Creations For Tomorrow

I brought home mountains and moose signs,

fields and forests and waterfalls,

and a grand old house on a hill.

memories of them are tucked idly and tidily away – until we meet again.

drinking from bubbling cold mountain streams, 

resting elbows on an old stone wall,

climbing a 240-metre incline.

this old home has seen better days, 

but dreams of a future develop steadily –

beyond the peeling paint and layers of wallpaper and linoleum.

I fold these images gently inside.

visions of demolition and reconstruction blend together, amidst

the changing of door knobs and locks, and testing the Starlink.

a persistent and determined labour of love with hardware and software, 

and the re-stacking of chopped wood to close off a gaping hole in the wall.


discussing options

and possibilities

and ever more alternatives.

all with the mutual goal of trying to figure things out,

to talk things through,

to suss out a plan – of sorts. 

our conversations flow unchallenged, with perfect ease.

potholes and back roads and a dark rainy drive,

my daughter calmly in control.

playing scrabble and cribbage, and sipping on wine.

marvelling at architecture, food and accents;

warm people everywhere – some were even entertained by our chit-chat.

not a single negative encounter.

spongey beds; and massive pillows impossible to sleep on –

we used them to build barricades between our beds

to block out our light from our sleeping companion.

laughing ourselves silly over our silliness

like the colours of the carpet on the stairs.

treating ourselves

in thrift shops, gem stores, and fancy boutiques.

crystals, jewellry, and singing bowls; garments on sale;

“good, good, good, … good vibrations!”

books from sidewalk libraries.

walking and talking and moments of silence.

tidal bores! such a treat! how could I not know they existed?

a fellow traveller with her tale of a lost phone.

walking barefoot in the ocean sand and water, embracing the sights and sounds.

more treasures for home:

pebbles, shells and old man’s beard. 

Laughter and delight in our shared appreciation 

for mushrooms and bark and textures and detail;

and lichen and colours and rocks

and birds and buildings and trees.

and cattails resembling old men.

searching in vain for lobster.

visiting galleries and pubs.

a Victorian home with a charming hostess

and treasures in every room;

delightfully soft and luxurious sheets on our quilt-covered beds.

struggling to get Google music to do our bidding;

lessons in double solitaire where the student slaughters the teacher.

exploring our understanding of the spiritual, consciousness, conspiracies, the truth; 

marvelling at life, and love, and the differences between men and women.

and embracing the contrasts, too.

(precipices and machinery)

listening and speaking; speaking and listening;

musing and laughing and loving.

singing in the car:

Christine Lavin, “I’m a fly on a plane” “The checkout girl” 

The Corries, “Will ye go, Lassie, go?”

Lou Reed, “Walk on the Wild side.”

such fun we had!

mother and daughter, friends and companions;

nine wonderful days together;

over 3,000 kms.

Shared oohs and aahs and love.


Clearing the Path Before Me

A walk in the woods is clearly different three days after an ice storm. It’s messier. And somehow, even a bit eery. For some reason, though, on this Easter Sunday, it’s less so. We have electric power back on in our town! And with that comes a different vibration, as well as a clarity that one doesn’t get when surrounded by the sound of generators.

As a regular walker in these lovely woods for many years, I have developed a kind of ownership for them. Ownership in the sense of responsibility. I like to clear the path for the next day, and for the next walkers. Today, that involved lots of bending and lugging and tossing to get branches out of the way. It was fun and rewarding, and I enjoyed the challenge.

The massive limb shown here, though, I have to leave for someone else.

One of my exciting finds was this collection of pellets – the photo below shows only a portion of them. Unfortunately, I forgot to look up. The quantity of pellets indicated that there was surely an owl’s roosting spot directly above. Next time I’ll check it out.

Apparently owls produce one of these per day.

I was very happy to see that one of my favourite friends endured the storm intact – he has almost no branches to accumulate ice.

