, and one day give the command to release a missile aimed at a jet they are not even sure poses a threat to them. And what have they won? Has anybody won anything? How do they live with themselves? Do they go home at the end of the day and kiss their wives (or husbands) and tuck their children in and sleep soundly knowing they have just ended the lives of 295 souls and left thousands of friends and family grief-stricken for life? Who are these people? Who are these supposed humans? They must be without a conscience.

Perhaps what we need in our schools worldwide is a course called Conscious Living 101. Starting in Kindergarten, or sooner.

Maybe that is the answer. For as long as there are human beings living unconsciously, there will never be peace in this world.

Education is the most powerful weapon which we can use to change the world. - Nelson Mandela

If we would only take heed.

"There is some kiss we want with our whole lives"...Rumi

"Aint it funny how your new life didn't change things. You're still the same old girl you used to be." -The Eagles, Lyin Eyes

It has occurred to me lately how my new life is not all that different from my old life. Initially it was a bit of a culture shock. You cannot avoid that when you move from a city of 2.5 million to a town of less than 50 thousand. I was braced for that. My choices were reduced in just about every category. Shops and  restaurants and  theatres that I once took for granted were limited. I was grateful for the absence of traffic jams and the competitive nature of city living. I felt like the proverbial fish out of water.

Grocery shopping took me twice as long as I had to learn new labels. Driving required intense focus. No more auto-pilot. What do you mean? No right on a red? Ooops! Thought I was in the slow lane. Keep an eye out for kangaroos. No joke. Paying extra for ketchup? You gotta be kidding me! Don't tip the server. What?!!! Hanging the laundry outside to dry. Only turn on the A/C when you absolutely cannot stand the heat another minute. Taking cold showers...on purpose. Don't worry, that snake is not poisonous. You get the picture.

So now that a few months have passed and I have made it through these changes, I have managed to re-create some of my past life. I have found a lovely bunch of gals to play tennis with and have just hooked up with another group for golf. A local book club has invited me to join them the first Tuesday evening of each month. I still need to focus on my driving, but it is less scary now. I have discovered where to buy just about any and all ingredients (even organic) I need for cooking and have found a couple of decent clothing shops that carry some stylish pieces when I need some shopping therapy. Although I have not found a replacement for my beloved Humber River walk, I have a couple of loops nearby that offer me a nature fix daily, replacing spawning salmon sightings with mobs of kangaroos.

We are truly creatures of habit. I still even manage to play Scrabble at least once a week with my darling daughter. Technology has made the distance between us seem less overwhelming. Without it, I could not have made this leap. So, what, you may ask, compelled me to move to the other side of the world to start all over again, only to engage in mostly the same activities I had enjoyed in Canada?

Well, in the words of the great poet Rumi, I "gambled everything for love". There was no guarantee. I had to rely entirely on my gut instinct. Every time I woke in the middle of the night, overwhelmed with fear or the voices that cast doubt on my decision, each and every time, I came back to my gut. What was it telling me? It was not a screaming, bossy, aggressive voice. No. It was a soft, gentle and constant voice. A nudging. Just go, it would whisper. It could offer me no real outcome. No fancy promises of happily ever after. No defined security. It required a leap of faith like no other I have ever faced. I came from a family that defines success as  financial security and the owning of things. Up until then, I had followed that path. What madness had come over me to leave it all behind?

Call me crazy, but I can sum it up in one short sentence.

He dances with me in the kitchen. 

Meditation on Weight

reconnect

Weeding.

Dieting.

A tiresome duo.

Sculpting the garden.

Sculpting a body,

Make it perfect.

Make me perfect.

Wild English garden,

tangled and willy nilly

Reuben's ladies,

all curvy and plump

Formal boxwood hedge,

angular and trim

Slinky bone rack,

cat-walk ready

Does a butterfly discriminate?

Or the dove choose its perch

for any reason beyond

what nature provides?

Boldly allow nature 

to steer you.

Return to your core,

your inner knowing.

Move. Nourish. 

Be.

There was only perfection

when you arrived.

That never changed.

Go back.

Back to that place,

and start again.

Just the Way you are

Just the Way you are

That branch

The one protruding

beyond the symmetrical 

sphere

It  needs trimming

Says who?

Who is this voice?

What is this urgency?

How can perfection need 

perfecting?

See the bravery,

the courage instead

it took the rogue branch to

grow beyond boundaries.

unruly,

caring not

to remain

with the other branches.

Who am I to think

it needs correcting?

It wants no part of this

topiary.

Escape conformity.

Reach for the sun,

feel the breezes

Provide a perch.

Rebel.

Assert yourself.

See where it might take you.

