oh Christmas tree

This morning my dear husband brought our tree in from the garage to defrost. Decorating will happen on Christmas Eve, but meanwhile it stands ready and waiting. I came downstairs to the wonderful fragrance of balsam and felt filled, actually, with awe.

Living in the north of North America has given me a new appreciation of conifers. In South Africa, pine trees are not indigenous -- with the possible exception of umbrella pines. Pine trees are grown commercially and what we bought as Christmas trees were branches cut off from the tree. Pretty straggly they were, too.

But here I live with the spectrum of firs and pines and admire their beauty all year round, the branches stretched outward, or heavenward, or dipping in reverence to the earth. Bringing the tree in is a much larger event than it was in southern climes. I know the shape has been trimmed, the tree manipulated to be pleasing and to meet our expectations. Nevertheless, our Christmas tree, even without ornament, is surely a thing of beauty and will bring us much joy over the coming holy days and nights.

Snow, snow snow

Well, isn't that interesting? This is supposed to be the busiest shopping weekend in the run up to Christmas and here we are in the middle of a severe winter storm. So hibernating at home is more likely to be on the agenda than hitting the stores.

I think it's been good, having all this snow in December. How beautiful it is to see the silvery hoar frost, as I did last Tuesday. Yes, I know and remember particularly from the days when I lived in London, England, snow on city streets can be slushy and dirty and generally a nuisance. But even in the city the sight of trees embellished with white and the soft blanket covering the grassy parts of parks and so on can be quite lovely.

Snow has a softening effect, rounding off square and sharp edges and corners... and then there's the quiet. It's like the perfect antidote to the endless stream of Christmas music. These are the reasons why to me the snow this December has been a blessing. It has brought a certain peace to my heart and much beauty on which to rest my eyes.

Ah Advent

Here we are, already well into Advent, the season of anticipation. Yes, Christmas lies ahead, but these weeks leading up to the Holy Days and Nights have their own special magic. I first started to wake up to this years ago when I visited a friend in Germany towards the end of November. So I learned about Advent calendars, and transforming the house by bringing out such things as special Christmassy cloths for the children's bedside tables, lighting candles in the evening and so on.

One of the best traditions we ever had as a family was to play a version of Chris Kringle. This meant that we wrote the six names -- Mom and Dad and four children -- on pieces of paper, and each chose one out of Grandpa's bowler hat. If you got your own name, you had to try again. Then you kept the secret, and did some small, thoughtful deed for that person each day till Christmas, when you'd all guess who'd been your 'Chris Kringle'.

One year I got my dear husband, and wow, wasn't that an amazing exercise, finding deeds to surprise him with, and a different one every day. Sometimes, this was as small as baiting his toothbrush with paste. As in most exercises of this nature, the giver is usually the one who gains the most, and that's what I found.

The first memory I have of an Advent experience was when I'd just started high school. Along with my older cousin, I attended an Anglican church school run by 'sisters', although the apartheid government soon stopped allowing the nuns into the country. The high school was rather reminiscent of a cloister, being built around a quadrangle. For the celebration, the choir assembled on the upper storey and processed down to the chapel singing 'O Come, O Come Emmanuel'. It's a sight and sound I carry with me to this day.

Making the most of November

My life has changed so much over the past half year. Taking care of a little person brings very different concerns. For instance, I'm almost constantly aware of what kind of experience he's having when he's with me in my house, what atmosphere I'm creating, what he's learning from the way I talk and behave.

So I was thinking about this time of the year, when the days are short and frequently gloomy, and the nights are long. Darkness has a quality of possibility. Nothing is cut and dried or sharply clear. I tend not to put on lights until I really need to see what I'm doing, say in the kitchen for example. This is part of the experience of winter. If I light a candle, the yellow glow is soft and tender, looked at with wonder and delight by the little person. And for me, staying with the darkness, experiencing it as fully as I can, means I start to anticipate, and hopefully will truly participate, in the soon-to-be time when the solstice comes and the light begins to increase.

pet names

We have many dogs around our new neighbourhood. It strikes me that mostly, today, people give their pets human names. I mean, when did you last meat a dog called Rover, or Tray, the traditional type of canine names?

In our family we tend towards food names for our pets. We had a cat called 'Mealie' which is the South African term for corn. And a border collie named Guava after the exotic fruit -- and a wonderful dog she was too. She first belonged to our daughter when she was at university. Then our son took her over. When he left the country, we had her at home and when we left the country, my parents were her proud and happy owners.

But still, I wonder what that tendency says about our family??

Our son's girlfriend has two dogs, named Brownie and Brie. Somehow that tells me she's already part of us.

Rolling over

So we had Halloween, and now Christmas lights are up. A neighbour of mine already has a merry Santa waving from his rooftop. Last Sunday was Rememberance Day, Armistice Day as it was referred to when I was a child. The 11th November was also my late and only brother's birthday.

November is a time when I remember my loved ones who have departed this life, when they feel closest to me.

Halloween actually marks the threshold, and in the Christian calendar of the year it's followed by All Souls Day. Preparation for Advent and the Christmas season only begins on 'Stir-up' Sunday, which is when, traditionally, puddings and cakes are baked. The name came from the collect for the Sunday before Advent which began 'Stir up, we beseech thee, O Lord, the wills of thy faithful people; that they, plenteously bringing forth the fruit of good works, may of thee be plenteously rewarded; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

I managed to do the baking on Stir-up Sunday once.

But if we roll straight over into Christmas without these November days to contemplate the meaning of life while we remember the dead, surely we're missing something?

Burnt water

I don't drink alcohol, have never smoked and don't do other funny stuff -- unless you classify taking natural and homeopathic medicines as such. But I am addicted, because, as the old song goes, 'I love coffee, I love tea'. To pursue this byway for a second, when in England I visit a funky coffeeshop called Java and Jive.