Drumbo standing proudly waiting for his daily hug.
On red car alley, even though I had my big rubber boots on,
I decided to do a detour around this very low spot.
Our red car is almost submerged.
The mudflats in spring have no sign of mud; I gave them a very wide berth.

Back home, I continued clearing, trying to purge my path of some unnecessary clutter. It feels rewarding here too, though it is an ongoing task. Occasionally, I give a wide berth to things I don’t want to deal with. As in the woods, there will always be more tomorrow because just like owls, I seem to produce more every day.

Also, as in the woods, at times I discover treasures – perhaps I should look up for their source.

And, as in the woods, there are some things that I can’t do alone, so I need another’s help.

Proud Momma Moments

My daughter is a writer.

No, that’s not quite right – in actual fact, my daughter is a wonderfully talented story teller who writes; a story teller whose creations regularly take me on an emotional roller coaster, moving me from tears to laughter, and everything in between.

When I read her posts, my heart bursts with pride and awe that she has the ability to weave her words in such a powerful and delightful way.

Here, for your reading pleasure, is her latest.

Musings in the Forest

When I go into the woods, my muse awakens and joins me. She speaks with a soft but confident whisper, “Listen and experience.” I trust her intuition and wisdom so, as I walk along, hugging and talking to my trees, I pay close attention to everything. During this big-loop counterclockwise walk and talk, I have ample time to ponder today’s topsy-turvy world and examine my place in it.

Shaggy’s bark reminds me of how flimsy their story is, and how it seems that the layers should peel off easily – if only one were determined enough to peer underneath, critically examine what’s partially hidden there, and then give a little tug. 

Reggie, a few steps further along on my left, is the wedge – the one that the powers-that-be have tried to drive into communities everywhere. This Red Car Alley cuts through the big loop path – much the way truth slices through lies. Maybe that’s why I walk this path twice. Along this stretch, though, it is important that I keep my eyes wide open so I don’t get poked by the fallen branches overhead – they threaten to jab me regularly.

After the half-way point along Red Car Alley, I greet the greedy Fatso with a knowing nod, and then continue past him up the incline. He is only a short distance below the higher ground at Hill Top Lookout. As I pass the branch that goes off the path to the right, I can look down to the Mud Flats and beyond, towards Enchantment.  

Continuing along the main path of the big loop, I often feel choked up walking past, and remembering special meetings and meditations at Big Rock Rodeo.

Not far beyond that, as I pass the ever-present swamps there on my left, I encounter the sometimes very slippery Muddier Flats where I must be cautious not to lose my balance and get sucked in. But with no real trepidation, and with one step in front of the other, I handily make my way up the small hill.

Harold, a tall stately and proud maple reminds me of Daddy, though he ironically, was a small man – especially in his 71st year, when he died. His fine character, though, was solid, like his tree; I love to hug him closely and hopefully, knowing he has my back.

At the end of this stretch I find that Looky Lefty has recently acquired a landmark pile of rocks with an arrow-shaped rock directing me left. For some reason, I am always reminded of, “Go to jail; go directly to jail; do not pass go; do not collect $200.00.”

Shortly after the turn and up a small rise is my triangular rock creation right beside the path. She is firmly rooted, but sometimes loses her hat or even her head, which I replace with whatever is handy. In the winter, she may don a happy face or a heart, traced into the snow on her chest.

Further along this path, Poke Salad Annie reminds me of the multiple holes in their narrative. She is a dead birch that leans precariously on another rather frail dead trunk, and even another. I’m sure it would take only a simple determined push or an extra strong gust of wind in the right direction to send her toppling, and taking her support team with her.

After another gentle curve to the left, I appreciate how easily and gracefully Yogi performs her moves, bending over and stretching her arms behind her up to the sky as if to entice, beckon in and welcome the passersby. I rarely venture closer.