Thank you 

harmless wild thing

for bringing awareness

round controlling urges

not born in me,

but learned by me,

taught to me.

Let them go,

unlearn them,

see the folly,

the pointlessness

of it all...

and breathe.

Could this be me in 32 years?

"Being grateful for what you do have is a great practice

 but it cannot erase the emptiness of purpose that is unmet."

-Dr. F. Emelia Sam

I have been contemplating this quote for about 30 minutes now. I read it in one of those short snappy articles that appear in the news feed on Facebook that annoy me as much as fascinate me. The fact that they are short and sweet is why I read them, but nine times out of ten, I end up thinking it was a waste of time even if it was only a minute or two. But, now and again, a little gem will hit me and as much as I try to deny the validity of the advice, it persists in my sub-conscious like a nagging voice that won't shut up.

So, rather than relegate this quote to the pile of other persistent nags, I thought I would take a closer look at this one here. With any luck, I may be able to incorporate it and remove it from the "to do" pile and put it into the "closed file" drawer once and for all. 

For starters, I am grateful.  I am so bloody grateful for so many things, you could almost call me a grateful junkie. I am grateful for my health and my freedom and my family and friends and the beauty that surrounds me every day. These are givens. If you are not grateful for these things in your life, then you have problems way bigger than mine. You can stop reading now. You still have a lot of things to work out. For those of you who are on the same page, read on.

So, here we are, here am I, drowning in gratefulness. Lucky to be alive. Freakin ecstatic some days. It's all good. It's gooder than good. (yes, I know, gooder is not a word, but I am using it anyway. I like alliterations, so sue me) Life has dealt you a pretty good hand. You stop and think about how people in other countries are starving or living in fear for their lives on a daily basis and it is impossible to relate. It is something that happens 'over there'. Not here. Not in your world. Not today. Not next week. Not ever. This thought makes you even more grateful.

Should this not be enough to sustain you? For many, it likely is. There are certainly days when it is enough for me. Days go by. Weeks, sometimes months, when it is enough. But inevitably, the moment arrives when something triggers you. It can be something as simple as reading a death announcement, like the one I read yesterday. You may have seen it as well. The actress who played Alice on The Brady Bunch, Anne B. Davis, died yesterday at 88. You do the math in your head.  Hmmm, just a tad over 30 years older than me. She had a good run, you think. Then you ponder the numbers some more. Hmmmm, if I make it that long, I have at least 30 more years. Initially it seems long. Then you think about how fast the last 30 have gone and you get that little feeling in your gut that comes with fear. That fear of running out of time. Running out of time to realize your purpose. 

Many would argue that we don't have a purpose. We are just insignificant specks. Which side of the argument do you fall on? If we are just insignificant specks without any real purpose, then why would you be fearful? Would you not just accept your insignificant speck status and keep on chugging along, soaking up the resources and bounty around you, never a thought of evolving or giving back until the day you die? Never experiencing that emptiness referred to in the quote above. Is that what it is like for the insignificant speck theorists? It does seem an easier path. And is that path a choice? Is it possible for me to choose that path? It does not feel like a choice to me. It never has. Maybe they really don't choose. Maybe they just don't want to consider the alternative. Maybe on days where the emptiness rears it's ugly head, they just brush it aside, ignore it, poo poo it. Fill it with something. Numb it. Even more difficult to imagine - maybe they never sense it. Wow. What would that be like? 

I am not saying that our purpose has to be something grand. Clearly, not everyone is meant to leave behind a legendary legacy. We cannot all be Gandhi or Maya Angelou. There are countless souls making contributions around the world daily that we will never hear of or know. Our purpose does not have to affect millions. Maybe it only has to affect one other person. In this light, it can be as simple as making one other person's life better. If this is the case, that makes fulfilling our purpose a whole hell of a lot easier. In fact, I imagine there are few of us that have not had some sort of positive impact on at least one other person that has led to their lives being easier or happier. 

Hmmmmm, now that I have looked at it this way, I feel a bit better. A little less pressure to reach some self-imposed standard of successful purpose attainment. Maybe it comes down to defining purpose. If you set the bar too high, you may spend a lifetime feeling disappointed in yourself. However, if you just set your sights on smaller doable contributions, by the time you reach the end of your days, you will die knowing you did make a difference and size won't matter. 

Someone, somewhere, will have acknowledged that you did indeed serve a purpose.

File closed.

Gotta love those Peak Experiences

In late April I went to Brisbane to see a concert. Not just any concert. It was more of a pilgrimage come to think of it. You know how sometimes there is a band or a song or solo artist that seems to speak to you? You listen to them/it and you feel the lyrics in your gut, your heart, your soul. The words inspire you to be better. The music makes you want to move your body. Even if the lyrics are dead serious, the music still makes you feel uplifted or energized. 