But I digress.

Tea is cosy. Tea is comforting. This morning I was making my early cuppa. As the water was churning in the kettle, I thought of all the instructions for good tea-making that say 'pour on freshly boiling water'. This always seemed obvious to me, but I'm waking up to how important it is for my enjoyment. As can happen, drinking awful cups of tea brought realization and appreciation. I mean, have you ever had a good cup of tea in hospital? Just when you'd really appreciate it, you get something that tastes like soggy dishrags. Ditto in general on airplane flights.

The reason institution tea is so awful has to do with what my son calls burnt water. Those large urns are filled and refilled and the water goes on boiling and boiling until it's dead. You could use the best quality tea and it would still taste terrible. So, if you want an 'ahhhh' cup of tea to drink, those old instructions are worth following. Be sure to fill the kettle with newly drawn water, though. Enjoy!

Moon in the morning

This morning I opened my curtain and saw a beautiful sight -- the cradle moon, a little creamy and directly above it, Venus twinkling as brightly as any aircraft headlights. The sky itself had just lightened the perfect amount so that the darkness had turned translucent, a perfect Prussian blue setting for the two jewels of the sky.

When I fly at night I always make sure to lift the window screen from time to time to check out what's going on in the heavens. I mean, how incredible is it that we can be up there, above the earth? One time during the day I was on a flight east. Next to me sat a little boy of five. He looked out over me at the bumpy spread of white below and said in a hushed tone, 'See the angels dancing on the clouds.'

Airborne

How does it feel to a goose? Have you ever wondered?

Yeah, yeah, I can frequently do stuff, think and behave like one in my 'duh' moments. But I'm imagining something more airborne. At migration time, it's somehow both a touching and an inspiring sight to see those skeins of large birds flying in formation, the pattern and thread of their journeying transforming as they go, but always with an order to it.

So you give yourself to the rush and the momentum. Like being one dancing unit in a corps de ballet, you keep exactly the right distance away from the person in front of you, the person behind, sensing it all, and together you form a dynamic, a line of beauty and purpose.

Doesn't that feel good?

Changing perspective

Early in the morning, I indulge in listening to a little classical music. When Tom Allen announced the next piece would be something from Bach, I thought 'Yeay!'. And then I remembered the time, only a decade or two ago, when I really wasn't much into Bach. In fact, ever since childhood I've been a romantic, with all that means philosophically, intellectually and emotionally, not to mention musically.

Now in my latter years I seem to be more open to the classical.

Thinking back, I also remembered foods I disliked as a girl that I now eat with relish. For instance, avocadoes and green beans, I love. Liquids like gravy (!), and cream -- yummy. Liver -- um, strike that. I still eat it with 'long teeth' as the Afrikaans idiom has it, and no longer cook it at home. My dear husband has to order it when we do Italian.

I'm happy to know change is always possible and we can be open to worthwhile aspects of life we couldn't access before.

Is it all about the candy?

In the end, I don't think so. Maybe part of the Halloween appeal is the opportunity to get creative, thinking up scary ways to decorate the front entrance, imagining what disguises to wear. And that has to be quite a large factor in the mystique... what persona to put on?

Confession time... I managed to dress up just a little bit, although Adrian Steed, the character I was emulating, wouldn't have meant much to the trick or treaters coming to the door. But it was all fun, and the vibe on the street, positively electric!

All I have to do now is work on coming to terms with the negative. I'll try to remember how it was last night so that I can get into the spirit of All Hallows E'en next year.

Fall to winter

It seems to be that there's a particular time when the autumn becomes not so much like the last lingerings of summer but more like the harbinger of winter. This is how it feels to me now. I'm seeing the skeletons of trees (as well as skeletons hanging from trees); the brush of frost on the rooftops this morning.

Thus the seasons turn, and with the turning, my experience changes. That is, to me, the the intriguing and amazing thing. My experiencing of life is not only different as I age and access ever-wider horizons, but year by year, as the seasons metamorphose, they have an effect on me. I can only compare it to a kind of breathing that I welcome and am grateful for... yes, even to some extent, for the approach of winter.

I'm a pumpkin

Halloween season is upon us again, already. Like Christmastime, it seems to have stretched way beyond its previous bounds, in this case, 31st October. I have to confess that, even after fourteen years in North America, this is a tradition I still haven't managed to get into the spirit of. That's why I'm a pumpkin.

After last Halloween I resolved to go with it, but I'm afraid I'm dragging my feet. Which may be a good way to go. I could imitate a friend of mine who would don a dark cloak with a coal, hitch a makeshift scythe over his shoulder and go around muttering something ominous.

So, no costume party for me. No ghoulish decorations, although I once had visions of some kind of spider contraption that would swing down when someone rat-tatted at my door. Plus a few cobwebs.

Maybe I'll aim for the spider next year, and at least buy a pumpkin to test out my carving skills.

A luminous day

Maybe that rainbow was a sign and portent because yesterday I had a luminous day, a jewel of a day, the kind of day that makes mundane drudgery disappear and lifts you up into a higher sphere. (oh dear, sounds like the poetic muse is calling -- not today, dear, go away!)

First of all, I had the chance to spend golden hours with a friend who lives very far from me. And the autumn day was all golden too. Then we were surrounded by beauty, specifically, the wonders of one of the loveliest art galleries in the world. Experiencing the architecture, appreciating the way each vista had been conceived and carried out -- whew. And then there was the art itself. We ignored the stuff that shouted out or depressed and went for the simply and complicatedly beautiful.

When we walked out of our national gallery, I swear, both of us were floating at least a foot above the sidewalk.

The colours of the rainbow

I saw a rainbow yesterday. It's been a while for me, and there it appeared, so unexpectedly -- the full spectrum of colours, a band from the earth to about a third of the complete bow, shining and shimmering.

