~ Seasons ~

“Name your favourite season”
she said,
and I balked ~
how do I choose between those I love so much?


Shall I choose Spring for it’s awakening?
For it’s sweet new breath and delicate green lace?
Shall I say ‘yes’ to Spring for the arrival of
blessed warmth
and the appearance of
verdant
new shoots?
Precious Spring ~ I love you best!

Shall Summer ignite my passion?
Summer, with its’ twenty-hour days
and sweaty-degree heat,
Summer of the deepest greens and brightest flowers.
Mosquito-bitten, barefoot Summer ~
you are my favourite!

Shall Autumn’s golden elegance claim my heart?
As shadows lengthen and days darken,
Autumn steals upon me
~ a secret, determined lover ~
whispering
(it’s crisp breath a thrill upon my ear)
of a slower pace.
Autumn, o gilded season ~ how I adore you!

Shall I submit to the crystal promise
Winter leaves upon my doorstep?
Severe of beauty,
fierce Winter demands respect ~
yet, in return,
presents me with a world a-glitter.
Diamond upon diamond,
I am held fast within Winter’s
fearsome thrall.
Season of Ice, you have my heart.



Peace ~

~ Footprints on Hearts ~

There are voices that whisper in the quiet moments. I hear them in my ear - gently, softly. They are the voices of my grandmothers, my parents, my teachers, friends who have loved me, friends who love me still. They are ever-present, they are as Thought and Memory, the two ravens of legend. They guide, remind and chastise me. They encourage me, and they suggest I wait. It is an inescapable fact that we are touched by others as we move through our lives.

If we are truly fortunate we will have loving influences along the way. There will be people who touch our lives in ways we cannot fully explain - people who touch our lives in ways we may never understand. My life has been full of these people, and I hear their voices as I go about my daily tasks.

Perhaps it is an overabundance of sentimentality that keeps me holding fast to the unique and specific timbre of each voice, recalling in minute detail the cadence of speech and the manner of expression of every one. Whether it is the clipped, formal accent belonging to my Grade 3 teacher (a severe Englishwoman with steel grey hair and cerise lipstick), or the eager slur of my youngest cousin (whom I adored and who adored me in return), I hear the words they spoke as clearly as when they were spoken. I may not have grasped the importance of their lessons, and I may not always attain the goals set, or the levels of being that were taught, but the words of their teaching remain unsullied.

Whenever I am tempted to cut corners on a project, my great-grandfather reminds me to “Buy the best you can afford because the cheapest will be the most expensive in the long run.” Should I find myself considering compromising my ideals, it is my mother who says (and this one really annoys me), “You do whatever you think is right.” On the rare occasions I entertain the notion of donning the backless, floor length, baby blue, satin halter dress that was made for me in 1978, my brother’s velvet voice intones, “Isn’t it a bit too...oh, I don’t know....too ABBA for you?”

It is important to remember the lesson as well as the teacher, of course, which is why the little reminders from the recesses of my brain are so welcome. I have a fantastic long-term memory but am lamentably lacking in short-term memory skills. It is for this reason I write things down, making dozens of lists that I invariably forget to take alone with me when I go out to obtain whatever it is I am after. It is impossible to say for certain how profoundly some of these people have affected me...how changed my life has been through my knowing them. I cannot measure their contributions, nor can I assign a value to the wisdom they imparted. I do know that while I am is due, in part, to each one of them...that I would have become a rather different person had any one of them been excluded from my life.

It was Flavia Weedn who said, “Some people come into our lives and quickly go. Others leave footprints on our hearts and we are never, ever the same.”

This is true.

I count myself lucky to have footprints on my heart, and whenever I need to be reminded of the important things, the voices of those I have held dear whisper in the quiet moments - father...mother...brother...grandparents...teachers...friends...and even a few enemies. Their words are important.

Please, Father, may I always listen.



Peace ~

~ The Tale of Three Drunken Bridesmaids ~

Sometimes when one is presented with a barrel of fish, the polite thing is NOT to go fishing, but to graciously decline.

Sometimes, however, the opportunity presented is so beautifully perfect it simply cannot be passed over.

Many years ago, my husband and I were guests at a wedding where the three bridesmaids (it will come as no surprise) were dressed in matching, perfectly hideous gowns. Why brides do that to the women they profess to love best in all the world, I will never understand. (shaking head sadly) I didn’t. I stepped neatly around the issue of choosing bridesmaids’ dresses by choosing my brother to stand as witness for me when I married. Clever, eh?

At any rate, when it came time to leave the wedding, we found ourselves excusing our way through the flock of inebriated bridesmaids on the hall steps. They surrounded us though, and they had hold of our clothing, so without sacrificing it to their painted and coiffured clutches, the only escape was through their maze of questions.

“We don’t know your names,” they giggled, and batted their lashes. We offered our given names. They pounced on mine like a fish tossed to three gulls.

