One Dog's Life

I had never met a dog who would stop and pose for a photo...until I met Broadus (Brody to his friends). It was August of 2008 and my nephew was getting married in Kelowna, B.C.  As I was living in Toronto, I had not yet met his best friend or his bride to be. It was a joyous family occasion and a memorable meeting on both counts. I am not sure whose eyes were more startlingly beautiful, his dogs or his brides, but I came away with lasting impressions of both.

As it turns out, the dog was involved in the wedding ceremony. Not quite the best man, but certainly his role as ring bearer would give him "best dog status" at the very least. It was a casual affair in a natural setting in one of the Okanagan's lush apple orchards. The summer blooms were at their peak, the sun was shining and the cicadas hummed. The groomsmen wore off white linen pants and casually untucked light brown shirts and the groom switched things up with a light green shirt, so Brody, with his healthy shiny brown coat blended in with the wedding party, or maybe the wedding party was meant to blend in with him. Either way, whether intended or not, he was the perfect accessory at this festive occasion. He even had a place of honour on top of the wedding cake. 

Broadus sat through the ceremony next to his much loved owner. He did not slouch or whimper or try to run off. He stood proudly with the best man and calmly witnessed Johnny and Gayle's wedding vows, as any good dog would. He held the bride's ring fastened to his collar waiting for his moment to shine. Afterall, he was not just any old dog that day - he was the only four-legged member of the wedding party. The flower girl only had two legs, and besides, she seemed unable to sit still like he had. Hmmmfff! Humans!, he must have been thinking. 

After the ceremony, it was time for him to really strut his stuff. Photo time! Now, I am not really sure how it all started, but since he was a pup, at the sight of a camera appearing, Brody would jump into action. I reckon he must have been a celebrity or a male model in a past life, but this dog LOVED working the camera. He had this crazy innate sense to pose at the sight of any lense, big or small. He knew how to look directly into the lense, cock his head a little as though he knew his best side and hold still until after the click. He was a pro, through and through. Maybe he just knew how handsome he was, or was  not keen on having bad photos of himself swirling around the internet - who knows? All I know is that he was the easiest dog to photograph that I had ever met and likely ever will. 

Photos are a wonderful thing. As we move through life capturing moments and making memories, we are creating little visual treasures that can be revisited time and time again, whenever we get the urge to go back to a time that made us happy. And so, today, the morning after his passing, I am sure there are many who knew Broadus who are doing just that. Reliving past moments and smiling and remembering a good dog. 

A very good dog. A  much loved dog.

RIP Brody. You will be dearly missed.

Can you be Brave?

One of the most inspiring songs in terms of lyrics that I have heard in recent years is "Brave" by Sara Bareilles. It is intended as encouragement for anyone who is afraid to "come out". When I listen to this song, it always stirs some deep emotion within me that moves me to tears as I know there are so many people in this world who are fearful of living their truths. The song could just as easily apply to fear in general. The kind of fear that stops anyone from being who they truly are. The fear that lurks in just about everyone in one way or another. The kind of fear that requires being brave to conquer.

I know many people who live in fear. So, when I read this quote on Facebook today - the one you see above, it really struck a chord with me. It was the perfect summation of what I wanted to say to so many people, myself included. I felt my heart race as I read it. I wanted to shout it at the top of my lungs, because to live life any other way just seems like a waste to me. What is up with "settling"? Or not speaking up? Or working at a "job you hate"? Take the leap! "Be fucking brave."

Take all your excuses and toss them in the rubbish bin. They are just that. Excuses. If you truly believe that you are here in this one short lifetime to be happy or share your gifts or talents with the world before you die, there really is very little time to waste in fear. Quit hovering there. What are you afraid of? What other people will think? (that is usually a biggie) Afraid of failure? (the second biggie) Ask yourself one simple question. IS IT TRUE? I guarantee you that 9 times out of 10 it is not.  It's never too late. You always wanted a degree or doctorate? What is stopping you? Your marriage is a sham or abusive or dead? Leave it. You would rather be anywhere on earth than at your workplace? Quit. Find a new job or start your own business. Take risks. Experiment. Show some fucking enthusiasm for life. Please, just BE BRAVE! 

Brave

by Sara Bareilles

You can be amazing
You can turn a phrase into a weapon or a drug
You can be the outcast
Or be the backlash of somebody’s lack of love
Or you can start speaking up

Nothing’s gonna hurt you the way that words do
When they settle ‘neath your skin
Kept on the inside and no sunlight
Sometimes a shadow wins
But I wonder what would happen if you

Say what you wanna say
And let the words fall out
Honestly I wanna see you be brave
With what you want to say
And let the words fall out
Honestly I wanna see you be brave

I just wanna see you
I just wanna see you
I just wanna see you
I wanna see you be brave

I just wanna see you
I just wanna see you
I just wanna see you
I wanna see you be brave

Everybody’s been there,
Everybody’s been stared down by the enemy
Fallen for the fear
And done some disappearing,
Bow down to the mighty
Don’t run, just stop holding your tongue

Maybe there’s a way out of the cage where you live
Maybe one of these days you can let the light in
Show me how big your brave is
Say what you wanna say
And let the words fall out
Honestly I wanna see you be brave
With what you want to say
And let the words fall out
Honestly I wanna see you be brave

And since your history of silence
Won’t do you any good,
Did you think it would?
Let your words be anything but empty
Why don’t you tell them the truth?

Say what you wanna say
And let the words fall out
Honestly I wanna see you be brave
With what you want to say
And let the words fall out
Honestly I wanna see you be brave

I just wanna see you
I just wanna see you
I just wanna see you
I wanna see you be brave

I just wanna see you
I just wanna see you
I just wanna see you
See you be brave

I just wanna see you
I just wanna see you
I just wanna see you

I just wanna see you
I just wanna see you
I just wanna see you

A Perfect Day

Lychees ready for picking

Ever notice how the universe often delivers just exactly when you need it to? I do. It happens regularly for me. At least that is how I see it.