New Agers in the know talk about 'new' colours. But for me, I'm still exploring what's already been manifested. As I muse over what hues to paint my new walls, considering warm and cool and what effect the colours will have on me, hopefully I'll be inspired by what I saw. Certainly, I found the sight uplifting, and was grateful for that surprising and amazing gift.

And as I travelled further and changed direction, I saw the last third, touching the earth.

Now all that's missing for me is the bit in the middle, the third that spans the skies.

The Attitude Switch

Where is it?

So, our glorious Indian summer of last week has given way to grey skies and rain.

Oh misery me. Michaelmas, I find, is often a challenging season of the year. Certain happenings in my life just now make it tempting to let myself slide down into the slough of despond. How to click that attitude switch? Two strategies occurred to me.

Firstly, to tell myself, "Pull yourself together!" Good advice, actually, when our souls tend to split into the emotional, the intellectual and the what we actually, physically do and want to do. If I'm together, I'm okay. Yes, a pep talk can be effective.

Then I started to think about dark -- swamping, all-encompassing darkness and its seeming victory over the light. Staring at the flame of my small beeswax candle I realized that even the tiniest source of light gives us the possibility of being able to see a great deal, and can illumine even the most sombre cave. And thus our spirits are lifted.

Holiday

Here we go, into the Canadian Thanksgiving weekend. To me it's wonderful that it's celebrated as a harvest festival, and I'm always moved by the efforts made towards this, like suitable wreaths of golden leaves on front doors, sheaves of dried wheat stalks decorating the outdoor patio of a neighbourhood bar and grill. Nice.

But the butterfly wanted to write about something else.

There are only a couple of blogs that I read regularly, probably because I haven't found, or searched for, other compatible ones. But Michelle Rowen always gives me a kick. I love the way she expresses herself. She's away on 'vacay' at the moment, which got me thinking... We used to shorten words like 'vacation' into one syllable i.e. 'vac'. 'Fabulous' became 'fab' instead of the current 'fabu'. Interesting eh? I wonder why we used to go for one syllable and now we like two??

I have no theories, just the question today.

Have time?

"It only takes a few minutes."

How often have you heard or read that statement, usually in connection with something that 'should' be done? For me the one that stands out from the mists of memory was: "It only takes a few minutes, last thing at night, to wash your nylon stockings and hang them to dry for the morning."

!

And so our time incrementally and gradually gets filled up, till we nearly always feel pressed. At least I do. It's a habit now. But why should I buy into this?

Strolling with the little person, we stopped to watch a white butterfly flitting here and there; and I realized... yes, I do have time. All I have to do is take it.

september song

We're so blessed to live in a place where we can experience four seasons in a year. And September is very special, for sure. Every autumn my mouth falls open at the day by day miracle of leaves changing colour -- the ashes suddenly yellow, a stand of young maples, where only one is transformed from green to an orange that's almost pink. Sometimes, when a single branch has turned to flame, I think it looks as though a dragon has breathed on a tree,.

Ah dragons. Isn't it interesting that these mythical creatures are so popular in popular fiction right now? A lot of the dragon characters are more sympathetic than evil, too. Which begs the question whether they need to be fought and overcome, or merely tamed.

It seems to me that one of the effects of our improved, instant, world-wide communication is that we're given the possibility to look at evil and meet it face to face. Whatever shapes or forms these dragons assume, let's hope to find the courage to deal with them in the right way.

Can clothes influence activity?

Today I'm wearing jeans that come to mid-calf. I'm reminded that, when I was a teenager, we called this style of pants 'pedal-pushers', ... so they bring memories of bike rides around our neighbourhood. And in North America, they're also 'clam diggers' -- a term that brings to me a pleasant mental picture of fun on the beach.

Words and fashion -- both have always fascinated me. Sometimes I wonder who thinks up the names. Once upon a time, we wore capes with hoods, and these were called cagoules. Now we wear sweaters with hoods and call them hoodies. In Britain that term is almost synonymous with teenage yobbos. Maybe the term was badly chosen? hoods and hoodlums?

Anyhow, that's what fluttered by me today. And now, ta da, I'm heading to the garage to take out my bike and give it an airing.

Me and reality TV

Sometimes I think I should have my own show -- just occasionally, and just for laughs you understand. I mean, what other granny requires three changes of clothing before 11 a.m.? And I can't even blame them on the babe.

Firstly, in a panic to leave our temporary accommodation in good shape for the owner who's returning for one night, I managed to spill my grapefruit juice down my front (teeshirt and pants), the kitchen cupboards and onto the newly-washed floor.

Then, in my haste to provide the little person with a bottle after he woke from his nap, I neglected to check whether the cap was on properly. It wasn't, and whoooops, there went the milk, down Nana's front, teeshirt and pants, and onto the newly-swept, if not washed, floor.

Sigh.

A good friend of mind might suggest I'm 'out of order'. But the day is bright, anyhow.

serendipitous gifts

Well, I didn't really expect the government of Canada to change its plans to accommodate me and my dear husband. But I'm happy it did, anyhow. Thank you.

The thing was, our temporary condo pied a terre was a sublet from an out-of-town member of parliament. This meant we were looking at a two weeks discrepancy between moving out of there and into our new home, and would have had to cram into our son and daughter-in-law's townhouse -- potentially not good for maintaining happy family relations. So now we can stay put till the end of the month and enjoy downtown living for a little longer.

Meanwhile, being with the little person carries the perq (among many others) of allowing myself plenty of outdoor time -- especially on these lovely still, sunny autumn days. Spring in South Africa brought very similar weather fyi.

