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storm cloudsThere is something to be said for stillness.The way that the long, close days of August build up in the atmosphere, slowly unwrapping the ribbons on a parcel of thundering rain.

The trees look up, waiting on behalf of the parched land below. The sky, in slow-motion turmoil does not look down. It only simmers and rolls until finally it splits open. The trees and tired earth receiving their blessing in torrents, gusts and rivers, flooding the cracked earth.

coffeetalkI haven’t been myself lately. Burned out and under the weather as it were, I’ve taken to keeping my own company and dreading anything other than sleep or a hot bath. I know I’m not alone when I say that sometimes I feel like I’m at my limit.

 

I’ve been making more of an effort to reach out to my friends. Most of these phone calls and texts look like a casual ‘how are you’, but they are way more than that. I learned long ago that winding conversations often create a safe place to explore what’s going on emotionally . It allows your mind to wrap its limited matter around the vast open parallel universe where our emotions dwell. I have often said that we are nothing, if not the stories we share.

I have long held the belief that you can argue logic, but not emotion; hence the great wars and repeated debates about God-talk and creationism. At some point it comes down to faith, and faith is not logical, faith is emotional. Love is not logical – love is emotional.  Day-to-day functioning is logical. Passion is not logical – passion is emotional, and in my opinion, passion gets things done.

Now don’t get your pants wet. Logic is no greater a reality than emotion. None at all. The goober of it all is that our culture, our world, and everything we base our economy, ethics and livelihoods on assumes that logic has a higher value. It may be so.

It also may be so that our emotions, our subconscious and our intuition are more powerful, more accurate and way more authentic to our spiritual selves than logic. And that, for me at least, holds a hell of a lot of value.

That’s where idle chatter comes in. I’ve been reaching out for conversation, contact and exchange with my friends lately for many reasons; mostly just to try and stay calm and not live in my own head for so long. That shit can make you crazy.

Slow conversation that meanders through a garden of subjects often is the best conversation. It connects us with others, and it reacquaints us with our own thoughts, values and priorities.

If you have friends who can carry a conversation about life, art, faith, politics and relationships, count yourself very lucky. These are the people who buoy us up when it feels like we’re drowning in the tumultuous sea of every-day demands.

Allow space and time for symposiumesque conversations, I believe this helps heal all of us.

 

 

 

creative mindsWith a machine gun pointed at me, I suddenly realized that my idea of art was akin to the local authority’s idea of a great place to smuggle cocaine. And so ended my love affair with foreign sculpture as souvenir

I switched to anything on paper or canvas that I could roll into a small cardboard tube and carry in my suitcase.

Art is the expression of the human spirit, so I try to support that. The more oppressed the person, the more vibrant the art; or at least that’s the way it seems to me.

Admittedly I haven’t even joined the ranks of amateur visual artists. Unless you count how creative I can get with lingerie and feathers.

I’ve tried my hand at watercolour, acrylic, and yes, even coffee stains. I stitch, I write poetry and novels and essays. Music mystifies me, but I am going to get my hands on a ukulele as soon as humanly possible. After all, how sad can you be strumming away on one of those little creatures? Creativity has always seeped through my pores and when I don’t have time for it, it tangles up my patience and wrings out  frustration.

Thus I have invited the wonderful weirdos in my life to a night of creative sharing meant to ignite that spark of brilliant madness we poo-poo as fodder for preschoolers and the institutionalized insane.

I will be working on a piece about storytelling. After all, I have always believed that we exist as the stories we tell ourselves.

wildthingLately I have been wrestling with the dark side, for no apparent reason other than everything is ok. Seriously. I have a healthy kiddo, a stable job, a roof over my head, and a man just as sweet and sexy as they come. He could use a lesson in romance, shiny things and dirty talk, but over all, he’s more than wonderful.

The only thing that doesn’t add up is the time that I need to write, to paint, to walk around half cut on champagne listening to Janis or Willie or Bob or Leonard, wearing nothing but a kurta and smile.Perhaps I feel my creative side stifled as my friends and I age; tempered by life,  less willing to play and be playful. My creative friends are as close to the silliness that I crave in relationship as possible

My only hope right now is  sunshine, someone to do all of the menial shit that I get caught up in, and an endless supply of Fruli.

Later this month I will be spending an evening with the wild, gentle and secret parts of the souls of my creative mentors. This, I hope, will help inspire me to let the laundry and the cooking sink further into hell and let my creative pursuits rise. Let there be lightness, let there be dark, let there be an artist’s spiritual revival.

ghost womanI was the first one who thought that she had gone missing.