As I head to and through Rocky Road Turnpike, it is crucial that I stay alert so as to not stumble and tumble.  I cannot let up my guard as I follow the twists and turns leading to Wet-Foot-Shallows. This section is not for the faint of heart, but I forge ahead, happily ignoring the warnings for my health and safety. I refuse to buy into any fear of what may or may not be ahead. Life is to be experienced. All is well and I am safe.

Just past this point, Peter Pi reminds me of the sciences and the research of thousands of courageous scientists who regularly risk everything to tell us the truth – the truth that gives me the confidence to breathe easily and fearlessly.

Meandering on to my beloved Archie, I feel a sense of peace, calm and hope, in spite of the presence of Grim Grinch. I’ve learned that, though he does look mean, he really is quite powerless in the face of the enduring fortitude of my tribe and my guardians. 

Further on in Forevergreen, I gaze up with admiration at Charity, the gorgeous Stripper who stands across the path from a shelter, masterfully built by some industrious hands. Surely this is a sign that I am safe from all future knowns and unknowns in the universe.

The three Buddies keep watch over me as I follow the path up and down and around the bends on my way to Ganesh, the magnificent three-armed, and very huggable red oak. Here I embrace the Spiritual Roundabout that takes me left once again. 

Onward, up and down and around again, I finally make it to the divine vibrations of Drumbo at his Crossroads. Then, because I am driven to do so, I retrace my steps down Red Car Alley, and the Path of Truth. At the top once again, this time I hang a right from Hill Top Lookout down to the Mud Flats below, and on to Enchantment beyond. My muse and I both have lighter hearts as we move along the home stretch out to the street.

In the winter when there is lots of snow, and whenever I feel inspired, I make a family of snow angels along my route. Each one gives me the opportunity to breathe deeply and look up to the heavens for divine guidance. In awe, I admire the treetops while tracing the angels’ wings in the snow. Sometimes I also add hearts and happy faces beside the path. `These too always add to the joy I feel in this enchanted universe. 

This daily high-frequency trek into the forest is my solace and my therapy; it empowers me; it helps me see the agenda and reject it every step of the way. My root chakra is well balanced here and I feel fully grounded and supported. In this environment, I joyfully nourish my mind, body and spirit. I have enough; I know enough; I am enough. I plan to survive and thrive in gratitude for what I have today; I am joyful, confident, calm and fearless.

Imitation vs The Real Deal

Is imitation the sincerest form of flattery? Maybe, maybe not. But when the muse calls out to us, and we are inspired, it can be a lot of fun to respond.

The present was inspired by Kristina Drake’s post, The Apple Peeler.

Cat’s Cradle by Robyn Sarah

When women together sit sipping
cold tea and tugging at the
threads of memory, thoughtfully
pulling at this
or that bit or loop, or slipping
this loop over that finger till
warp and weft of past lives begin
crazily to unwind, when women sit
smoking and talking, the talk
making smoke in the air, when they shake
shreds of tobacco out of a crumpled pack
and keep drinking the same weak tea
from the same broken pot, something clicks
in the springs of the clock
and it’s yesterday again,
and the sprung yarn rolls down loose
from the spool of the moon.

When women together sit talking
an afternoon, when they talk
the sun down, talk stars, talk
dawn–they talk up a dust
of sleeping dogs and bones
and they talk a drum for the dust
to dance to, till the dance
drums up a storm; when women
sit drumming fingers on tops
of tables, when the tables turn
into tops that spin and hum
and the bobbin of the moon
keeps spinning its fine yarn down
to catch fingers, when fingers catch
talk in a cat’s cradle, and turn
talk into a net to catch the curve
of the storm–then it’s talk
against talk, till the tail
of the storm trails into dust
and they talk the dust back down.

Things that matter and don’t matter
are caught together, things done and undone,
and the kettle boils dry and over
while they lean closer to peer down
into the murky water where last night’s dream
flicks its tail and is gone
(and the reel of the moon keeps cranking
its long line down)–when women together
sit sipping cold tea and sawing on the strings
of memory, it is an old tune.
The rice sticks to the bottom of the pan,
and things get left out in the rain.