In the garden sunflowers, self-seeded, are blooming. And yesterday they gave me a simple little poem. Here it is:

I could swear
I could see
A sunflower
Smiling
At me

still in transition

"We don't do this as easily as we used to," I commented to the dear husband with a sigh. He agreed. We can console ourselves with the knowledge that moving to another place is rated high on the stress scale, but I know that our difficulties come partly because we're older than we were. (Ahem).

On the other hand, I'm aware that aging provides a certain compensation because I experience the world in a richer way than ever before.

Still, it's been hard, leaving a beloved and beautiful home and garden, extricating ourselves from our community, saying 'good-bye' to loved and valued friends, not to mention critique partners.
How many times did I think "we must be crazy??"

So, transitions are tough. But now the packing up's behind us and we can draw breath. It seems to me it's only once a decision is acted on and accomplished that it's possible to assess and know whether what you've done was right... or not. Even though we haven't moved into our new home yet, things are feeling good.

a month flew by

I'm in a flutter, which is why this blog's been on hold, and will be until September. Apart from selling and packing up our home, plus moving to another city (see side-bar!), my life is also changing to accommodate caring for a little person.

Not that there hasn't been very much that fluttered by in my brain! On the contrary. However, I simply didn't discover the moment to turn my thoughts into typescript. So... apologies.

And, dear readers, to you I say: enjoy all the beauties and blessings that summer can bring.

Asta la vista (or is that hasta??)!

Victoria Day

It's lilac and violets time in my garden, which seems appropriate considering this is the Victoria day long weekend. Canada, I believe, is the only country to honour Queen Vic in this way. So I got to thinking about her reign, how women loved to wear lavenders and mauves then, and what it mean to have a woman on the throne at that great time of British imperialism.

And that got me thinking of the present queen, and of Elizabeth 1st of England, who also reigned at a significant time in history.

For me, studying history in school was a big disappointment. Mostly we had to learn dates and events. Sure, we learned the names of people like Napoleon, but what was missing was gaining some insight into the personalities, some idea of how it felt, living in past times -- the different experience, the different way people's minds worked then. Yes, I wanted to know about development, and our evolving consciousness as things changed. In writerly terms, I wanted to hear about humankind as a work-in-progress.

On my walk yesterday I passed women planting flowers -- sometimes alone, sometimes with a friend. What I'd wish for us all is... no frost in May.

Springing along

I took a walk to my massage therapist, and striding up the hill, a young guy in white shorts and tee rounded the corner and came towards me. He was running freely, at ease in his body, clearly enjoying the morning. As we met he looked at me and nodded a greeting. I felt good.

A few steps farther on, and two guys came running around the corner. They were talking together, took no notice of me. Okay, interacting with each other was fine.

This, I decided, must be some sort of group outing, maybe from one of the nearby high schools. Then came a poor boy, eyes down to where he was putting his feet as he plodded along, his face shiny with sweat and manifesting a slight expression of pain. I could relate, because that's how I would have been.

Last came a young woman. Cell phone welded to her palm, ipod buds plugged into her ears, she was totally oblivious of my passing, totally unseeing of the sunshine, the lilac and crabapple blossom, simply wrapped up in herself and her own, artificial world.

Number one was the best, for sure.

Why arguing can be good

I'm not one for conflict, as anyone knows me will be less-than-surprised to hear. Sometimes, I have to say, that doesn't apply to my computer when it decides to be capricious... like now, when I can't get it out of italic. Grrrrrr.

I was recently reminded of the value of debate, of how much we can gain by trying to understand differing points of view. One of my two writing critique partners has a very different world view from mine. This impacts sometimes, and we argue. So there was a point of discussion in our last meeting concerning the question of strangeness of whole foods to some children.... to do with my latest middle-grade novel. She thought my heroine would have been exposed to enough 'foreign' foodstuffs not to baulk at heavy wholewheat, homebaked bread. I disagreed.

But lo and behold, next day I had an idea of how to 'up' the humour in that particular scene. And I realized how, after being forced to re-examine my position, my thoughts had been stimulated. Yes, a shake-up can be good.

CBC's new programming

I've been blogging a bit about change recently, but this is one I simply cannot get my head around. Radio 2's drastically reduced the amount of classical music they play. Now, I listen to other stuff -- a bit of jazz, some easy light listening -- but more and more I find myself switching off the new programs and switching over to the commercial classical station.

Is this simply reluctance on my part to move with the time? I'm not sure. I mean, I can see that there's a shift by the CBC radio bigwigs, a wanting to appeal to a younger audience, but is this wise? Have they worked through the demographic projections? If it's us, the grey-haired audience, you can mostly find at the symphony and other concerts, does this matter? We'll be soooo many more during the coming years, so, a good proportion of the population in Canada.

And at the other end of the scale, I heard this morning, yes, on the commercial station, that Classical FM in Britain is increasingly listened to (quite a jump) by under fifteens.

Surely, quality counts.

How many shades of green?

On these warm, sunlit days I almost find myself thinking 'to experience the world like this, in early summer mode, is worth all the pain of winter'. Well, almost. It's a bit along the lines of that old cliche of how good it feels when you stop banging your head against a wall.

Sometimes, on a Thursday, I allow myself a little leeway, some time to simply be. This is a kind of carry over from South African days, because, traditionally, Thursday was maids' day off. As a housewife and often busier in this direction on the weekends than even in the weeks, I decided I also needed weekly freedom from cooking and cleaning and so forth. With our household reduced, this doesn't feel so vital anymore, but from time to time...

So yesterday I took a long ramble, stopping by at the Mill Pond to eat a banana, and drink some water. I watched the grannies going by with their small charges, people eating picnic lunches, two women taking photos, geese swimming or protecting nests and so on. But mostly I sat and looked at the trees, layers of leaves in different shapes and shades, the new growth lending the air a special kind of shimmer. I can't remember how many different colours of green there are, but I had to marvel at the variation and all the richness of nature. Joy springs.