On Saturday night after dinner, I was whining a bit about the town I live in. I had held back as long as I could, trying week after week, month after month, to embrace the positive attributes of this small town in Queensland, but suddenly it seemed that the negatives had just been outweighing the positives more and more lately. I was no longer capable of keeping my opinions and thoughts about this town silent. 

My approach to expressing my thoughts and feelings about this place we call home now came spewing forth in a slow and steady flow like hot lava down the slope of a Hawaiian volcano, slowly and thoughtfully, but stinging and hot nonetheless with the potential to do irreversible damage along the way. I said this town had no life force, no energy, there were no good restaurants, no interesting shops, too many dilapidated houses, too many miserable, scowling faces. It feels dead to me. There is no forward movement here. There is a dull, lifeless quality that permeates everything. There is a stubborn stuckness (my new word) in attitude. I went on and on. 

It was probably hard to hear. Even if most of it is or was true, nobody wants to hear this kind of criticism of the town where they have spent most of their life. He listened. He heard me. I got it all off my chest. It was only the beginning of what is sure to be further conversation about the future and where we will end up. It should not come as a surprise to either of us really. One does not move to a town of 25,000 from a city of 2.5 million without a few hiccups. As much as life in the big city was wearing me down, the scale and contrast of "downsizing" was pretty drastic. It would take time. 

I do like several aspects of small town life. It's not all bad. Traffic is a non-issue. I still find myself arriving early for everything, never really believing it will only take 5 or 10 minutes to get from one end of town to the other. There is something to be said for limited choices. You don't waste much time dithering over unlimited options for everything from which shop to go to or which restaurant or which concert or which movie...you are lucky to have a choice between two. Pollution is not an issue. Overcrowding is non-existent. It is quiet. It is safe. 

So, Saturday night turned into Sunday morning and life went on as it does. We were up for a walk at the crack of dawn, said g'day to a mob of roos up the street and over at the park, came home, made breakfast, enjoyed the gentle breezes that blew through the house, did a few domestic chores and then I suggested we go out for lunch. This is fairly rare as I have come to the conclusion that there really are no good spots in town for this. I kid you not. Not a one. However, about 3 weeks ago, I had noticed a new spot opening on Wharf Street and was curious. A couple of the gals I play tennis with had heard it was pretty good and I was eager to check it out. 

It was a newly renovated space in one of the town's old historic buildings. As soon as we stepped inside, I knew things were looking up. The decor was instantly appealing - all black and white with splashes of bright citrus green, banquettes lining the walls against the windows and an open kitchen, a beer garden out back and a larger room for big parties - the Forest Room - decorated to reflect the name. It was really well done. Was it possible they had actually impressed me? Indeed they had. We sat by the window in a cosy corner and the food was not outstanding, but it was fresh and more than adequate. The service was a bit wonky but given it is early days and they were short-staffed, all was forgiven. The menu had several things that seemed interesting, so we will return to try a few more things. This little jolt of newness was right on time. 

The Forest Room at Alfresco on Wharf St

After lunch I suggested a drive. It was a beautiful Sunday afternoon. We decided to pop in on some friends just on the outskirts of town. They live in a charming old Queenslander house on a large acreage. When we arrived they were entertaining another couple on the wrap around porch for lunch and they insisted we join them for a cup of tea, so we accepted. It was really lovely to sit and chat and look out at their expansive lawn and all the surrounding trees and birds and butterflies flitting about. The couple we just met were interesting and chatty having just spent two years caravaning around the country after selling their house and all their possessions, then set off to explore the entirety of Australia. I wanted to hear everything, to feed my soul with tales of their adventures and discoveries. Again, just what I needed. 

After tea, we were invited to help ourselves to mangoes and lychees that were growing on the property. I picked both for the first time and although for many it is just an ordinary experience, it occurred to me that even this simple act of picking and peeling and eating a lychee off a tree was something I had never done before. In Canada, the only lychees I have ever eaten were purchased at a grocery store and they were brown on the outside. These lychees were red on the outside and sweet and juicy on the inside. Had you asked me minutes before if they grew on a tree or a vine or came up out of the ground, I would not have been able to answer you. But now I know they grow on trees and taste a whole lot better right off the tree, much like any fresh fruit or vegetable.

The day was unfolding nicely. They then invited us to join them on an excursion to the riverbank next to the Brolga Theatre where a late afternoon concert and twilight market was taking place. I had heard something of these monthly events, but had not been to one yet, so this was a welcome invitation to check it out. We all met shortly after for drinks and some live music set before a backdrop of the Mary River with a few sailboats and small yachts, anchored intermittently and  bobbing softly on the water. 

The entire day was really unplanned and spontaneous. Each segment presented itself effortlessly and simply and we went with the flow and it took us on a perfect little journey that filled all of  our senses. The unexpected visuals at the new bistro, the delicious tastes of freshly picked fruits, the sound of live music, the balmy breezes of late summer on our skin, and the smell of gardenia blossoms and mock orange near the river. 

Borrowed Gardenia Blossom ;-)

My complaints of the night before dissipated as I recounted my day and I felt grateful again. It felt like the universe had provided me with a reminder and it shifted my thinking back to a more positive outlook. I can choose to focus on the negative or I can choose to focus on the positive. 

And it is indeed a choice. It is presented daily. The trick is to choose wisely.

I'm working on it. 

Planting new Seeds

I remember my last semester at Ryerson and the stress I experienced. The final papers. The final exams. The pressure (mostly self-imposed) to complete and pass all my courses so I could earn my degree. It was weeks and weeks of high anxiety. I recall I gained about 10 lbs. and even started smoking cigarettes after having quit for 6 years. I took up drinking Scotch at the bar at Oakham House next door to the Journalism building. I did not even like Scotch but it seemed like a good idea at the time. After all, what journalist worth their weight did not know at least a little something about the varying degrees of peat in a dram of good aged single malt Glenfiddich or Macallan? 