There were traces of her everywhere, but she was nowhere to be found. I thought I saw her in the dress shop, trying on a short blue summer dress. She must have thought she would be going somewhere special with her new man. Two months later, I found the dress hanging in her closet, the tags still dangling from the sleeve.

When I was at the café where she usually spends leisurely afternoons, I thought that I saw her in line waiting for her coffee, but it couldn’t have been her. Instead of sitting down and spreading out her writing treasures like a Queen at tea, she slipped a sleeve over her to-go cup and left.

And then an invitation arrived. For sure this had to be her. Hosting an arts night, a poetry reading, a mouth-watering home cooked meal that would drag on for hours over conversation and the next, and the next, and the next bottles of wine. Alas, it was not. I assumed then that she was not in her tiny, kitchen conjuring magic and dancing to her music.

I took a stroll by the great slabs of patio glass, to see if I might find her there in one of her hippie sundresses with no panties on, legs stretched out on another chair so that her pretty, pedicured feet could take some sun. The chairs were empty, and she was not there. There was no small-town-front-porch hospitality being offered. I found that rather odd as it was a place of great joy for her, having spent many evenings under the twinkle lights with bottles of gulpable wine, good friends, and summer lovers.

She was not away for the weekend having a new adventure; on a farm, at the beach, on one of her road-trips with an unknown destination. But she had been here. I could feel her. Possibly just minutes before she had walked right by. Her clothes were in the hamper and her towel was still wet from the shower. The dishes were clean and the bed was made. Freshly made, with the pillows having been placed just slightly differently than the morning before. The cats were fed, there was food in the refrigerator and the bills had been paid.

Where on earth could she have gone?

dreamylandscape

I’ve been having a lot of nightmares lately.

Which means something long-buried is coming to the surface. And that my darlings, means there’s a lot of psychological and spiritual work in my future.

Don’t worry. I have a pretty good idea what it’s all about. I’ve been ‘Team Jung’ for over 20 years now, and it seems to be working.

I pay attention to whether the water was murky or clear, churning or calm, the colours, the language, whether or not I could dial the number or sound came out of my mouth when I tried to scream. You see, in dreams it matters, because we like to gloss over these things in real life.

Nightmares have always been a sign that something is off. Not quite right. In the past, they have signaled betrayal, inspired me to pay attention to my intuition, and often times, to make significant changes in my life. Often (for me) nightmares are  premonition. You know, a little postcard before the main event. Sometimes they are my intuition tired of knocking and now shouting at me to pay attention to what isn’t being said. I think that’s the case this morning.

I woke at precisely 6:18am, stomach churning and teary eyed. It was a hell of a dream, with conversations and people in my life who aren’t exactly trustworthy or worthy to be invading my head while I’m trying to get my beauty sleep.

Secret keeping has been a common theme in the lives of some people very dear to me lately. Lies of omission are still lies. Being starved for self-care is a terrible form of self-neglect. Telling yourself something is ok when it’s not causes nightmares. Betrayal comes in many forms often defended by the betrayer.

During a conversation with one of my best friends, I said that  people who have never experienced great suffering, don’t know how to care for those who are suffering. Those who have never been betrayed are ignorant of the damage they do.

I’m wise enough to know our wee little human brains love living in black and white. I’m also experienced enough to know that we live in the vast, grey area that constitutes the majority of our mental and emotional landscapes.  I am also a woman who believes in the superior value of trusting one’s instincts over trying to rationalize everything.

Just because we have learned to value logic over emotion, doesn’t mean they  are equally important when it comes to their contribution to personal and global wisdom. We have been duped into thinking logic is king.

Nightmares remind us that our souls are alive and that we must shine light into the shadow side of our selves in order to experience the wonder of life. Without the dark emotions, we cannot celebrate the light and without the light, we cannot fully examine and understand the dark.

My nightmares are telling me to pay attention to what I know to be true. To demand that I have the quality of relationships at work, home and in love that I desire.

Sometimes before I go to sleep at night, I pray for a good dream. Good as in one that will let my subconscious unravel and teach me what I need to know at the soul level. Nightmares shake me up, but in a way that always puts me back on track to happiness, even if it’s a bit of a hike.

 

blog1

So here I am in Winnipeg.

Discovering that the curtains don’t close over the white blinds isn’t exactly a night owl’s dream.

Being woken up at precisely 6:00am by my morning lark sweetie (and not for sex)- also not delightful. And I’m all about delightful. It’s a damn good thing he’s cute and conscious of my AM limitations.