“Mylene,” they giggled, “That’s a different name. What kind of name is it?”

“It’s a French name,” I smiled.

“A French name!” they tittered, and one of them hiccoughed delicately, “Is your family French?”

“No,” I said, “my family is Irish.”

“Irish!” they cooed, their eyelashes fluttering. “So what’s your last name?”

“It’s English,” I answered.

“English!” they laughed, and one of them clapped. There was an expectant pause. “So...what is it?”

I smiled. “It’s English.”

They frowned, blinked several times, and rustled a bit in their horrible dresses. “Yes, you said it’s English, but what IS it?”

I said, “It’s English. My last name...is...English. My name is Mylene English.”

They thought on this, they blinked, they blinked some more, then they laughed. “That’s great! Your family is Irish, your first name is French, and your last name is English.” They were greatly amused.

They turned to my husband and fluttered their lashes, “So are you an English, too?”

My husband, who was born in England, said, “No, I’m not an English, but I am English.”

The flutter of horrible dresses was stilled. The only discernible movement was the rapid blinking of their eyelids, the only sound the faint click of their mascara’d lashes.

“What?” they asked in uncomprehending unison.

My husband smiled his most charming smile and offered again, “I’m not an English, but I am English.”

We grinned brightly at the flustered, fluttering bridesmaids, clad in their horrible, phosphorescent dresses, bade them a ‘good evening’, linked arms and giggled across the parking lot to our car.

“Fish in a barrel,” laughed my Englishman, “just like fish in a barrel!”



~ Peace

~ The Phone Rang Behind Me ~

The way we locate where a sound is coming from is by calculating the difference between the time the sound waves hit each of our ears.

That’s very clever.

Also fascinating.

And helpful.

Sometimes.

This morning I finished clearing up after breakfast, grabbed the white phone, and headed off to make my bed and get ready for the day. I was standing in front of the mirror in the bathroom, putting my hair up when the phone rang behind me. I went back to the bedroom to get the white phone which I had just been holding a few seconds earlier.

The phone was not on the bed. I stood a moment, puzzled, knowing I had just had it in my hand. The phone rang behind me. I thought I must have left the phone on the dresser, so I turned around to look there.

The phone was not on the dresser. I stood a moment, puzzled, knowing I had JUST had it in my hand. The phone rang behind me. I thought I must have covered the phone over when I made the bed, so I turned around to look there, and started pulling back the quilts and blankets.

The phone was not in the bed. The phone rang behind me. I stood a moment, puzzled. I thought I must have dropped the phone into the laundry hamper, so I turned around to look there, and started flinging clothes every direction 'cause I KNEW I had JUST had the phone in my hand SECONDS earlier.

The phone was not in the laundry hamper. The phone rang behind me. I thought I must have left the phone in the bathroom after all, but because the phone had rung five times and I still hadn’t located it, I ran to a different phone, muttering to myself that I would have to find the white phone afterward.

Afterward, I found the white phone............hooked on the back pocket of my jeans.



Peace ~

~ Wint'ry Wednesday ~

Wednesday.

Snowing.

Again.

Alright, still.

.:sigh:.

Sure is pretty, though.

Won't be long before the sky is once again the colour of dresses I see on smashingly elegant creatures wearing gobs of pave jewellery but can never find for myself.

Oh....I know why that is....I have no pave diamond jewellery to wear such a dress with.

Right.

Someone told me the other day she was tired of winter, that it could be all over with now. I said, "But, we need winter, the trees are sleeping!"

She wasn't convinced.

It's true though. And if we didn't have winter, the trees couldn't sleep....we would have to get all new trees and....well....seriously....take a look around....we live in the middle of the Boreal forest....who's gonna replant millions of hectares of forest???

Exactly.

I rest my case.

Peace ~

~ The Guardians ~

(on driving into Canmore, studying the mountains with - as always - much apprehension..."It is possible," says my husband, "they fear you, too.")

they

recumbent giants

expectant sentinels

consider my arrival with

some amusement

for my fear of their

gentle

innocuous presence

envelops

i

within their ancient belly

tremble

in prayer

for safe regurgitation

swallowing stars

and

nibbling at the moon

they

chuckle as 

we

drive deeper

into their darkness

gentle behemoth

free me

release me

return me to

child

and hearth

safely bland

comfortably

same

~ Peace

~ Making a list ~

Three weeks, or thereabouts. I don’t know exactly how many shopping days that translates into, accounting for the Sunday closings and late night openings, but in the end it all amounts to three weeks.  Or thereabouts. During that time, I expect to accomplish an outrageous number of tasks, the listing of which is Herculean in order. I know this for certain because I created an actual list this year. Ordinarily I create a kind-of, sort-of, virtual list which I carry about somewhere in my head. The great thing about having a virtual list is that it can be modified with the greatest of ease. With a virtual list, I can add to, subtract from, shuffle about, and reorganise items so that the things I most enjoy doing (baking shortbread stars, wrapping presents, playing carols on the piano) become (coincidentally, of course) the items of Greatest Importance, and the tasks I am least interested in performing (cleaning the fridge, organising the back hall, not eating all the shortbread stars) become Things To Do Only If I Really Have Time.