Somehow I managed to get through it. In the end I collected my piece of paper that proved I did the required work, quit smoking again, stopped drinking Scotch, found a real job and as for the 10 lbs., well they stuck around for awhile. No one is perfect. 

Studying and deadlines have never been my forte. There are days when I still find it hard to believe I got through. In fact, I still have a recurring nightmare that I did not get my degree. That I am clamouring to find my way through the hallways of the school, cannot find my locker, have not studied or read any of the course materials and the underlying fear throughout these nocturnal journeys through hell is that I will have to explain to my parents that I did not graduate. That I failed. Failed myself. Failed them. Simply fucking failed. When I wake up from these sweat-inducing dreams, for a brief moment I believe I did not succeed. I screwed up. I blew it. As I come around, open my eyes, shake it off, I am always so relieved to realize it was just a dream.  How is it that I am still plagued with these nightmares 30 years later? What part of me still needs to please mommy and daddy? Do we ever feel we have done enough or been enough in their eyes? Why do we allow our failures (seeming or otherwise) to outweigh our successes in their eyes? As much as I know mine have been proud of my accomplishments, I still fret over their opinions of my downfalls. 

The need to please. That bitch has to go. She simply must because the truth is, she will never be enough. Even in the past when it seemed she may have had their stamp of approval, the problem was that she did not have her own stamp of approval. She was too busy trying to turn herself into something that would make them happy, all the while sacrificing  herself to the cause until the day came when she knew she could not go on with the facade her life had become and it required such a dramatic upheaval of change that it made her anxiety-stricken final term of university seem like a walk in the park compared to what she had to do now.

She is not even sure where she summoned the strength and courage it took to turn her life upside down and venture down an entirely different path. One of uncertainty. And as much as she knows intellectually that nothing is really certain in life, hovering in it for the last four years has been the biggest challenge of her life so far. The question of why is ever present. Why did she have to do it? Why upset the applecart? The apples were all piled up neatly, unbruised, attractive, ready to be eaten and enjoyed but now they are spilled and rolling all over the ground, getting dirty and battered and landing on their sides, or upside down, some getting lost under the cart, some snatched by birds, others gnawed on by rodents, but some actually surviving in tact. 

And it is in those, the intact spilled apples where she is finding her strength. The parts of her that were there all along that have survived the spill. And they are perfect and ripe and juicy and their seeds are healthy and alive and she will devour the fruit as it falls and then plant the seeds and start over again and the fruit she produces will be of her own making and she won't try to squeeze them into a cart again. She will eat them as they ripen and let them land where they may fall as nature intended.

Nothing will be certain. And that will be OK.

Choosing Beauty

Orchard Swallowtail Butterfly in my Garden

Lately, my thoughts are being challenged daily between either focusing on beauty or ugliness. It can encompass any and all subject matter from world politics to the daily minutiae of my life.

From the horror of another massacre or terrorist attack one moment to the uplifting efforts of an individual or group to help humanity in some way. From the sight of yet another flattened and rotting cane toad carcass on the road to the graceful sway of a horse's tail in the paddock. This constant barrage of blissful awe versus grotesque actions and visuals takes its toll some days. However, what I am getting better and better at, is moving on quickly from the negative thoughts and images and lingering on the positive ones. 

For starters, I pretty much stopped watching television a few years ago. In particular, the news. I still enjoy the odd movie or sporting event, but weeks can pass without ever turning on the TV. What this does for me is quite empowering. Instead of someone else deciding what I will see, I get to choose what I want to see. I am able to limit the effects of marketing and advertising that permeates the masses with their mostly inane commercials. You need this. You need that. You will be more beautiful if you use this. You will miss out on this if you don't do that. You get my drift. Instead, I am able to read and watch what interests me versus wasting my time being bombarded by the drivel of commercialism. I have chosen enrichment over banality.

My daily walks even present me with the need to choose. The town I am living in is a perfect example of economic diversity. Many once lovely homes have fallen into disrepair. The charming "Queenslander' homes that populate this area are the epitome of shabby chic...except when they are more shabby than chic. The ones that have not seen a fresh coat of paint since 1962 or the ones that have undergone addition after poorly executed addition and leave but a trace of their former bones make me feel sad. I walk past these beaten and battered, shells of their former selves, and can almost feel their despair, their shame. I have to consciously stop myself from lingering too long in their dilapidated energy. I increase my pace and look for a more pleasing facade, knowing there are some ahead. When I reach a cared for property, I am filled with relief and an appreciation of their tended gardens and inviting verandas. My pace slows and the fresh image restores what the previous visual assault wreaked upon me.

If I were to allow the ugliness to trump the beauty, it would depress me. For anyone who is familiar with the daily photos I take, it is clear that I choose to focus on the beauty around me. The beauty of nature is my religion really. It is not always in my immediate field of vision, but I do make a continual and constant effort to surround myself with things I find visually pleasing. My eyes are always looking for a fix. My heart can skip a beat when I see a shocking pink bougainvillea tumbling over a fence, or a mob of grazing kangaroos. A spectacular sunset can connect me to my source as intensely as the most stirring piece of music can move me to tears. 

Stopping to smell the roses is a way of life that I have chosen. It does not cost anything. We are surrounded at all times with nature, whether it be a pot of herbs on your inner city window sill or endless views of rolling hills surrounding your country house, it's there. No pot of herbs? Look out your window. Notice a cloud formation. Watch the wind carry a scrap of paper past your window - the simple elegance of that.  Find a snippet of beauty in the seeming mundane. Every time you practice these small moments of conscious awareness, you are feeding your soul. 

And what soul does not need a little fuel? I don't know any. Do you?

The third Set

Time. Too little time. Too much time. Where does time figure into your life right this moment? Do you feel like time is running out? Or, do you feel like you have all the time in the world? If you are over 40 and reading this, my guess is the former. Time is a luxury after 40. Before that, it seems like there is a never ending supply and flitting it away is no big deal. I have done my fair share of flitting.