Hello and goodbye

I find the variations in spelling and pronunciation between English and North American usage endlessly fascinating. (very-ations/vahriations).

Yesterday I received an email from my daughter in England titled 'hallo', which was how I always used to spell this greeting. Years ago, when I wrote such in a short story, an editor in my writers' group changed this to 'hello'. So then I knew. These days, it's not so important because I mostly use the more casual greeting 'hi'. Where does that come from? Anybody know? And there's also the option of 'hey', which I can't quite do because of memories of my father who disapproved of this word. 'Don't say hey,' he used to say.

My mother bemoaned the fact that people she met out walking or in the supermarket, whatever, had stopped saying 'Good morning', or 'Good afternoon', and were using 'hallo' instead. This set me thinking. I know that 'good-bye' is a shortened form of 'God be with you'. Did the salutations she preferred carry this connotation as well, as in 'God morning' etc.? I wonder.

Well, fashions change. I'll duck the issue and end this post with a brief, 'ciao'.

Nudges

The phone rings. It's a woman soliciting unwanted clothes and household goods for the Diabetes Association. They'll pick up on Friday.

Yeah, well, okay. Great. My dear husband's been urging me to go through the closet, so this provides the motivation. And there are other things I'd be happy to shed. So the call starts me sorting.

Then a friend I seldom see pops by unexpectedly. We sit in the sunny kitchen and drink tea together. She's one of those wonderful young women I feel naturally close to, so much so that being with her is almost like being with one of my daughters. We relate. We can communicate. And so we start talking about her life and where she's at, inbetween jobs, just handed in her final paper for her university course... in a state of transition. How difficult that can be, demanding strength and patience. Uh huh. Does this ring a bell, or am I still in denial about our upcoming move?

Sharing thoughts and feelings gives me comfort and new courage. I'm grateful.

Yesterday was May day

What comes to mind for me on May day is not the fact that it's a holiday in South Africa, Workers Day. There is a nod of acknowledgement towards Labour Day in communist countries, and I hear the faint echo of the pilots' distress call.

But no. May day for me carries a memory of an archetypal English experience. Picture graceful gardens of a manor house; lawns bordered by rhododendrons. There stands a maypole and nearby, a piper waits, ready to play a flute. Men and women clad in white, garlanded with flowers -- they're students of Emerson College -- stand in a circle, each one holding a wide ribbon, ready to dance the maypole dance. And off they go, winding up the maypole, weaving the ribbons as they pass, curve and circle, coming ever-closer to one another until it's done. A moment's pause, then the flute sets them off again. They unwind the maypole and expand to a circle once again.

Later there's a fiddler. Morris dancers hop, skip and shake their bells in that weird pagan relic. Tea, of course, and other refreshing drinks are on offer and enjoyed. Children laugh and tumble about, doing somersaults and cartwheels on the grass. Summer has begun!

The call of the future

Change, they say, is all about letting go of the past. This, I'm sure, is true. As I prepare to move to a different city, to leave a lovely, spacious and comfortable home, I remember happy occasion in this house with friends and family, summers in the garden. How I'll miss my two beloved birch trees, one outside my study, the other outside the bedroom. And there are other emotions too -- regrets at unfulfilled dreams and unmet expectations. These also need to be let go.

But change encompasses more, I realize, and this has to do with the future. What needs to happen is a reorienting of my life. I start to be aware that I'm beginning to welcome and open to what's coming towards me. Because this still lies ahead, it's not so obvious, yet the pull and the call of my new life in the future is definitely there.

Meantime, adjustment also has to happen by living in the present, sorting, discarding, and packing up, which process looks both back and forward.

words we use

Last Thursday I made an exception to my rule of not going out in the mornings, and attended a farewell celebration of the Act of Consecration of Man and a luncheon for a retiring priest. He was asked to say the grace, and the second line of this struck me very much. This was 'Speech forms the soul.'

Going about today, watching or listening to any kind of media, it's impossible to miss the fact that swearing is common currency. I've never lived in a home where bad language has been the norm. Even 'though my Dad had been a soldier in the second World War, the worst he'd utter under duress was 'bugger'. I remember as a schoolgirl, singing that song 'Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer, do' and then the second verse, of Daisy's negative response to Michael that ended with, 'So ring your bell, and pedal like hell'. This came into my mind recently, and even now I hesitated, and my mind blipped over that last word. Yes, when I was a child we considered 'hell' to be a bad word!

When we moved to North America and our son was exposed to 'normal' high school, teenage cant, he felt a bombardment, a soul shock... although he soon fitted in (so he tells me). He still doesn't swear in my presence.

Call me old fashioned on this. Fine. The whole temper of our contemporary society almost demands swearing. But for me, words hold power. Once, for a week, I decided I'd better loosen up, and soon found myself saying the 's' word quite a lot, worse than any situation warranted. And I thought, do I really want to be reminded of my lower bodily functions so often?

So I'll stick to my staid habit and try not to take offence when others offend... or at least, put up a psychic shield.

because Sunday is different

thus the advertising promo to introduce a new look to the Sunday edition of the newspaper proclaimed. I have no argument with the sentiment.

When I was a child, Sunday was different because we couldn't go to movies and all stores except 'corner cafes' were closed. Sporadically we went to church. Often we had company for afternoon tea... yes, all very colonial.

Today we please ourselves, and make our own free decisions. Nevertheless, Sunday still has a different mood to it, and Easter Sunday most of all. Yesterday, I wrapped my ten month old grandson in my shawl and stepped outside with him to experience the joy and upliftment of the morning. He sat quietly on my hip, attentive, drinking it all in and listening to the twittering of the birds.