Below is an alteration/imitation inspired by a scene at the poet’s home in Hungary.

A Carpentry of Old Men by Kristina Drake

When old men together sit planning
a new project, when they plan
the time out, plan views, plan
night – they plan up a dust
of lumber yards and beams
and they plan a fiddle for the wood
to dance to, till the dance
fiddles up a spark; when old men
sit stirring sugar in cups
with spoons, when the spoons turn
into tools that spin and whine
and the brace of the sky
keeps working its drill bit deep
to bore lumber, when lumber seats
plans in a bearing wall, and turns
plans into a frame to build the strength
of the spark – then it’s plans
against plans, till the flash
of the spark sears into wood
and they plan the wood back up.    

Things that matter and don’t matter
are caught together, things done and undone,
and the trees grow tall and strong
while they lean closer to peer down
into the fallen ashes where the day’s work
flicks a match and is gone
(and the truss of the sky keeps bracing
its timber frames up) – when old men together
sit drinking hot coffee and tapping on the boards
of tomorrow, it is a new song.
The sun glints off the metal flashing
and the gutters gather the rain.

Finally here is a version inspired by the poet’s beloved collection of gemstones and crystals.

Apache Tears and Desert Rose by Audrey Drake

When a woman alone sits sipping
hot tea and toying with the
mystery of life, thoughtfully
admiring this
Bloodstone or Emerald, or holding
this Garnet between fingers till
courage and joy of a new life begins
happily to unfold, when a woman sits
thinking and dreaming, the dreams
making hope in the room, when she takes
the Fluorite from the corner square
and keeps drinking the same hot tea
from the same tiny pot, something moves
in the depths of her soul
and it’s only today,
and the Moonstone rolls down loose
from one hand to the other.

When a woman alone sits dreaming
an afternoon, when she dreams
the sun down, dreams Turquoise, dreams
Agate- she dreams up a future
of waking vigor and joy
and she dreams a love for the future
to dance to, till the dance
evokes an embrace; when a woman
sits caressing the Mangano
at the table, when the tables turn
into clouds that form and roll
and the frequencies in the air
keep growing in strength down
to catch fingers, when fingers catch
dreams on a cloud, and turn
dreams into a net to catch the essence
of the clouds -then it’s dream
against dream, till the wisp
of the embrace trails into the future
and she dreams the future back down.

Things that matter and don’t matter
are caught together, things done and undone,
and the Kyanite moves up and over
while she leans closer to peer down
into the lovely Howlite where last night’s dream
flicks its tail and is gone
(and the Tiger’s Eye keeps seducing
the Pink Opal) -when a woman alone
sits sipping hot tea and loving the feel
of her Rose Quartz, it is an old tune.
The Amethyst vibrating in her hand reminds her of rain.

Injuries – Accidental or Orchestrated?

“Infertility: A Diabolical Agenda.” 

While using your best critical thinking skills, please watch the important documentary linked above.

What do you conclude?

“If … mothers-to-be were misled into accepting an anti-fertility vaccine in the hope of protecting their future children from neonatal tetanus, the “do-no-harm caveat” was violated. In receiving up to five anti-fertility injections, any mothers-to-be would almost certainly be robbed of the very children they were trying to protect from neonatal tetanus.” From Scientific Research.

What If?

Imagine that the runny nose, fever and cough that we occasionally experience are not an indication of sickness?

Imagine that these “symptoms of infection” are actually evidence that our bodies are doing their job of repairing, restoring and healing – through the processes of inflammation, fever, diarrhea, etc. that make us feel miserable.

Imagine that these signs of sickness are, in fact, signs that our bodies are in the process of doing what they are designed to do best: expel toxic substances, influences, and other unwanted harmful invaders.

And then, imagine further, that by taking the drugs (often toxic to the body) that we hope will reduce or eliminate those nasty symptoms, we actually give our bodies more work to do.