Nowadays I am conscious of my flitting. There is an underlying fear around it. And it is not a fear of death. It is the fear of not having enough time left to do all the things I still want to do. The only thing that really bothers me about dying is that there are a few people that might suffer when I die. The thought of their pain and grief around my dying is the part that saddens me. I see dying as a transition into another realm. Another energy form. The next big adventure. However, if all that turns out to be bullshit, as it could, then that is why I figure we really need to make the most of this lifetime. But what does that mean really? 

There are days when I think I am living up to my own expectations. And then there are days when I am clearly flitting away my precious days. I am quite certain I could be doing more in terms of contributing to the world. But it is so easy to justify our existence even if we are not doing as much as we could. My personal favourite is that I have exceeded a few benchmarks in my lifetime in contrast to my family history, so that in itself is a contribution - sort of.  I can proudly say I am the only member of my generation on the paternal side of my family to have earned a university degree. That's something I think. The next generation has fared better in that department, so perhaps I was the initiating force behind an evolution of education in my family. 

Tied in first position with that achievement is the manner in which I (and her father) raised my daughter. It may even exceed the education badge when I think about it. I raised her without any physical discipline. This was not learned because gawd knows I was subjected to it countless times as a child. It was the most important thing in the world to me. From the moment she was born, I promised myself I would never spank or hit her. In addition to that, I was always very careful to avoid shaming or psychological abuses. Words were chosen consciously and carefully and raised voices were rare.  So, I broke the cycle of physical and psychological abuse in my immediate family and my hope is that, should she have children of her own one day, she will carry on in the same fashion. I am pretty certain that previous generations of my family were never able to break that pattern. 

So, there are two examples of how easy it is to rest on one's laurels. Gee, I think to myself, if I never accomplish anything else in my life, at least I did a couple of things to improve the future generations. Yet, still, I beat myself up. It's not enough. I need to do more. Stop flitting. Sometimes I can even talk myself into thinking my job here is done now. I am tired. Those two tasks were exhausting. I just want to flit now. However, what I really think is happening is that I have been on a break. A much needed break before my next contribution. It does feel that way. After all, if I live to the average expected age for a woman in Canada, I have almost another third to go. 

The last third. The big one. The final curtain call. The "go big or go home" third. The one that requires the most energy. Perhaps it is why the time in between the second third and the last third required so much flitting. I was storing up for the finale. 

2015...the beginning of the third and final set. 

And I plan to win the match. (With the odd flit between games.) 

WE ARE NOT AFRAID

And you will never silence us.

My Daily Laugh

One of the most wonderful parts of my daily life here in Australia is the nature and wildlife that surround me. Not just the adventures away from my house, but the everyday relationship I have developed in my own back yard. For instance, just now as I was about to sit down at my desk and start to write, I looked up and out as a flash of something caught my eye and was thrilled to see a fairly large Kookaburra glide through and land on the Hills Hoist. Now, for those of you who are unfamiliar with a "Hills Hoist", here in Queensland that is what they call a clothesline that spins around on a central pole. In Nova Scotia, in Canada, they call them Whirligigs. This is actually the first time in my life that I have had one in my backyard. 

As a child, my mother had a T-clothesline until we got a new washer and dryer when I was about 8 years old. Prior to that big advance in our domestic technology, she washed our clothes in a ringer washer and hung them to dry. I will never forget my awe when the temperature would dip below freezing before she would get the clothes off the line and they would be frozen stiff as boards, taken down and brought inside to dry on racks by the gas furnace or near the stove in the kitchen. I can still recall the smell of damp as they thawed. However, back to the Kookaburras. They love the Hills Hoist. They seem unperturbed when a breeze causes it to spin slowly, which is good news for me, as I then get to observe them from various angles, not unlike, chickens on a rotisserie. 

For some reason, this morning, they allowed me to get closer than I have ever been to them before. I spoke softly to them the whole time and just kept taking careful, slow steps until I actually got closer than I actually felt comfortable. It was as though they were completely unafraid of me and I was now afraid of them. They are, as you can see, a fairly large bird and their beaks are formidable. I have never heard of it, but should one of them ever decide I was a threat, a peck from one of them would no doubt cause some pain. So, I stopped and just talked to them for a moment or two, snapped a few shots with my phone and turned and headed back inside. They remained for a time until there was seemingly nothing more to hunt on my patio and it became clear that I was not going to feed them. I do feed the parrots as they eat a wild bird seed mixture that I buy in bulk from the local farm supply here, but the Kookaburras and a few of the other birds, like the Butcher birds and Magpies prefer their meals to be more meaty. 

My neighbour feeds them ground mince, but I have read that is not really healthy for them, so I refrain. Sometimes, I think they come and sit on my clothesline thinking they may be able to get a free meal from me. I must be a disappointment to them. They do seem to find beetles and worms and other squiggly, flying insects at my place though, so it isn't all bad here. I just love them. They have such a majestic air about them. They seem royal to me. They are also such a gorgeous colour combination of browns, greys and cream and black with that bit of robin's egg blue...they would have fit in perfectly with that colour palette that was so popular for so long in interior design in the last decade. 

When I first arrived here, it came as a surprise to me that so many people hung their clothes out to dry. In recent decades in some parts of Canada, backyard clotheslines were banned as crazy as that may sound. It had become what some folks deemed an eyesore. Only poor people hung clothes to dry outside. That perception developed around the time indoor clothes dryers became popular and initially only the well to do could afford them. Those same people did not want to have to look at their less than affluent neighbour's laundry flapping in the wind next door, so bans were put in place all over Canada. In fact, it was only in 2008, that Ontario lifted the bans as more and more people wanted to save energy and money by hanging their laundry outside. It has become a domestic ritual I have actually embraced here. Sure, there are times when it is not exactly convenient, but I like the way the clothes smell of fresh air afterwards. I do not even own a dryer. I had planned to buy one when I got my new washer, but thought I would wait and see if I really wanted or needed one, and turns out, I am fine without one. I suppose if I had kids, I would feel differently, but with just two of us, I manage to live without one.