Maundy Thursday

I believe each day in Holy Week has an archetypal character. It seems entirely appropriate to break bread with friends on Maundy Thursday, and that's what we were invited to do.

For our dinner with these old, dear friends we arrived early (not my fault!) and left late, having savoured every mouthful of an asian-style meal, been enchanted and delighted by their newly, aesthetically pleasing, custom-built castle, and come into close conversation in front of a warming fire.

I drank no wine. "Coffee?" suggested our hostess. I succombed. And then arose a small dilemmma. "Espresso or organic?" she asked. Now, crunchy granola is my eating conviction -- hey, I have a great recipe -- but I know espresso is less worse for the heart. The latter's what I went with, and delicious it was.

So we make choices, from the trivial to the significant.

Bad bus 'karma'

(I put the 'k' word in brackets because of the incorrect usage... but current nevertheless)

In the interests of saving the planet, I took the bus and subway downtown last night.

What, I wondered, would the comparative stress factor be? I mean, I'm not fond of stop-and-go traffic. As a teenager I loved travelling to and from school by bus, happy to relinquish all control to the driver and dreaming along on the journey. This still applies -- once I'm on the bus.

The last six or seven times I've taken public transport, I just missed the bus by a squeak. Last night I managed to miss three!!! One passed me as I walked between stops, the second pulled up and away again while I was buying my automatic ticket, with the third right up its backside.

Panic stations! I was to meet a friend for a concert -- Bach's St. John's passion. Ah, but all was not lost. Believe it or not, a fourth bus arrived. I thought my anxiety was over, till I sat on the subway and 'a problem on the line' was announced. However, reminding myself that whatever time I arrived would be the right time, I relaxed and sure enough, got to the church with ten minutes to spare, soon to rise into the transcendental sphere of the music.

p.s. to last post. I looked out of the bus window, up at the sky. High above, the three-quarter moon hung in the blue and nearby, a plane flew, its parallel lines of vapour trail adding some human geometry to the cosmic. I had to be impressed.

A bit of a shock

Yes, it's quite hard, slipping back into my life after so many weeks away. However, I'm gathering up more threads every day, which is both good and bad. Why, I wonder, is there so much going on in our lives today?

I'm re-establishing my daily constitutional, which helps keep me a little sane (I hope). Spring gave me the gift of mild air for my evening walk yesterday. But, strolling back in the twilight, something awful happened. I looked up at the expanse of deep, cerulean sky, and saw what I took to be the headlight of a plane. Then I realised -- this was no aircraft. It was a star!

I felt terrible about my misperception, shocked at the way the man-made is impinging on the natural in my mind. But after gazing at that bright, shining planet -- actually Saturn, as I discovered -- for a while, I switched the sensation around. I felt again the wonder that such a phenomenon exists, that we can look at the heavens towards twilight time and see these jewels of the sky.

I'm back!

Apologies to those of you who visited while I was gone.

I've been travelling overseas for more than six weeks, and am slowly digesting the richness of my experiences. It feels as if I've lived through at least six months, rather than forty days, so much has happened during the time. And isn't our experience of time a mysterious thing? Everyone talks of it as being speeded up these days. Certainly the years whiz by. But to me it's more like taking a long train trip. There are stretches of rail where the train rattles through the landscape at a good clip, and then it enters a mountain pass, say, and starts winding more slowly, giving me plenty of opportunity to rest my gaze on the scenery.

I might be stuck in a dark tunnel for a while, thrown back on my own resources, then ten minutes can seem like hours, even endless. That's often how I feel when I wake on the plane and find myself thirty thousand feet in the air.

I used to be a slave to punctuality, until I realized I was putting unnecessary pressure on myself. Not that I aim to be late, at all, but I've moved to a different attitude, and that is to think that whatever time I arrive is the right time. In other words, to go along with it, and trust the process of time.

February festival

This morning our dear neighbour's dear little girl brought me a gift -- the Valentine's card she'd made for me and my husband. Like this post, she was a bit late, but nevertheless welcome, as I hope this post will be. What a lift she brought to my heart.
Festivals mark the year with celebrations, but I've always had mixed feelings about Valentine's day, especially because of the increasing commercialization. However, along with that has come a widening of the festival of love which feels like a lovely thing (viz our card from the little girl). In the days when I was a teenager in London England, the approach of the 14th February filled me with a certain amount of dread. What a girl needed was at least a couple of anonymous cards saying 'be my valentine' and usually I received none. Luckily my best friend, who always got about five, didn't make a deal about this, and I survived.
Valentine's for me this year was a sunkissed trip up the Napa Valley on my first ever visit to California. Apart from the scenery, spending time with my husband, and enjoying a delicious lunch (courtesy of our son), we visited the Robert Louis Stevenson museum in Silverado. As a child, I wasn't much for his books -- even Treasure Island was a bit too scary for me -- but I loved his poems in 'A Child's Garden of Verses'. It was a special experience to see books, manuscripts, photos, paintings possessions of his, and to slip for a few moments into the famous Scottish author's life and mind.

Malicious glee?

An author on one of my writers' loops bemoaned the fact that her computer always crashed when she was 'in deadline hell'.

One year I managed to crash three hard drives. No, really. Fortunately, this present granny smith of mine is (so far) hanging in there, and I think I've found the secret. I treat my computer rather like a pet... which means, it can still be capricious.

The thing is, we develop quite a relationship with our computers, sometimes even turn them on first thing in the morning, and turn them off last thing at night (I don't go so far as to say 'good-night' to mine, you'll be relieved to know). This relationship is much more complex than the one I used to have with my sewing machine, which seemed to delight in throwing a tension fit or some other obstacle in my way when I was racing to finish a new dress to wear to a party.