Dawn Lester and David Parker explore these and many other fascinating topics in their 700-plus-page book, What Really Makes You Ill?

I’m having a difficult time putting this weighty tome down.

Cushioning & Cuddling Activities

Our muses sometimes spark creative ventures exactly when we need them most: when we are feeling down, or desperate, or anxious. The embers may sit for awhile and then suddenly, clear out of the blue, they burst into flame with an urgency that demands creation. Such was my recent experience with this Dementia Activity Cushion.

I started with a very general idea of the “tools” I wanted my friend to manipulate, but I wasn’t at all sure how they would fit together. So I just poked right into the project, digging around and gathering various bits and pieces that seemed useful: an unused purple cushion; an outgrown plushy and sequined top from my granddaughter; a recycled balsamic rice bag (because it had a zipper – and words and numbers); some beads and cords and pockets, and at the last minute, a small flashlight. And then I set to work, thinking and planning and stitching, and keeping my mind occupied with doing.

I agree that it’s far from minimalist.

My friend now has a lot of items to play with whenever she wants to keep her mind occupied with doing.

I’m hoping she will enjoy pushing the sequins back and forth.

Zipping and clipping; tying and snapping; slipping and sliding. What fun!

I’ll find out tomorrow how she manages.


Twenty-one years ago, in the year 2000, Marjorie Snelgrove, had one of her poems published in Ballads of Our Lives. At that point in her life she was 74, just a few months older than I am now. Like many in our family, she had dabbled in poetry and other forms of writing most of her life – just for the sheer pleasure of it. In today’s world, she would most certainly have had a blog. In any case, I believe she was very proud to have her contribution accepted alongside those of hundreds of other amateur poets.

Today my mother would have turned 95, so I am going to post her poem on my blog.

“Hey, Mom! You’re on a different stage now.”

The Un-Done

While I’m lying awake in the wee hours of the morning, trying to ignore the snoring and the songs of the birds, my mind – completely unbidden and unappreciated – works overtime.

My weary brain wants to dwell on the unresolved, the unreconciled, the unfinished and the unattended; and it bids me unrelentingly to take care of them all ASAP.

With a certain degree of spiralling effort, I occasionally manage to make some kind of vague plans in my head, wishing I could sneak out of bed and write them down. Unable, though, to put any of these schemes into action at four in the morning, I simply observe as my mind nags on and on.

Then these worries seem to morph into the unknown, the unseen, and the unthought. And before long they have become the worst of all worst-case scenarios: the unprepared.

Until I manage to find a solution to the too-short 24-hour day, I just have to hope that I’m not too late and that I don’t completely come undone!

Resonances & The Great Journey

We are living in interesting times, and I’ve concluded that if we are completely open to the seemingly unrelated inputs around us, we gain and learn a lot – especially in times like these.

It may seem like coincidence and serendipity are at play, but if only that is the case, why do so many pieces connect and speak to us so clearly, and so individually? Why does one soul receive the message while so many others are left out, and oblivious to it? Perhaps it has to do with how we engage with the world?

These thoughts make me think of comments in a recent post on a blog I love to follow. The author refers to Susan Inspired and her regular, and much appreciated, discussions of the Schumann Resonance charts. Susan suggests in one of her videos that we adopt a “zero-point perspective” because that is the way to “recover sanity and live together in wholeness.” Zero point is a centred state, a place of stillness within, found through prayer or meditation, and a connection with the soul, the higher good, God. 

I too follow Susan, and have come to truly appreciate her wisdom, including that expressed in her poetry. Below is one I especially like. I shared it with my 87-year-old friend and she too was moved by it.

