Friday, 30 November 2012

Our Nature

 The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances: 
if there is any reaction, both are transformed.”  - Carl Jung

As porous creatures, each of us an assemblage of over one hundred trillion cells, it is in our nature to be affected, to affect and to respond. 

I remind myself that some days will pass by with moments well oiled, and comfortable ~ hours spent invested in familiar ways of being. And I remind myself that in everyone's lifetime there are moments where routine dissolves and something new and unfamiliar materializes in it's place ~ bringing about change. 

And although not all of life's occurrences are of my choosing, I do get to determine my actions- how I affect and how I respond when I am affected by the unforeseen. 

I can choose to stand firm, resist change and be reactionary or I can choose to acknowledge, soften, and be vulnerable. I can choose to reach within and without to the Creator, to family, friends and mentors. There is potency in genuinely caring communities that walk with us in times of struggle. Pods of caring people are northern stars on uncharted seas offering a safe harbour of compassion and a broader scope of vision when our sight is affected and clouded over by our struggle with change. Their faith in us, a compass that guides us toward our inner courage and light through change.

~ aware and alive in our responses ~
~ aware and alive in our fear and pain ~
~ aware and alive in courage and hope for tomorrow ~

Thursday, 22 November 2012

Breathing Life Into Clay

And though it be constant
Isn't it strange
This process of Living
Seems all about change

Opportunities arriving
Too early ... too late
Leaving us stranded
Just beyond Heaven's gate

Heavy souls weighted down
With the dust of habit's fate
Naked souls riding high
Caring not, what lies in wait

Every soul a living story
Breath of life into clay
Oh! All those smiles and tears
That can not melt one word away

Friday, 16 November 2012

Madame Zora and Absolvi

Madame Zora sat silent and regal as she listened to the distraught woman weave a tale of woe about a perfect love she had had such glorious hope for, but had over the years help disintegrate into neglect, betrayal, deception and lies. There were no innocents here.  They were both guilty, both hurt, both angry.

Photograph by photographer Wendy Metcalfe-Morrison

Madame Zora held up a heavily jeweled hand and the jangling of her bracelets stopped the woman in mid sentence.

"Please. May I speak?" the fortune teller's tone ensured the request would not be denied.

The woman nodded her approval.

"I think you are beginning to repeat yourself. It's not important right now but I will just say that sometimes when people are confused they will look for different ways to say the same thing. I think they must hope that if they keep finding new ways to say it, that eventually their situation might make sense. The likelihood of that is slim, so I suggest you stop that. It is very unappealing and after hearing your story, you may very well be looking for a new man. So, you may find being appealing is something you might want to consider. Now. Why did you come here? What do you want to know?"

Madame Zora's blunt and direct approach  replaced the woman's teary eyed expression with one that was wide eyed and surprised but the woman quickly regained her composure and trying to be succinct and appealing stated "I want to know if we can we find it in our hearts to forgive each other and forget."

Placing her hands on either side of her crystal ball, Madame Zora drew a deep cleansing breath and spoke.

You don't need him to forget.

In fact, I hope he does not forget.

I believe it is good to forgive and make peace with our history but it is also important that we remember.

That we remember the pain of abandonment...of betrayal, for it will then remind us to remain alert in all future commitments and to mindfully honour our beloveds by creating and keeping a place in our lives and love for them. A sacred space for them only, built around their needs and tended to by us ... daily, hourly, moment to moment.

And I hope you too always remember your pain, that you allow it not to shame or hurt you but rather to bless you with its reminders of the importance to remain connected, engaged, curious and yes, "Alive to" your desire and passion ... a mindfull engagement with your choices, with complete focus of head, heart, body and soul.

So yes, it is good to ask for forgiveness and to give forgiveness when it is sought,  but rather than forgetting perhaps you might consider remembering and practice absolvi.

"Absolvi?" the woman questioned.

"Yes." Madame Zora nodded and continued,  "It means  to swallow and absorb our loved ones and our own, dark offenses. To let these offenses find their place in our bones and our marrow and lay them to rest there. Then your heart will be free to finally unlock the gates of its purgatory and enter into a new and untouched land, a "state" of grace, perhaps with the one you love, perhaps not ... but more importantly, with yourself and with your soul intact."

"Absolvi" whispered the woman.

And with a flamboyant finale gesture, Madame Zora extended a bejeweled hand, palm up, toward her client and through a smiling crimson mouth she too whispered "Now ... that will be ten dollars please."

Said Soul

"When your vows have finished feasting upon themselves

I will be here.

When Anger's Storms subside

I will be here.

When the Chameleon mimicry is stilled by truth

I will be here.

I am very patient."  Said her Soul.

Wednesday, 14 November 2012

A Short Conversation with Prudence

[Prudence to Sapience] 
What is this place that I find myself in?  Is it Heaven? Hell?

[Sapience to Prudence] 
Oh do use caution Prudence. 
This maze has many paths
And each path, its distractions 
And each distraction is often witnessed as Heaven or Hell 

... when in fact they are neither ...