But, once again, I have digressed. Back to the kings of the bush. They alone are reason to own a Hills Hoist. In fact, all the birds seem to perch on it at one time or another and as it is in clear view from all the windows at the back of my house, it is like having an outdoor bird sanctuary all the time. Believe it or not, I have not experienced a single bird pooping on my laundry either. Perhaps they only really enjoy sitting on it when it is empty. At first, I thought it might become a problem, but so far they have only once had an "accident" on a piece of clothing. So, not a big deal. Maybe it is karma. I keep most of them fed, and they repay me by finding another place to crap. For this, I am grateful.

In Canada, it was always exciting to see a Cardinal. No matter how many times I spotted them, it was always a thrill to see their vibrant red against the green leaves of summer or especially against a snow-covered evergreen bough. Here in Australia, I now get the same kick from the Kookaburras. They are part of the Kingfisher family and this particular species was once known as the Laughing Jackass or Giant Kingfisher. They wake me early every morning with their laughing. They can be counted on like a rooster at the crack of dawn, in fact, even a bit earlier than that...usually around 4 am. I have grown to appreciate their wake-up call. They don't annoy me like crows or roosters for that matter. They greet me in the morning and they say good night just after dusk. They are a constant reminder that I am "not in Kansas anymore".

 I know. Let's declare Kookaburras to be the new Owls in home decor. You read it here first people! 

Who's in?

Even the Strongest Armor...can fail you

So once again, two innocent people are dead as a result of a deranged, angry, sickened mind. I am referring to the hostage taking here yesterday in Australia at the Lindt Cafe in Sydney. This country waited and watched yesterday and into the night as these events unfolded. We are still waiting for details and answers, but we do know this. The outcome was tragic for the families and friends of the two hostages that did not come out alive. Our hearts ache for them. 

And what of the man, the perpetrator who held these people against their will inside that cafe? Why do I not feel bad about his death? Does anyone? Should we? From what we have learned about him so far, he was not a law-abiding citizen. He was known to police and was involved in an ongoing legal battle and has been charged as an accessory to murdering his ex-wife along with his current girlfriend. He was convicted of writing offensive letters to the families of dead Australian soldiers, among other offenses. Clearly Man Haron Monis was a loose cannon, who finally came unhinged yesterday in Sydney. It is almost impossible not to judge him.

This sort of event is not unique. People come unhinged everyday all over the world. They do not necessarily act out in such a violent manner, but often they do. As I sit here in the peaceful comfort of my home and tranquil life, it is difficult to fathom the minds of these lost souls and relate to them in any way whatsoever. While I am tending to my flowers and herbs in the garden, or creating a healthful recipe for dinner, or walking through the park and appreciating the beauty of nature around me, there are people all over the world on the brink of madness. The contrast is so vast between people like "them" and people like me. When we are jolted out of our peaceful existence by events such as this, it is easy to allow the actions of a few to weigh our hearts down with sadness, anger and grief. It is as though suddenly, all the negativity that has led a man like that to such a severe state of hatred and anger begins to cross over to us, like an energy transfer.  It is difficult to feel any compassion for him or to feel sorry that he too died. We tend to see him as a worthless human being. Maybe he was. 

Maybe. I do doubt however, that he emerged from the womb as the evil perpetrator he grew into. What led him, or others like him down the wrong path? These are the questions I cannot answer. What is our fascination with these murderers and criminals in our midst? It is as though if we can have some insight into their inner workings, maybe we can spot it in someone and then avoid them, or get them, before they get us. I suppose it is a form of self-preservation. Know thy enemy and all that. But, no matter how much we may step out into the world with all our armor on day after day, you never know when there will be a mad man standing next to you in line at the coffee shop. The two innocent people who did that very thing yesterday, despite any armor they may have been wearing, are still dead. It could have happened to any of us, so all I can suggest is we all just better embrace every minute, every hour, every day and let go of the endless list of worries or grudges or fears or whatever negativity you may be hanging onto and go for the joy...

...whatever that means to you. Today. Tomorrow. Next week. Next year.

Right now. 

Look in the Mirror, who do you See?

I woke up in the wee hours this morning and like a minor epiphany, it occurred to me that I am always fascinated by the same sort of woman. As I laid awake thinking about my most recent heroine, it came to me. 

It started in the early eighties after I saw the movie Out of Africa. I was smitten with the character played by Meryl Streep - Karen Von Blixen. She was exactly the sort of woman I admired. Strong, quirkily beautiful, courageous, adventurous and hopelessly romantic. She was a writer, a business woman, an advocate for the local people and a poet all wrapped up in one dynamic woman. The movie was based on her memoir written under the pen name Isak Dinesen. 

She became Baroness von Blixen-Finecke when she set off for Kenya to marry her Swedish second cousin, Bror von Blixen-Finecke in 1913 at the age of 27. She wrote of her 17 year adventure in British East Africa (as it was known then) in the memoir published in 1937. Her years there were not without hardships including her struggles with her coffee plantation, her failed marriage, the shame brought upon her by her philandering husband and her less than popular views of how the Kikuyu ( the local tribespeople) should be treated. 

She was determined, tenacious and fiercely independent. 

In Baroness Blixen’s descriptions of the Africa she knew, a note of mourning for this irretrievably lost world frequently colours her stories of magnificent isolation and the redemptive qualities of a life lived in partnership with nature.^[13]

The quote above struck such an enormous chord with me when I read it, as I have always felt that no matter how difficult your life can get, the "redemptive qualities" of nature can eventually heal even the deepest wounds. 