The Great Journey

A Poem About the Sense of the Soul

by Susan Lacerra

Hoping beyond hope

Knowing beyond faith

I trust in something

that my inner wisdom tells me is so

A sense, without words

a sense of what is true

a sense of what to do, offered to me

of possibility

It is as if a great path

is on offer should I test it

should I test my fortitude

to rise to the fullest life

my Soul intends for me

there is no reason I can share with others

there are no markers visible

the sense of goalposts is within

they are not visible

the path is written in my heart

and only revealed


by step

© 2021 Susan Lacerra. All Rights Reserved. Permission is given to share this article on other blogs and websites as long as the text is posted, in part or in whole, without alteration to the text and with the author’s credit and live website link included in the article. This article was first published at

Lenses on the World

Cold Perception

When walking in the very cold weather, I protect my face by pulling my scarf way up over my nose, and my hat way down over my brow. I also need to take off my glasses because they fog up completely. As a very near-sighted person, removing my glasses leaves me with compromised vision.

I’ve discovered though, that the tears in my watery eyes act as lenses, and help me to see the details of the path in front of me: perspective and clarity enhanced.

Have you noticed that?

I think it’s rather neat.

Spitting It Out

Healthy Expression!

Generally, a certain strength and calm comes from getting things off one’s chest, or more specifically, getting things out. While some might scream, or shout out their grief, I’m more of a silent expresser, so I’ll use my words and tell you about my week.

  • I got regular reminders of how my friend with dementia struggles daily to come to terms with her new restrictions. These include not being allowed to go for a walk outside; not having the option to wash her own clothes; not even being able to make a cup of tea. And most of all, “There is nothing to do!” I feel heart-broken that there is nothing that I can do for her.
  • I learned of the unexpected death of Alan, my much-admired and greatly-appreciated podcast friend. Since December only, he was a daily source of information, inspiration and hope. How can someone I’ve never met leave such an emptiness and sadness?
  • I learned of a family member’s newest health concerns. We both continue to feel confidence in her approach, but of course, we still worry and wonder, … what if?
  • I learned that a long-time friend of the family has died.
  • I have daily reminders of the terrible and desperate state of the world, and worry about the ever-increasing downward spiral.

So I write, hoping to cast out some of my grief, some of the toxins to my system.

I speak to friends who will listen and let me ramble on. I tell them that I love them.

I weep hot tears in the forest, quietly, and feel them running down my cold cheeks. Strangely, I am compelled to provoke this response by listening to the music that so endeared me to my podcast friend from the beginning. Somehow this brings me peace.

I blow my nose often.

And I spit.

And, with these various outpourings, I get things out. Some are probably exosomes.

Locked-in-Step Sadness

An elderly woman, suffering from advancing dementia, undergoes a change of residence from the top floor of her seniors’ home to the locked care floor of the same building.

Imagine the changes that she struggles to deal with.

She leaves a comfortable, expensive, well-furnished, two-bedroom apartment with a large pantry, two huge bedroom closets, an entry closet, fridge, stove, washer and dryer, and a balcony to sit on in the summer.

She moves into an expensive, full-care, single room with one entry closet, and a bathroom.

She now sleeps in the provided single bed.

She has a dresser, a wardrobe, a lounge chair and a desk with its chair. She asks me where her two grandsons will sleep. Or sit. When they visit. She doesn’t realize that they probably never will.

We know/feel relieved that she will now be safe from fires and falls and other pitfalls. She is well cared for 24 hours a day.

We also know/hope that this sad reality is one that she will adapt to, and learn to accept, and even enjoy.

Enter the C-19 panic with its ever-changing, and supposedly life-saving regulations.

Imagine this scenario:

  • She now eats her three daily meals alone in her small room, at her small desk.
  • She cannot – for the time being? – leave the floor – neither alone, nor accompanied.
  • She cannot leave her room without a blue medical mask.
  • She cannot have anyone in her room unless both are wearing an approved (not cloth) medical mask.
  • She must always maintain a two meter distance from anyone who visits.
  • She must never share a meal or a drink with a visitor.
  • She may receive only one visitor, once, over the span of a day.

Indeed she is truly locked down and locked in. And I am indeed locked out of her life as she knew it.

