When I started this Blog it was a beginning, a push, for me, towards actually doing instead of just dreaming.
When I started this Blog, there was a number of reasons I felt it was necessary…for me…however I do understand at the root of its origin was the desire, the need to write.
I do feel having this Blog encouraged me to pursue more time to write, it made me realize, once again, how very much I desired this creative outlet. I haven’t as yet accomplished the output I dreamed of, but the drive is still there. What I realize monthly, as I re-visit this site, is that I simply must give it more time.
People on the outside think there’s something magical about writing, that you go up in the attic at midnight and cast the bones and come down in the morning with a story, but it isn’t like that. You sit in back of the typewriter and you work, and that’s all there is to it.
– Harlan Ellison
Writing is work, and the rewards, the monetary rewards, are not a guarantee, however that feeling, that surge of accomplishment, that thrill of ‘wow’, I feel inside when a project is completed, is, as the story goes, priceless.
Believing in self is difficult, at times it feels selfish, and it takes forever to realize how important it is.
I am fearful of failure, and we all know criticism stings, a lot, but I understand, finally, that I really need to write, to create, in order to build who I was destined to be. Here, is the career path I should have followed, oh, so many years ago.
Rejection slips, or form letters, however tactfully phrased, are lacerations of the soul, if not quite inventions of the devil—but there is no way around them.
– Isaac Asimov
I have enjoyed this pep talk, thank you!
Dandelion Yellow Retires March 31, 2017
So proclaimed Crayola, twitting out its announcement as follows: Our beloved Dandelion decided to announce his retirement early! There’s no taming an adventurous spirit! #NationalCrayonDay
And what I want to know is…how? How did Dandelion Yellow do it?
Did he start collecting his crayon shavings early?…say from Day 1 when he first joined his brethren in the famous Box of 24? Perhaps he invested, and then re-invested when the shavings started to grow. I do wonder if he ever worried, even a little, when interest started to flag in colouring books, but of course there came the save with the introduction of Adult Colouring books and shortly after, the much sought after ticket into Chapters.
I wonder if, as time drew along side of him, if he posted messages of inspiration on his focus board. Perhaps he saved a collection of words which, when viewed, helped to push him outside the lines. There was always news from the Box of 24, telling and retelling stories about Dandelion’s dedicated focus and drive.
There was, of course, the gray days. And the Box of 24 had Gray, still do. Gray tried to retire, I believe it was back in 1980, however a miscalculation on the value of his shavings brought his dream of altering the hue of the mountains in Colorado to a disappointing end. He slipped back into the Box quietly, grateful his slot was still available. I heard he was the first to congratulate Dandelion Yellow. He’s a soft soul is Gray.
So, the question remains, how did Dandelion, that crafty crayon do it?
Fact is, I’m green with envy. Colour me jealous, and send me back to work, cuz obviously my retirement planning (I use the term planning loosely!) was not as adventurous as Dandelion’s.
I wish you well my old friend. Colour that sunset AWESOME!
Have they changed?
“You cannot do a kindness too soon,
For you never know how soon it will be too late.”
-Ralph Waldo Emerson
I am always taken a back when subjected to the unkindness of others. No matter how I steel myself, I continue to be shocked at the rude, and many times cruel words, that so many chose to carelessly fling before them. Such behaviour is becoming more common place, whether you are at work, or at play. Makes me wonder if it gives them…those who are thoughtless in their choice of words—a secret rush of illicit power. “I have just ruined their day,” they perhaps giggle, as they flex their questionable wit for their next hapless victim.
More and more people are finding this behaviour the norm.
Everyone is doing it they chant, even the President of the United States. After all, it’s common knowledge how much easier it is to take down others, rather than wasting time admitting to our own failings. I believe the term is bullying, and this can quite easily segue into hatred.
A Twit on Twitter he is, this newly elected bully in the White House, who is successfully stirring up a poisonous gas of words that will, eventually, prove too difficult to contain.
Words hurt, words can cause irreparable damage. Already the unrest is growing.
Who will be our hero who will save us? Our heroes of the past are long gone and are quickly being forgotten.
For now, as we wait, do something daily before it is too late, even if it’s only a small act of kindness. It will be worth it in the long run. Let each of us become, the hero of this story.
As 2016 ends, I realize I have a lot of work ahead of me. 2017 will be a year of change, a year of action, for me.
This November hubby and I stood with the crowds at the Ottawa, Ontario War Memorial. On the 11th day, at the 11th hour, we fell silent with all gathered, both young and old, letting our thoughts, our memories, and our grief for the past, join and merge as one.