Image found at (

Friday, 9 November 2012


I kill you
Crush you
Grind every last bone
To add to my tea ... yet
You resurrect

You kill me
Feast on me
Suck the marrow from my bones
To feed your hunger ... yet
I resurrect

And the cycle continues
The story repeats
How many deaths must love endure before it's deemed worthy of peace

Tuesday, 6 November 2012

They Visit Me

They Visit Me…

Sometimes my mother, father, and my sister Clara come to visit me. This is not a normal occurrence as they have, one by one, passed on from this world into the afterlife. Their visits are difficult to describe but imagine a warm familiar blanket of feeling enveloping you. One would think that this should simply be a joyous affirmation of the gloriousness that is out there waiting for us when our time comes, an afterlife that we will feel connected to in a very personal way.

But there’s sadness too, at least there is for me. For as much as they are here in spirit, their visit is also a painful reminder that I can no longer spend time with them as I once did. Those days are gone. So I am left with an ache that is both beautiful and sad.The night before one of my uncles passed away, I sat alone in the stillness of the evening, and felt their presence, they had come to visit. Unable to interact and filled with longing, I put a photo of my father up as my facebook profile photo and posted old tunes I found onYoutube that reminded me of days long gone. When my sister Heather called the next morning to tell me that our uncle had passed away, I marveled at how little we know of the unknown and yet how real it is. And while I see the grace and majesty in that, it also leaves me feeling orphaned all over again.

So what would I say if we could speak?  Is what I want to speak to those in the afterlife? No. What I long for is to go back and visit the old days, for as much as there were some very dark times in all the stages of our lives, there were also times of simple joy.  I miss those times. I miss sitting and listening to my parents tell stories of how life was back in the days of their childhood. I miss working side-by-side with my father on his latest puzzle. I miss hearing him whistle and talk softly to his cats.  I miss watching my father tending his garden with such loving care. I miss the sight and smell of his yearly bountiful harvest of tomatoes. None were wasted! Come the end of the summer, as soon as those juicy plump globes had a tiny bit of red on their skin they were each wrapped in newspaper and piled on dining room table and buffet and hutch to ripen to perfection.

I, my siblings, and my eldest children have many happy memories of pulling back newsprint in search of edible ruby red treasures.

I miss hearing my mother’s latest juicy gossip and seeing her eyes light up with amusement as she listened to my latest adventures. I miss hearing her learned wisdoms - some passed down from her elders, some learned by her the hard way. And I miss watching her knit what must have been her millionth pair of brilliantly coloured Phentax slippers. How my mother loved colour. She loved it in everything. In yarn, in clothing, in flowers ... in stories.

And ooh, how I miss making apple pies with my sister Clara.Every year I would go apple picking with the kids and arrive at Clara’s with countless bags full.  She would have picked up the supplies for pastry earlier. And we would spend the entire day in the kitchen, talking and laughing and preparing oodles and oodles of pies for the freezer. My mother, father and Uncle Joe would take turns dropping in to get the latest count of how many were made by such and such a time and report it to all the locals in the community.

I so miss Clara. Her love was constant and left a permanent impression on every soul she encountered. In such a quiet way she ministered daily to a wide and varied assortment of lonely folk and stray animals. Every day they all found their way to her door and never left without some loving care:a cuppa tea or coffee and something to eat (and quite often an apple pie).

(On the left me as a blonde and on the right my beautiful sister Clara)
So, nothing exciting. Just a smattering of small moments, but they were mine and now they are no more.  Like my mother, my father, and Clara, those moments are out of reach ~ out of my touch. Alive in my memory but fleeting and impossible to hold. And today, I’m feeling it

Monday, 5 November 2012

Sweet Marguerite

When I left those distant shores

I really tried to close the door

On the sights, smells and sounds

Torn men lying on the ground

But the through the years I came to find

My life had been shattered and left behind

There wasn't much left of me

To give to you ... Sweet Marguerite

Marguerite, I don't know why my love was in such short supply

Or why I drank away all promises I'd made

Oh Marguerite, I don't know why

Shadows from a war torn past 

They found their way to visit me

I tried to hold on hard and fast

To you and build a family

But demons raged within my head

And there were things I did and said

Oh how it breaks my heart

The hell I put you through sweetheart

Marguerite, I don't know why my love was in such short supply

Or why I drank away all the vows that we had made

Oh Marguerite, I don't know why

For over half a century 

You journeyed with uncertainty

You never knew what the day might bring

But still you wear my ring

And now one last time I leave you behind

But if God is good and God is kind

Surely he will let me wait ... for you at Heaven's gate

Marguerite, I don't know why my love was in such short supply

Or why I drank away

All the prayers that you had prayed

Marguerite,  I don't know why

My Sweet Marguerite I don't know why

Sunday, 4 November 2012

The Woodland Fairy

Do you wish to see her?
Then soft steps and quick eyes
For she rises with the summer sun
To bathe in sparkling dewdrops, this beloved little one

Do you wish to see her?
Then soft steps and quick eyes
For she chases the wind blown leaves of Fall
To fashion gowns for Autumn's Ball

Photo by Photographer Wendy Metcalfe-Morrison

Do you wish to see her?
Then soft steps and quick eyes
For she tiptoes across the freshly fallen snows
Collecting glitter and dancing with shadows as she goes

Do you wish to see her?
Then soft steps and quick eyes
For hands on hips, this tiny one rules every grassy hill
Beckoning Spring and every other season, to come at her will