After rolling over and trying to get back to sleep I decided to get up and start the day. I opened the blinds and welcomed the sunlight, begrudgingly at that hour, but welcomed nonetheless.  I pulled up the crisply dressed all in fluffy white bed, and welcomed some quiet, ‘me time’.

The day takes me a while to ease in to you see, and I’m still adjusting to someone who is a morning person. Sweet love of Jesus, help us both.First of all, I can’t see a damn thing any more without my specs, but I can usually get to the washroom ok. Excess noise (as in anyone speaking words other than, “Would you like a coffee honey” makes my blood pressure raise in a flight or fight response, and I become at risk for a stroke, or homicide.

Despite not having my glasses on, I did spot a giant, black bug in the crack between the tub and the tiles. Suddenly I needed my glasses. Very nice. Sweetie of course was no where to be found. He was either in the gym, pool, or walking around doing some such nonsense that normal people wait to do until noon.

I was stuck with the bug.

I decided it likely wasn’t going anywhere to quickly. Big bugs aren’t like the little wirey bastards that skitter around like crack addicts. Given my AM logic, I proceeded to the in-room coffee station to make what I hoped would be passable joe.

I opted for a flip flop over a running shoe, simply because the sole is flat and I figured there’d be no losing the damn thing in the arc of the toe, or the deep grooves in the tread. Flip-flop samurai. Mission accomplished.

The coffee was a let-down, but I knew what to expect. The local Starbucks sign just down the street was taunting me, but I’m a strong woman, and I can wait until we hit the road later on today.

With my weak coffee and morning fog still lifting, I decided I would find a nice, easy jazz station to listen to while I started my first day of vacation with some writing. Right. I managed to tune in to a full-blast version of ‘Dirty Deeds’, and a twenty year old Trisha Yearwood song that reminds me of my days on the California coast. Seriously, Winnipeg? Really? This is what you’re listening to…le sigh.

I sent a quick text to my kiddo (the reason I’m here), and we laughed about the bug and my morning struggles, and in the end, were thankful to be here, together.

After my early morning of watery coffee, 70’s country and rock, and beatles in the bathtub, I don’t think this fair city can disappoint. It can only charm me….after 10:00 am of course.

In the mean-time, there is sunshine and vespers on Jazz 107.

 

 

mapTravelling companions can make or break a travel experience. Or so they say.

I wouldn’t know. I’ve only ever travelled alone, but for one wild weekend in the Bahamas with my BFF, and we shall never speak of that again.

Pretty soon I’m off on an adventure with my sweetie-bear, my puddin’ pie, my hunk’a-hunk’a burning man love…you get what I’m talking about don’t you ladies?

Basically what I’m saying is that having passed the age of 40, I’m travelling for the first time with a man.

There are only two words for it; Yu Ikes.

Seriously.

Just the thought of it makes me giddy. Because giddy is my inappropriate nervous reaction.

Sweet Jesus. As I look around my hotel room, I see a sight that only a busy, single parent of an active teenager could smile at. My bra is hanging over the corner of the television screen. The large garbage can that is meant for the main living area is full of ice and wine. A French version of a popular food and drink magazine is drying out beside the sink (it got soaked by a half open bottle of coconut water while I was struggling to carry everything in from the underground parking garage), and deep purple remnents of said magazine are stuck to the towel that is hanging from a hook meant to hang up jackets in the entrance. There is a wet creamer package sticking half out of a coffee bag, and my shoes are scattered on the floor. Don’t even attempt to try and picture what the bathroom looks like afer a full-on gal-sprawl of cosmetics, towels, panties and hair accoutrements.  It’s pretty only in a way that that Parisian artists of the golden age could appreciate…while on opiods.

So this travelling without a companion has been a wonderful freedom that very few of my gal-pals have been able to enjoy. I totally get loving this freedom to not give a crap about anyone else’s space or comfort. After all, when you travel alone, your ‘stuff’ is all in one place and nobody bothers the organized chaos. There is also no cleaning up after anyone else either, which is a heavenly bonus. As is the fact that there is no one else’s schedule, priorities or aversions to be considerate of.

There is also no one to share it all with either. Not the messy bathroom and bra and the television set stuff – the good stuff. Well, not unless you go out and find someone to enjoy it with, but I digress.

Simply put, I need some valium and a good whack of booze to get me over my nervousness. But maybe a hug from my sweetie will do. I’ll let you know how it all pans out, hair accoutrements and all.

 

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