Our present day is saturated with such fear, for our present day, for our future, at times it feels overwhelming. This suffocating emotion rose, twirling, and mixing in the air around us that day, and the crowd, seeming to sense the fear, pulled closer, wrapping us in a cocoon of warmth. We were bumped, jostled and herded towards the barriers stretching along the street, muttering together our hymn of sorry, sorry as we smiled shyly with downcast eyes. So, Canadian, all of us.
The clanging of the flag ties against the line of poles behind us, sounded like a persistent drum beat keeping pace with our push forward. The echo of the gun salute boomed in the distance, the sound staying with us as the ceremony continued. The day was so bright, its edges sharp and distinct, imprinting each moment easily into memory.
All of us assembled at the Cenotaph understood why we were there, why we must remember. I caught a movement high above, on the roof of a building cross the way, police watching the crowd, there were two more on the building right next to it. I turned and looked up the impressive height of the Chateau Laurier hotel, there too, on the very top balcony, there were more. A stark reminder, that all are not looking for peace in this world of ours.
I left Ottawa with my fear intact it’s true, however my visit allowed me the remembrance I needed, plus I left a prayer behind for those we lost, coupled with a sincere promise that those who care, will not let history repeat itself.
Both my parents were born and raised in the suburbs of Montreal.
This month, I set off, with my sister in tow, to follow the faded steps of their past, looking for memories that were not my own.
We were prepared, addresses duly noted of houses lived and left, of winding black iron staircases artfully posed in the back ground of faded pictures, and a beautiful church frosted and trimmed with their wedding dreams. There was a secret thrill hidden deep in this trip, it was as if we were actually going to visit them once again.
But there’s an old story of best laid plans….uncertainty is its subject…the church, rock strong in the folds of black and white photographs, seems to have vanished…even from Google….and apparently in Montreal, 4th avenue is a popular name.
In the end, we added our steps to this city which I feel still holds the threads of our parents beginning years, and we made our own memories. We sat and posed on winding staircases that were not in front of where our Mom grew up, we snapped pictures of ourselves in front of hotels we did not stay in, and we laughed until we grew weary.
These memories I will add to those of my parents, because I think they would like that.
And next year, we will try again.
I tried to be mindful the other day.
I tried to look for silence, I tried to keep myself anchored in the moment, in order that I could appreciate the beauty that was happening in my life.
It’s difficult, as I’m sure you all know. It really is. And it’s not that I don’t treasure the amazing ticks of the minutes that tumble, giggly and screaming around me, because I do. But it’s difficult, to hold myself there, to anchor myself to the enjoyments that are surrounding me, in the present.
The mind, she just doesn’t stop. It pings from one subject to the next, crashing against thoughts that sprout unbidden against slumbering dreams not yet mature enough to appear. It is, without a doubt, exhausting.
So, as I mentioned, I tried the other day, in the early morning, when the house held less people, to relax ‘mindfully’ in the hot tub.
I sat there, floating in the warm water, attempting to become one with the sensation of calm serenity, I tried to become one with the insistent pull of comfort that only the hot tub could offer.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Water sounds please join me, sooth me, be one with me.
Water. Only Water. Breathe in, breathe out.
This could be a good blog.
No! No! Stop it!
Empty your mind.
All of this could be part of a blog. Couldn’t it? That would work, right? I think it could work.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Is it time to get out yet?
Wait! Did I pay that Rogers bill? Darn, I need to check that on the internet. I should have called so-and-so the other day, need to do that, can’t believe what so-and-so said at work the other day. Man, oh man, my back hurts. Will this water help the bags under my eyes? I should try cucumbers, or was it potatoes under the eyes. I think it clears the bags, or dark circles, which is it? Wonder if I can have a short nap before everyone comes today. The garden looks like shit, if I put some mulch around the trees will that look better? Maybe people won’t notice. I hate the bags under my eyes. I hate the serious cellulite on my legs. Why don’t men have cellulite on their legs? Is it only me that sees that as unfair? Is it wrong to be tired when I’ve only been up for less than an hour? Hey! Was that a hawk over there? That! Would! Be! So! Cool!
Breathe in, breathe out.
Wait! Is it supposed to be: Breathe out, breathe in? Is that the problem?
I do like the sound of the water.
Is that a bug?
I found myself on the bed, later in the mid afternoon, with my 10 month old grandson on my chest. He was sleeping, finally, his body held tight to mine, so exhausted he was earlier, that his little legs were folding under him.
Breath in, breathe out.
His chest breathing a pattern against my own, his arms, his hands, the dimples at the creases of his wrists, his elbows so dear, tucked close to me. I felt his hands twitching in sleep. I tried to slow my breathing, I tried to match his own, while tufts of his white blonde hair tickled my chin, my nose.
Never let this moment end.
There it is.
There I am.
I’m in the moment.
I guess I just had to wait for it