After her, it took years before I came across anyone who even came close to her ideal, until I read Eat Pray Love and Elizabeth Gilbert joined her in my mind and heart. She did not face the same sort of adversity, but she had followed her gut and lived her truth and it required courage and soul searching and several missteps before she came out the other side knowing her most authentic self and is/was determined to live that way.

Joining Karen and Liz currently in my list of admired women is Cheryl Strayed, author of Wild. Another brave and courageous gal who faced her demons and came out stronger after hiking the Pacific Crest Trail following the death of her mother and her own downward spiral of self-abuse. She stepped off the beaten track and endured hardships of an entirely different nature alone and unprepared. She did it with nothing more than sheer determination to face herself and consequently save herself. 

All three of these women have resonated with me on a level that feels eerily personal, as though their stories are now carried within me and have become a part of me. I may not be alone in this considering their stories are available to anyone who wishes to explore them, but it is clear to me that their adventures have had an impact on me. They have buoyed me when I felt like I could not move forward and put my obstacles in perspective.

My epiphany regarding these women and my admiration for them was interesting in its simplicity. They seem like me. Or rather, I seem like them. And by loving them, does that mean that for once and for all, I really love me? Have I finally forgiven myself?  Don't get me wrong here. I am not comparing the scale of their accomplishments with mine. No. What I am comparing are some of their traits. And not just the admirable qualities. As courageous as they were they could be stubborn. As adventurous as they seem, they were oft filled with fear. As romantic as they were, they failed as often as they succeeded with love. As strong as they were, they could be weak. They faced financial adversity as well as abundance. They questioned their motives as often as they felt assured. But in the end, they were all perfectly imperfect.

And it was OK. 

More than OK.

So, I will leave  you with this, one of my favourite poet's quotes, another voice that often rises up in me at just the right moment...

“Tell me, what is it you plan to do 

with your one wild and precious life?”

― Mary Oliver

Dusky Senses

Oh you

mellow moments

Wash me with your

cool, calm ambiance

Fill my vision

with rich amber light

My ears

with birdsong

My body

with release

Fiery skies sink into

mauvey grey horizons

Crickets begin their

one note chorus

Relieving breezes introduce

the evening star and its

sidekick,

Blurry Moon

Snippets of aromas

Wafting roasts

Spicy curries

The neighbours prepare

their feasts

Do they smell mine?

Soon it's time

to light the lamps

plate the meals

Share our day

Clink a glass

Give thanks

But for a moment more

I bask

This dusky peace

A gift,

An honour, to receive

Again today.

Red and White and no longer Blue

December. It is here again. You would think I would be ready. After all, I have been around for a few of them by now. And, like snowflakes, there are no two alike. There have been small pockets of Decembers in my life that have been fairly reliable in terms of how they played out. When I was little, when my daughter was little. That was all about Santa and candy and magic. I have always leaned toward a fondness for tradition and that is what makes my new Decembers a bit difficult.

Any vision I used to carry about the big family gathering around a long table with a giant roasted turkey being carved by the patriarch of the clan at the head need to be put to rest now. That is not likely a scene that will ever realistically play out for me in this lifetime. Those dreams died with the end of my marriage a few years ago and thinking back, they really never even came close to the vision then either. There was no large clan. My family was dispersed across the country. There was only one child. None of it conducive to that Walton's Family scene I kept in my head for so many years. 

The loss of that dream can still sometimes cause me to feel sad. As this festive season starts gearing up here in tropical Queensland, it is easier to put that vision aside. They still blair Christmas songs in the malls and it always catches me off guard. Why the hell are they playing this music in the middle of summer? That is my initial thought, before I realize with a heavy heart that Christmas is coming again. The traditional Santa themes are present here too. I see the Photo with Santa area in the malls set up much like it would be in Canada and I wonder how jolly that poor fellow must really feel in that get up when the mercury is hovering in the thirties just outside the doors. 

I am slowly adapting to the differences, but this one is going to take some time. I quiz my partner about growing up here. What was it like for him? For his kids? What did they eat? What did they do on Christmas Day? Did they hang  stockings on the barbeque? Did the patriarch of the family demonstrate the art of peeling prawns at the head of the table instead of turkey carving? I am trying to understand. To assimilate. When in Rome....and all that.

Thoughts of recreating my northern hemisphere festivities swirl around in my head, like visions of sugar plums, but then they melt away as fast as an early snowfall. It would be like moving to an English speaking country not knowing the language and refusing to learn it. So, I observe. This is my second go round now. Still early stages. Last Christmas we entertained his whole clan. We were house sitting a friend's ranch and all I can say is thank gawd for walk-in refrigeration. I spent a bit of time in that fridge. Every time I could no longer bear the trickles of perspiration running down my spine and legs and brow, I would step inside that chilly Nirvana and close my eyes and imagine Canada. How we used to chill our wine bottles in a snow bank outside the back door, or sweep the snow off the front steps for the third time that evening to keep them clear and safe for guests. How the oven would be working overtime in the weeks leading up to the big day with all the baking. BAKING! Forget about that now. Turning the oven on here is to be avoided like the plague. As much as I would love to regale my new friends and family with my Christmas baking and my grandmother's genuine Tourtiere recipe, it just ain't worth the pain.

Last year I attempted a real Christmas tree, but it did not really work out, its thirst was unquenchable and the needles dropped faster than a hooker's knickers at a bachelor party. No, this year, I have gone with fake trees. One home made from pallets at the front door and another inside our small lounge. It is actually one of those cherry blossom trees with lights that you see everywhere now in the shops. I decorated it and arranged the branches into a more conical shape and turns out I like it. It suits the room and my inability or desire to care for a living tree in this climate. 

Last night as I lay on the lounge after dinner staring at the twinkly lights and reflecting colours, I got the notion to put on my favourite Christmas music. A wee voice in my head told me that might not be a good idea, but old habits die hard. I got about halfway through the CD - A Charlie Brown Christmas before my heartstrings were about to burst and turned it off. There is something about music that just transports me to other places and times. In this case, to Christmas's past and my beautiful memories of my sweet Emma's childhood years. You know, those moments that remain in your mind and heart forever. The ones that you wish you could hold on forever and repeat again and again. But that is life. Constantly moving forward no matter how much you wish you could freeze frame the moments. 