Even now, my computer plays tricks with me. Its favourite one is to change to 'Canadian' mode all by itself overnight. I switch it off in its usual U.S. mode and, lo and behold, next morning there's a surprise in store. On the email I'm about to send to one of my critique partners I begin to type the subject: 'You okay... I hit the shift key and the question mark. Instead I get and 'e' topped with an acute accent, so it looks even more Canadian with an addition 'eh'? viz: You okayÉ

These kind of antics used to provoke me to verbal explosion 'How can you do this to me?' Now I've modified my response and merely chuckle and those naughty gremlins, having fun at my expense.... and I'm not sure they approve. Rather like my cat, who takes offence at being laughed at, my computer doesn't seem to like amusement.

Being green

Easy? Or not? But hey, I chose the right colour for my blog.

We're gradually replacing our light bulbs with the eco-friendly kind. We always had some in the basement storage areas, but now they've graduated upstairs to places like our (small) walk-in closet.

Mornings, in my usual brisk and inefficient fashion, I dash in there to grab some clothes and find... I'm groping around in the dark! Soon, however, the shelves and rails are revealed and all is well. At least, it is if I can decide what I need to put on, bearing in mind the likelihood of weather.

I began to think about this experience and realized how often this happens to me in other, less material areas. Pondering, thinking, problem-solving, wondering about various enigmas of life, I find that light dawns gradually. And that's okay. I can live with that.

Messages

I try to pay attention to what comes towards me. Twice in the past few days I've passed schools which had a board facing the road for all to see. The message it carried was: January character attribute: Optimism.

Being in the dark days of winter this sounded good, although, like positivity, I think there can be something false about it if it's merely glib and not thought through. However, there's surely a good, helpful energy around optimism and it's certainly better than its opposite. It's easy to get sucked into pessimism and despair when I think about the threat to our planet that comes from pollution, not to mention how much the life-giving quality of our food is already compromised through all the '-tions' -- radiation, genetic manipulation, pasteurization, homogenization and so on. But then I can be grateful that I have access to farmers who don't do any of this. Gratitude is surely another force that can bring light into darkness.

Anyhow, I'm putting effort into using the car as little as possible. I took the bus and subway downtown. I'm turning off every light and appliance that doesn't need to be on (for example, that little light that signals the dishwasher's job is done). I feel better, more optimistic, if I do something, no matter how small.

Life changes

Because I watch hardly any TV, in my blog you're unlikely to find playground chat about what was on the box last night. However, I like to listen to the radio in between writing times and when I'm in the car. I always loved the story that Francis Edmunds -- founder of Emerson College in Britain -- used to tell with great glee. A little boy once confided to him, "I like listening to the radio rather than watching TV because the pictures are so much better!"

Yes.

Driving to fetch my husband from the car pool parking lot on Sunday, I heard a discussion on and some of the music from 'Kiss Me Kate'. I saw this musical first as a stage play in London, England, and have adored it ever since. It's the two gangsters who really amuse me. I specially like the song 'Brush Up Your Shakespeare' as a way to whisper sweet nothings (Valentine's coming up soon).

The singer of a recently staged revival remarked how surprised he was at the audience response when he sang 'Where is the life I used to live?' So I've been thinking, surely that's because we can all relate to this in one fashion or another. Life is all about changes, small and big. Often, as my dear husband says, it's about letting go.

Nice Ice

My last post was about the 'fixing' of perception. This time I want to bring you the opposite -- something fleeting and ephemeral.

Winter can be harsh (like now), the wind biting, the outlook bleak. But it can also be very beautiful, not to mention breath-taking. What we see are the bare bones of trees, bright white of snow and... ice patterns.

Yes, I'm blessed with the wonder of these because we have, still, some old, unreplaced windows. And when the temperature dips to a certain number below freezing overnight, in the morning I walk into my kitchen and stand and stare.

My dear husband, the scientist, tells me that ice patterns form a crystal growth, not from liquid to frozen, but rather from water vapour in the air to frozen. He knows a brilliant research guy who claims the patterns will be affected by whether the household is a loving one, or an angry one, for example, and even by what's cooking (i.e. carrots will be different from cake)! Maybe the fact that I baked bread last night helped with this morning's gift.

Anyhow, I'm not satisfied with the science. It doesn't tell me enough. I mean, gas to frozen, is that all? What is the magical, artistic force that forms plant patterns, or delicate geometric designs, the one so organic, the other so precise? While I think further on etheric shaping forces in the universe I'll see if I can ask the authority... surely Jack Frost himself!

Super-real

How much brighter, more intense, more real it is to view a photo through a computer or TV screen. Almost, I'd say, super-real.

Totally by chance (I'm a techy-wuss) I put a sweet pic of my grandson gurgling up at his Daddy as my screensaver. I smiled when, through our modern technological magic, it appeared soon after booting up. My heart melted.

But after a while, I took it away, and went back to sky blue with a couple of white, cosmic swirls. Why? Because I realized this image was becoming too fixed in me. Instead of being able to slip into experiencing my grandson in my daily prayer and meditation time, that image appeared. It overrode any other experience, any subtler, more spiritual seeing.

In a way, I suppose this applies to any photos that I look at too often. And maybe that's why I have so few on display in our house. There's a small gallery of six frames in my study and that's it.

There's a link between image and imagination, of course. Both have to do with creativity, and my challenge is always to keep things in flow.

On the scale

This is a quick catch-up 'cos I've been away.

So, how'm I doing on the resolutions? On a scale of one to ten, I'd say maybe one and a half.... Well, at least I'm on the scale and not languishing at zero! I didn't imagine for one instant I'd have a perfect ten at this stage. And maybe that's why it's so easy to fail and give up on resolutions. We think we can accomplish instant change and improvements. As far as I'm concerned... no. Not going to happen. All I'm expecting is to begin the process, and that's what I've done. Yeah, I could have done better, but the thing is, I'm not giving up.