Now imagine getting this woman to comprehend this situation, and to remember the rules, and to abide by them. And to put up with the constant, never-ending reminders.

The bottom line is that this feisty elderly woman is, indeed, locked up, locked away from life, and lonely. To say nothing of angry and afraid.

(And she is one of the privileged ones who can afford this care.)

This reality makes me very sad.

Meds in the Woods

In these trying times, one of my daily routines for survival and “thrival” is spending quality time in “my” woods.

They truly fill me with joy.

It takes time to dress for the trek:

At minus 17, my nose needs covering.

The “push-up-prop” shown below is much lower than my kitchen counter ( as the snow piles up it gets lower and lower) so, instead of the 20 to 25 push-ups I do at home, here I manage only 10 to 15.

I use this push-up-prop at the beginning of my loop-route.

Then I race as quickly as I can along the trails – with our recent heavy snowfalls, it can be a real work-out.

I am often tempted to stop and capture the winter beauty that feeds my soul.

The freshly fallen snow makes a perfect canvas for happy smiling faces – with no masks.

Considering the times we’re living in, and how I feel about the situation, I’m thinking that my meds are red.


This WISE TRADITIONS PODCAST EPISODE 292 will take you to a very detailed and interesting interview featuring one man’s view of what the mRNA [vack-seen] is: gene therapy that was originally developed for cancer treatment. Hmmm? You may listen to the podcast or read the transcript, or both for a perspective you may not have previously considered.

It appears to be valid and credible information. But who knows? You decide for yourself.

I do believe, though, that we owe it to ourselves and our loved ones to consider all possible perspectives. Just in case.

Sacrifice and Survival 101

What I was doing naturally, and regularly, one short year ago:

  • spontaneously sharing stories, jokes, recipes; handshakes, and hugs;
  • enjoying large and extended family celebrations
  • having healthy and happy conversations, with friends and strangers in their homes, on the street or in the shops
  • spontaneously extending and accepting invitations for coffee or a glass of wine or a walk in the woods
  • playing volleyball with 35 wonderful women
  • going to concerts and listening to fabulous music
  • mingling with the crowds on the boardwalk, or at the market, or in a restaurant
  • seeing an abundance of welcoming greetings and smiling faces
  • volunteering at my favourite Thrift Shops for Nova for a few hours a week
  • hearing lots of conversation and laughter everywhere
  • being my sociable self
  • feeling joy at being alive and healthy and free to live my life

What I’ve sacrificed:

Read more

Completely & “Essential”-ly Illogical!

In spite of today’s crazy regulations that require us to anti-socially distance, and avoid contact with each other, I do indeed bend the rules to visit my neighbour. I help her out with her temporary predicament due to a foot injury: she cannot go downstairs to do her laundry, and she cannot go out to shop. She is also limited if she needs to stand for extended periods of time – as in a shower.

Rather than resorting to having baths, my friend realized that a portable stool would make the task of showering and washing her long hair so much easier, and I was happy to find a stool for her. I also agreed to look for a new shower-curtain liner as well. No big deal, right?

Well, little did we imagine!!

When I arrived at one of my local pharmacies, I found the stool almost right away and it was perfect. Not knowing the layout of the store, I needed the assistance of a staff member to find the shower curtain liner. What she showed me was also perfect. So I made my way to the cash.

That was when the “fun” began.

Read more

Cosmic Connections

Recently I’ve noticed that many seemingly incongruous elements are constantly inter-twining to help me thrive/survive in these maddening and troublesome times. So much so, that I am actually in awe of how often it happens.

And I wonder who is pulling the strings? Who is the conductor of this welcome stress management?

As a retired woman with a pension, I have the luxury of being able to read, research and reflect to my heart’s delight. These days, there is so much that I feel the need to dig into and try to understand that it is indeed a good thing I have this time. Fortunately, I also have the good health and stamina to briskly walk, and even sprint, in a wonderful wooded area. As I am most often alone, this daily hour also affords me the joy of continuing with my learning via podcasts, while at the same time breathing in the cold, fresh, forest air.