It brings to mind a quote I read recently that said "Don't look back, you're not going that way." Memories are wonderful things, but best not linger there too long. In that vein, I bring myself back into the now, this moment, and see I am surrounded by many beautiful things. The Agapanthus is blooming beside my front walk, the Poinciana trees are a riot of reddish orange blossoms, the Oleanders are peaking and the Frangipani trees are a sight to behold in the most glorious colours imaginable. None of these grow in Canada in December. This my new reality. And just when I think that there really are no comparable colours, I notice a vine in bloom right outside my window here in the most perfect red and white, like it was made for Christmas.

It is as though it was placed right there, right now, to appease my soul. To offer me a small token of my past and remind me that although this new version of Christmas is vastly different than what I am accustomed to, if you look around you eventually find what you are looking for, without even realizing you were.

Cracking up...Literally

Generally speaking, I am pretty healthy. I have had a couple of scares in the last couple of years with suspect calcifications in my breasts, but fortunately, I have managed to slip past a malignant diagnosis. I am so grateful it did not go the other way for me as it does for so many women. 

My immune system seems to be working well as I have rarely had a cold or flu in ages and my organs and body chug along without complaining most of the time. I am blessed. However, there is one area of my health that has given me some grief for the last few months and exposed me to chronic pain for the first time in my life. It seems I have arrived at the expiry date for some of my molars. They have been cracking at a rate of 1 a year for the last 4 years. Everytime this happens, I find myself in the endodontist chair undergoing yet another root canal. The first two worked out OK for the most part and the third one required some tweaking as it began to ache again. That required some pretty nasty surgery, but solved the issue.

The next molar to bite the dust was the last molar at the back of my lower left jaw. It did not look good and the experts reckoned it was not a good candidate for a root canal as the cracking was too severe, so that one was extracted. By then, I was hoping my tooth troubles were behind me, but no such luck. The pain continued and the source was difficult to pinpoint. Two dentists and two endodontists later and 3 months of Advil every 4 hours day and night and finally I got some relief last Monday. That was the fourth root canal. 

So, now that I have financed several vacations for my dental care providers, I am pain free for the first time in months. I feel like a new woman. Looking back on my journey of pain, I am struck by the fact that I have never really understood the battle many people face with chronic pain. It is not conducive to living life normally. My sleep was disrupted. My moods were erratic. My energy was low. I had trouble focusing and concentrating. I felt anxiety and panic if I found myself too far away from an Advil fix. I was on a roller coaster of pain and relief. I did not resort to anything stronger. The Advil did the trick for me, but I can certainly understand how easy it would be to become addicted to stronger pain meds.

So, now for the reason I am sharing all this with you. As you know, I am always searching for the meaning as to why things happen. What is my lesson? I think over the course of my lifetime, I have not been particularly good at empathy.  I would go so far as to say, I sucked at it most of the time. I have been intolerant of whiners and people who seem sickly to me. I was not completely horrible and if someone was genuinely suffering, I would feel badly for them, but there were times when I would secretly be thinking maybe they were just cry babies or pain intolerant or looking for attention and if someone seemed to be constantly ill or in one case addicted to pain meds, I saw them as weak. They needed to suck it up and move forward. I would label some people hypochondriac and lose patience with their constant whining. 

A small punitive voice in my head would try to suggest empathy to me, but I had no desire to listen to that voice. I was healthy and I would be damned if I was going to let these whiners drag me into their web of malaise. I have never liked hospitals or bedside tables lined with bottles of prescription drugs. The very thought would make me shudder. How did I become so jaded? So callous? Clearly, I would make a lousy nurse. 

These few weeks of pain have been a karmic wake-up for me. As I ask myself, how would I have wanted people to react to my ill dental health? Well, mostly, I would have asked for patience and understanding and for the most part that is what I got. I did not talk about it a lot, but there were times when I had to explain my behaviour by telling my tale. Pain takes it's toll on you. 

It has been a reminder that without your health, nothing else really matters. For anyone reading this who is suffering in any way, I wish you well and hope there is some relief coming your way soon. It has also made me think quite a bit about assisted suicide. If I had thought that I would have to spend the rest of my life with chronic pain, you can bet I would have been thinking about that as a way out. No one should have to live that way. 

But they should be able to die as they choose. 

Funny how walking a mile in someone else's shoes changes your perspective.

Not domestic drudgery to me.

Many people ask me what I do all day long. It seems that since I do not currently go out to work at a structured job, it must be impossible to fill my days. I am usually astounded by this question, as I actually feel more fulfilled now than I ever did going to work outside of my home everyday. In fact, most days, I don't accomplish everything I had hoped to in any given day.

When I worked in the traditional sense of the word, I actually felt like THAT was a waste of my time. I would dream and long for unplanned days that would stretch out before me and the hundreds of options available to me. Whatever suited my whim, I could embrace. And that is how I live now.  I wish I could tell you that I am doing wildly adventurous things everyday, but that would be untrue. It would also be exhausting. The days I enjoy the most are the days that I fill with simple acts of domesticity. Today is one such day. 

So far this morning, starting at 5:30 I have gone for a 45 minute brisk walk, taken a dip in the pool, tidied up after the weekend of guests, washed and hung two loads of laundry, made my bed, vacuumed, made fresh lemonade, poached an egg, swept the patio, watered the potted plants, deadheaded some flowers, hosed off the deck chairs, downloaded photos from my phone to the computer, paused to observe several butterflies and birds and these were all just things I wanted to do before I actually started the more ambitious part of my day. 