Three resolutions

"Only three?" you ask. "Yes, because all of these will be a reach and take effort," I answer. Still, I like to work in three areas: the practical, the psychological and the spiritual.
Seeing as it's the second week of January, you'll understand why number one has to be 'Don't procrastinate'. Already I know this is not going to be a quick fix. As has happened before, I'll likely have to carry it forward a few years.
How much angst would disappear from my life if I could manage not to put things off. I had a good example once. A friend from the west coast was visiting while she taught a class. When she came home, I told her, "So and so phoned for you and wants you to call back." "Oh," she said, "If you give me the number, I'll get my phone and do that right away." And she did.
Too often I wait, thinking, 'I'm busy/tired/thinking of something else/there'll be a better moment later.' What my friend did was to get it out of the way -- and set herself free from the back-of-the-mind hassle.
Number two, on the soul level, is this: I'm going to do my best to greet every morning with joy. As I grow older, I feel it's necessary to accentu-ate the positive, as the old song goes. The son of a dear, older friend who died a couple of years ago, told a story that's stayed with me. During his boyhood, the family lived in England. Think many gloomy, dreary days with heavy skies. Every morning, his mother used to prance into his bedroom, sweep open the curtains and sing out, "It's a lovely day!" And to the three brothers, it was.
On the spiritual level I'm going to practice the six exercises that lead to harmonizing and enhancement of the twelve-petalled heart chakra. I'll begin with the first and most important: control of thinking. To do this, I need to focus my mind on a simple object, say, a pin, for three minutes or so, not letting any other thoughts flutter in or by! Sure, sometimes I like my mind to lift and float, but it's very useful to be able to shut out unwanted thoughts when I need to.
Okay. Done that. Next comes goal-setting, but although I'll write those down, I won't blog them.

A festive Three Kings

We celebrated the 6th January, and the end of the Holy Nights, the traditional French way. We were invited to a festive dinner party, with numerous courses, in honour of Epiphany. The meal was crowned with a special cake, and in it had been baked a 'bean' -- actually a small plastic figure. The person who discovered the 'bean' in his or her slice would be the King or Queen of the evening, and would then choose a sovereign partner by slipping the 'bean' into that person's glass of champagne. And of course, there were crowns to wear.
Soon after we sat down at the magnificently caparisoned table, sparkling with crystal, silver and candles, the question came "Does anyone know what the names of the three Magi were?" Aha! a chance for me to show off. "Yes, I do," I said. They were Melchior, Caspar and Balthazar." But my brain decided to pay me back for my hubris when the next question came, "And which gift belonged to which king?" I knew I'd read this, but could not remember. So, for your info, dear reader, Melchior brought the gold, Balthazar brings frankincense, and Caspar the myrrh. I'm still mulling over the significance of those substances.
Anyhow, I had a niggling suspicion I'd get the bean, but no, I didn't. One of the male dinner guests had that privilege and chose me as his queen. Now, Brenda is the name the satirical English magazine Private Eye calls Queen Elizabeth the second, so I felt... I'm not sure what I felt. Maybe a certain royalty conferred up me (Yes!), but also a caution. As I grow older, I want to move with the times and not cling too much to how things were done in previous decades.
Side by side, the King and Queen sat for our photographic portraits to be taken. That was interesting, having a crown on our head. We had to sit straight and still because it was a slippery one, and tended to slide off and bite the carpet.
Next post we can revert to first person singular, which will be a relief.

Winter wonders

I have to admit, I'm conflicted about our unseasonally warm winter weather. Being one who hails from Southern climes, I'm thankful that my rheumatic fingers don't feel cold all day, and relieved to be able to go for a walk and not feel my feet slipping away from under me. It's a pity I never learned to skate or ski properly -- one of the regrets of my life. Could be worse, I know. But this morning, I was busy preparing our breakfast muesli, cutting up papaya (the southern climes thing again) and I found myself humming 'I'm dreaming of a White Christmas'. I think it was the Bing verson and not the Nat. This made me realize I feel unsettled. Somehow, this warmth doesn't feel quite right.
One of the Christmas gifts I received was the DVD of Al Gore's 'An Inconvenient Truth'. I'm still mulling over what my life would look like if I took the message to heart. Our daughter tells me the film has made a huge impact in England. Is this also true in North America, I wonder? Or, is this continent doing what I'm about to do as regards writing about this issue -- that is, put it off till another day?

Calendars and post cards

New Year greetings to you all.
Calendars and photos mark the measure of our days. Yesterday I took down the old calendars and hung up the new. We always have three -- one in the kitchen, near the phone; one in my dear husband's office, and one in my study. This year I bought a star-guide for the kitchen because I'm still hoping to become more familiar with these North American heavens. My dear husband gets beautiful landscapes in Provence because France is the country that always beckons us and still spells romance. Mine is a photo calendar of our English grandsons.
For the past ten years, I've made a family photo calendar to send to my mother at Christmas time. On my last visit she brought them out -- yes, she'd kept each one -- and we sat together and looked over them. So many memories came flooding back, so many smiles to see how we used to look, and I thought, 'What a great record'. Organization of the twelve is always a bit of a challenge. I often do a combination of the family member who has a birthday that month, or with something seasonal.
The trouble with my photos generally is that they accumulate. So, having enjoyed some very welcome breathing space during these Holy Nights, one evening I sat down to make up a couple of albums. That brought me to such a lovely, blessed mood. As I slid images of loved ones into plastic sleeves, I relived so many happy moments, reconnected with dear ones who live near and far away, although I keep them all close to my heart.
Today I'll clear the cork pin board. Take down the postcards we've received this year, and say a little 'thanks' to those friends and family who thought to send. And I'll wonder what wonders of the world will arrive to adorn my wall during the year.