Most recently, I had the unexpected pleasure of hearing a podcast which not only gave me a lot of food for thought, but also caused an unexpected, unexplainable and overwhelming reaction – physically, emotionally and spiritually.

After an introductory message, the author switched to playing his guitar. Almost immediately on the first chords, I experienced tremendous vibrations in my chest and tears running uncontrollably down my cheeks. It was amazing and magical, and I felt totally connected to the music, and the air, and the trees, and the universe. I also felt enormous love and gratitude for my life.

The tears and heart pangs continued all the way home, and for many days afterward whenever I played the music.

This morning I listened to Alan Watt’s music again, and once more was deeply moved. The effect is not quite as strong as it was the first five or so times I played it, but it is still there with its healing powers. Thank you, Alan Watt.

This morning, I also saw the fox run along a path beside me. He was as healthy and free and fast as I. He is also part of the universe.

For those who are interested, you can find Alan Watt’s Christmas Day message on Cutting Through the Matrix with Alan Watt Podcast. The music begins at about 17 minutes.

Perhaps this link helps:

Proverbial Truths

Today I’m sharing a story of serendipity.

As with most stories of providence, the mind embraces them – just for the sheer joy of re-living the twists involved.

This mind wants also to share.

It started this morning, with a last minute decision to do a shift at my favourite Thrift Shops for Nova. We could take advantage of the shop being closed to get an early start on sorting, pricing and displaying Valentine items.

The New English Bible

My co-worker, Susan, (We like to call her the Bossa Nova) assigned me a table and I emptied a bin of love and hearts and red onto it, ready to get to work. But I as I pushed an open box aside to make more room, I noticed that inside, on top of some dishes, there was a leather-covered book. Being unabashedly attracted to such things, I took it out and realized at once that it was a Bible. As I lay it on the table, it opened at page 746. Not where the ribbon bookmark was, but at page 746, at the beginning of Proverbs.

Page 746

The words spoke of wisdom, and knowledge, and ignorance, and understanding. And I was hooked and wanted to read more.

So I asked Susan if she thought it would be okay for me to borrow the Bible and return it the next time I went in.

And here’s the twist: Susan, herself, had just that morning taken that Bible in to the Thrift Shop. Hearing of my interest in reading it, she kindly donated it to me instead.

It seems appropriate for me to be embarrassed that I have not had a Bible in my house for many years. A digital version, yes, but not a beautiful, real live Bible with an engraved leather cover!

Well, now I have one. And I’m very happy. Thank you, dear Susan.

“It’s Not All About You.”

These are difficult times, indeed. And you, apparently, are very afraid.

I don’t understand this fear, but I respect your right to look at what you see, and then to conclude that you have reasons to live in fear for yourself and others – and then to act accordingly.

I don’t understand it, but, though I am tempted to do so, I don’t judge you for your beliefs. And I don’t ridicule you. And I certainly do not accuse you of being selfish or inconsiderate of others when you do not hold their views or act according to their beliefs. Nor do I ask you to behave in any way to protect me. I do not hold you responsible for my life.

Today’s enforcement of mandatory mask-wearing in all enclosed spaces here in Quebec marks a very difficult next step for those of us who are not afraid, and who think outside the “approved” group-think accepted by so many.

My very sincere question though is this:

Why should my taking a stand and posting personal views of my position on Facebook be such a threat to you? So much of a threat, in fact, that it justifies comments like this:

What was this comment?

Daily Striving

Of course it has pockets!

These are the ambitions I pack in my bag:

1. See failure as a beginning.
2. Never stop learning.
3. Assume nothing, question everything.
4. Teach others what you know.
5. Analyze objectively.
6. Practice humility.
7. Respect constructive criticism.
8. Take initiative.
9. Give credit where it’s due.
10. Love what you do.

In respect for #9, I reveal that this is from Professor Richard Feynman on Twitter.