I wanted to write a quick blog and play a game of on-line Scrabble before I head off to the grocery shop to replenish the food supply. I will then prepare a few cold dishes to keep ready and on hand as the weather is hot right now and I really like to avoid heating up the kitchen in the afternoon if I can. Food preparation consumes a big chunk of my day, as I cook everything from scratch and as anyone who cooks will tell  you, this requires a fair amount of slicing, dicing, squeezing, mixing and chopping. There is also music playing while I am in the kitchen...a very important component. Now that I have the time to devote to this, I find it very creative and soothing. It is also self-nurturing and nurturing to others who eat my food, so all and all I feel it is time well spent. Not the chore it was when I had less time and was faced with the task at the end of a long day.

Before dinner, I will swim again and possibly read or take a cat nap...a siesta so to speak. I am completely content with this, a typical day for me. Some days I play tennis, or golf, or drive to Hervey Bay, or work on a gardening or art project or go for a bike ride or hit the weekly farmer's market. So, as you can see, there is no shortage of things to occupy my time. Truth be told, I wish the days were longer, so I could do more. I have little anxiety and enjoy my solitude. So for those of you out there, who find it hard to believe this is enough for me, let me assure you, it is. 

Contentment is highly underrated. 

No Itsy Bitsy Spider

I feel safer already. Sitting here, at my desk, behind my screened window, out of the intense sun and feeling my heartbeat slowing back to normal. 

It is official. I have now encountered a Huntsman. Not just any encounter. Not a giant spider across the room or on the ceiling, or scurrying under a bed. No. Those encounters are for amateurs. I just had the thrill of one racing up  my leg in the garden. My shriek of terror alerted my elderly neighbour, who likely thought I had just come face to face with Beelzebub himself. Frankly, that may have frightened me less.

I am pretty sure, the Huntsman was equally terrified of me, but that is not my concern. I suppose I was in his territory. I was planting some nasturtiums in the garden and noticed a large Foxtail palm frond that needed to be removed as it was close to falling. I forgot that I had read somewhere that sometimes these spiders hang out in the decayed casings of these fronds. I yanked it down easily and went back to my digging, but clearly this arachnid was not going to let me off that easily. How dare I disrupt his comfy quarters! It all happened so fast. I barely had time to consider my options other that to scream and dance about the front yard like a mad woman. After my initial shriek, I believe I may or may not have used the F word two or three times, mostly because it seemed the only adjective harsh enough to express my fear, now disguised as anger toward the spider for daring to come into such close intimate contact with my body.

It wasn't a moment later I heard my lovely protective neighbour shout across the fence, "You alright over there Deb?". Now I was just embarrassed. I walked toward the fence so she could see I was indeed still alive. She thought something far worse had happened to me. We had a chit chat about spiders as I tried to calm myself and she even assured me she was no fan of them either. She even told me she does a quick scan of her bedroom each night to be sure there are none about. This is a woman who has lived here all her life and even she doesn't like them. Gawd! What hope is there for me?

I suppose the good news is, I did not get bitten and I have surely survived my first bodily contact with one, which I reckon has got to get me some sort of Australian badge of honour at the very least.

One more step of initiation for me here in the Land of Oz.

Let's hope I can skip past the snakes. 

Welcomed "home"

Sometimes it takes a step backwards to double check if you are on the correct path. That is what I just did over the last two months. It was not the intention of my journey, but it did give me answers. Answers to questions I did not even consciously ask it seems. 

Had I made the right decision to move to the other side of the world? Would the distance between my family and friends be too difficult to bear? Could I adapt and possibly even embrace the climate change? Was I a big city gal at heart? Was my relationship enough of a driving force to overlook the sacrifices I made to make it happen? 

One thing I knew for sure was that two months back in my beloved Canada would very likely provide me with a fresh perspective - either way. 

Initially as I took in the spectacular landscapes of B.C. and later Muskoka, followed by the Rideau Lakes in Ontario, I felt my heart fill with the beauty of these parts of Canada that are an intrinsic part of my history and being. As I drank it all in, I wondered if Australia could ever come close to feeding this need in me. The mountains, the water, the glory of the changing seasons, the colours, the smell of pine needles crunching underfoot. Let's face it, we are talking about two vastly different countries. As I pondered these differences, I began to wonder if the need to surround myself with the Canadian landscape was indeed something I could not live without.

But then something started to happen. As the days and weeks passed, the intensity of the beauty began to soften. It hovered gently day after day. I still felt comforted by it - fed by it, but another feeling started to take over. I started to miss my new life. I  missed my modest little house and the sounds of the tropics and the smell of the ocean. But mostly I missed him. And it did not matter where I lived. It mattered where "we" lived. And despite all the opinions to the contrary, this is what matters most. To me anyway. 

I read an inspiring bit of wisdom from Elizabeth Gilbert yesterday where she talked about living your own dream, not someone else's dream. It was timely and spot on. I keenly observed the lives of my friends and family while back in Canada and concluded their lives are their dreams, not mine. Then, as if to cement it for me just a wee bit more, when I arrived back here in Oz, within the first 48 hours, I sipped a latte at the beach while an eagle circled over the shoreline and the balmy breezes filled my lungs and banished all travel anxiety. My garden had grown at a crazy rate, like greenery on steroids. Everywhere the Jacarandas were blooming. I stripped out of my city clothes and donned one of my hippie dresses, stripped that off a short time later and skinny dipped in our pool, ate a mango, drank a cold beer with a wedge of lime, said g'day to two kangaroos that were over my back fence, put some food out for the parrots and slept to the thunderous sound of a tropical rain on the steel roof.

And as wonderful as all that was, and believe me, it was, it was all just window dressing compared to the greeting I received at the airport. As much as I abhor cliches, home really is where the heart is and for me, that trumps everything. We could be anywhere in the world. But this little corner of Queensland will do for now. And bloody hell! I just looked up from this computer as a kookaburra landed on our Hill's hoist. He apologized for taking so long to stop by and welcome me home. I told him "no worries mate", I had already had the most amazing greeting...

...the one that mattered most.