I was introduced to this artist well into his music career. I was in a happy place. Mabel Lake. A couple hours north of Kelowna, B.C. at my brother's cottage. The cottage is a TV free zone, other than a collection of movie DVDs, there is no cable or TV antenna. There is no phone line. If you want to connect to the world, you have to walk (or drive) to the marina store. I tell you all of this to explain why music is an important part of the vibe there. It is an eclectic collection of old and new. The first time I visited the family (the fun part of my family according to my daughter), we sat around the big kitchen table the first night, playing cards, board games, consuming a few bevvies (natch) and my bro put on a CD I had never heard before.

With all the chatter and shenanigans going on around me, the music, playing moderately loud, immediately resonated with me. I asked who it was. My bro looked at me incredulously. You've never heard Michael Franti? I had not. I found myself actually needing to move my body. I was glad when I was able to rotate out of the game we were playing and found myself in the kitchen dancing as though it was the only thing in the world to do. Without question, this was the beginning of my love affair with this music. A little bit reggae, a little bit hip hop, a little bit folk, a little bit rock. Just a great combination of meaningful lyrics (he is a poet too) and the kind of dance beat I gravitate toward.

They only had one of his CDs. Yell Fire. It became the anthem at the cottage over the next couple of  years. A Mable Lake weekend could not officially start until Michael Franti blasted out from the stereo. That, and a cold beer. We listened to it in the morning. We took it out on the boat and blasted it in the middle of the lake (no wonder we could not catch a fish). We cranked it up at cocktail hour. Then once more for good measure after dinner when the games would commence. No one tired of it. So, the last time I was at the lake, we all agreed that if he was ever performing anywhere near, we would have to go see him. When I heard he was going to be in Brisbane, I was stoked, but sad that the whole gang would not be able to go. It was going to be up to me to represent the family. 

I hooked up with Steve's niece who lives there and the two of us set off to see the concert. An odd couple in many ways as I am twice her age, but somehow, even that made sense. She was not as familiar with his music, but was open, and that is all you really need to be. I was not sure what to expect. The venue was smallish and intimate. The Tivoli, an old theatre, was exactly the type of space for him and the crowd. Standing only. A bar. It was more club-like and the atmosphere was perfect for what was about to happen. The warm up band was, not surprisingly, very capable of holding their own. Nahko and Medicine for the People came out rocking. In no time at all the room was buzzing. They were the perfect pre-cursor to the  main event. 

What took place next was like something I had never experienced at a concert in my life. Within seconds everyone was moving. Hands up, bouncing, jumping, singing along. The entire crowd seemed, dare I say it...as one. It was the most overwhelming feeling of unity. We all loved his music, his energy was contagious. The air was thick with positivity. Everyone was smiling. Every soul in that room was on the same page. It felt like the kind of collective energy that could move mountains. Had we all drank the same Kool-aid? If we had, I did not care. I wanted it to last forever. He was like some kind of happy messiah working his way through the crowd, dancing, singing, hugging people. We all wanted a piece of him. I touched him a couple times in passing, his sweat-soaked t-shirt against my palm, a sticky moist souvenir I wanted to take home. Maybe his DNA would infuse me somehow. Who would not want to catch whatever it is he has?

At the end of the 'party", my young friend turned to me and said, "Wow, I have never been to a concert like that before. What just happened there?" We were both smiling, soaked with sweat, energized after about 2 hours of non-stop dancing and a little bit stunned. It was like we had all just experienced a significant shift. And it felt like love. 

One great big musical orgasm.

The power of art.

Wow.

From Where I Sit

Shiny silvery patchwork bark

covers the tall gum

A coat of understated elegance

Foxtail and ponytail fronds

Swaying, swishing, softly

before a cloudless cerulean sky

Momentary glance one

The poolside fence

a perch, a lookout

The Kookaburra first

Doves and Topknots follow

trying out the king's throne

Dew shimmers

Momentary glance two

Agave sculptures twice

mirrored in the pool

Three eucalyptus leaves

drift by, canoes without paddles

Rainbow Lorakeets disrupt the quiet

They leave, silence returns

Momentary glance three

Vermillion nastursiums

punch and pop their fiery heads

above their mock lily pad leaves

Screaming their bold colours

Unafraid to be eaten.

Courageous souls.

Momentary glance four

Two swooping cockatoos

sulphur-crested, chasing each other?

Following each other? 

Perfomance art? Excitement!

King Kookaburra is back

In the old gumtree, like the song says

This is where life happens

Outside my window

away from screens

and desks

Time to dress and join it

Morning, 

from where I sit.