I am a huge fan of Christmas - idyllic Ontario landscape, Norman Rockwell Christmas, with a healthy dose of Tasha Tudor thrown in for good measure. Because of this, my virtual list of Things To Do is somewhat idealistic as well. This is why keeping my list in my head is particularly beneficial. At a moment’s notice, laying the coffee table with a tray of artificial ice, studded with ivory tapers and sprinkled with gold snowflakes becomes infinitely more important than making sure the truck is filled with gas. Because I have an unfortunate tendency to get carried away (at least, that’s what my family tells me), I took a giant leap forward this year. I wrote my list out on paper.

That was a sobering exercise.

In order to make certain I would not be caught on Christmas Eve with five things left undone, I determined to make my list complete. I left nothing out, left nothing to memory. I wrote and I jotted, I noted and I scribbled. Somewhere around the middle of the fourth page I began to wonder if perhaps...perhaps I was not rather overestimating myself, my abilities, and my family’s tolerance for madness. Perhaps it all ran to excess.

Perhaps.

I finished writing my list and set it aside with plans to review it later. Like, after some piano playing and the eating of shortbread stars. Although I am very good at making shortbread stars, I am less accomplished at playing piano. My enjoyment of each, however, rivals that of the other, though I do admit shortbread stars have a marginal edge, on account of I can drink scalding tea while eating shortbread stars, but not while playing piano. Who makes the rules around here, anyway?

Well-full and fortified, I returned to the sheaf of paper which had, by this time, assumed an identity of its own. The List lay there on my dining room table, heavy, weighty, full of obligation, daring me to take up the challenge. It was, I admit, a formidable adversary. I am not ashamed to say the part of me (the part that is not overly fond of bloodshed) blanched and reached to throw in the towel, ready to concede defeat without so much as a whimper. The rest of me must be made of sterner stuff, however, for I straightened my back, set my jaw and challenged, “Bring it on!”

I must have said it more firmly than I intended, because I startled the cats from their sleep. They blinked reproachfully before burying their noses in their paws and slipping back under the blanket of slumber. Foolish cats, they had no idea the precarious position their mistress was in. There I was, face to face with an evil entity, in grave danger, squaring off with The List, and the cats (thoughtless, thankless creatures that they are) trundled blissfully back to the Land of Nod.

I was alone.

I stared at The List. The List stared back at me. Neither of us flinched, neither twitched, nor gave any tells. Cue the theme from ‘The Good, The Bad And The Ugly’. Cue any number of Harry Callaghan lines - my personal favourite (and perhaps most appropriate), “You have to ask yourself, ‘Do I feel lucky?’ Well, do you, punk?”

I did.

In merciless Dirty Harry fashion, I tackled The List, striking blow after blow, crossing off duty after duty - for duties each listed item had become, morphing (thanks to The List’s dark powers) from Something To Do in Preparation for Celebration of Christmas into Something Horribly Twisted and Fundamentally Wrong. Such is the power of the written word. As long as it had all remained distantly connected to the virtual list in my head, everything had been fine, the world had been a safe and beautiful place. When I put pen to paper and created The List, I had unwittingly loosed A Terrible Thing. Yes, I take full responsibility for it. As creator of The List, I had no choice but to be destroyer also. Swinging my pen with battlefield precision (the pen is mightier than the sword, after all), I hacked at The List, driving it back, hammering it into inky submission. It was not a pretty scene, my friends, I am glad you were not there to witness it.

At last, exhausted, I emerged the victor. The List had been vanquished. As I dragged my battle-weary carcass to the kitchen in search or restorative shortbread stars and scalding tea, the cats slept...unaware of the life-or-death drama which had played out before their closed eyes.

A mistake is not a mistake if one learns from it. I have learned from my recent folly and have determined never (not ever!) to recreate The List, or anything like it, again. I am Wiser Now and More Humble.

Apart from the obvious benefit of doing away with The List, I find there are other benefits of returning to my former habit of carrying my To Do’s in my head. Now that The List no longer dictates every moment of my life, I find I actually have less to do. There are fewer unfinished tasks hanging over my head, there is less pressure, less panic. I feel a sense of well-being, and I am enjoying the peace of the season. I have presents to give, shortbread stars to eat, and carols to play on the piano. If the lights are never hung, what of it? I have arranged my ivory and gold nativity figures on a cranberry-coloured scarf that once belonged to my grandmother, I have displayed decorations made by each of my five children, and in three weeks, or thereabouts, it will be Christmas Day. Now, without The List, I am ready.

Peace ~