Monthly Archives: February 2013

The Watchers

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As I child I would lie in the grass for hours, watching the clouds and their ever-changing patterns to see what images I could find in each collection of vapor that passed by.  It is still something I love to do, but sadly I don’t get to do it very often anymore.

Recently I have begun to notice patterns in the snow, especially the patterns created as that snow clings desperately to the bark of the trees.  The position of the snow and the melted remnants of snow around it created what I saw as a panda bear feeding himself.

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This is the image I saw this morning.  The snow pattern on the left made me think of Santa Claus.  It wasn’t until I looked more closely adding the image to this post that I saw the face on the right of what may be a youthful member of the chimpanzee family clinging to the tree.

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If this was my Rorschach Test, I hope I passed!!  Do you see what I did, or do you see something entirely different?

Losing sight of what is important

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For all intents and purposes, I am a still somewhat of a virgin in the blogging world.  I started this journey in August and have been doing my best to stay true to what really means something to me.  But as it is in many cases, I felt somewhat lost along the way.  I spent a great portion of my time watching the stats on my blog instead of focusing on what was truly important – the honesty and sense of self in the words that I write.

I began this journey because of a deep yearning to free the ideas in my mind, to let loose the writing demon that was trapped in the confines of my cranial matter.  I spent my days off this past weekend utterly disconnected from the outside world.  I turned off my phone, ignored my television, refrained from playing any music and just lived in the silence.  And within that silence, I found my inner voice.  I connected with what it was that brought me to the blog world in the first place – the love of writing.  I finally allowed myself the chance to be what I desperately yearned to be – a writer.  Although there was no looming deadline and no urgency to put ideas on a page, I fervently followed a passion that has recently been rekindled.  I conceded to the power of the words so desperately trying to form themselves into ideas and let them paint the landscapes of my prose.

For me, watching the stats on my blog almost made me forget why I began this journey in the first place.  I don’t write for anybody other than myself.  That may sound like an extremely selfish statement, but it is based in pure truth.  I write because I want to, not because I feel pressured to write.  The fact that other people enjoy what I write makes me utterly ecstatic and urges me to continue along that path of creativity.  Throughout this journey I have met a great many people who not only share the same passion, but who are becoming friends in the process.  They are people who have found a forum to let their inner voices escape and meet in a place where they are not only accepted, but adored and applauded.

Losing sight of what is important to me may have momentarily altered my bigger picture, but spending a day listening to the writer in me brought me back to reality.  It refocused my yearning to write, if for nothing else, than to put words to a page and to connect with others who can translate my voice into their own words.

I had the rare opportunity to regain my vision and recapture what holds a true place in my heart.  My writing is my passion and I will never lose sight of that again.  The otters in the video below remind me that it is not about the people who are watching, it really is about getting back to the things that are truly important to us and forgetting what is happening in the world around us.  It is holding true to the things we value the most.

What’s in a name?

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Today’s Daily Prompt ~ brought to you by the makers of ‘what were you thinking’ ~ is this – Explain why you chose your blog’s title and what it means to you.

Perhaps it would have been wiser to choose something a little more mainstream, but when I sat myself down to create a name for my blog, the first person that spoke as a distant voice in my head was my friend Sandra.  She and I went to college together and although she was 10 years my senior, we became fast friends.  After two years of sharing great laughs and torturing our classmates, she moved back to Halifax and I remained in Ontario.

We spent countless hours on the phone and practically wore our fingerprints off spending so much time on our keyboards. When I would ask her what she had been up to, she would always reply, “pontificating on polysyllabic profundities”.  That silly statement that may not have been significant then took on new meaning when Sandra suddenly passed away in 2003 at the age of 43 after succumbing to the flesh-eating disease.   There would be no more pontificating with her.  The polysyllabic profundities were all I had left.

It made absolute sense when coming up with a name for this blog that I would somehow honor her for all of the support and encouragement she gave me in her too-short time on this earth.  I’m sure she still reads over my shoulder and I do hear that all-too-clever advise in my head on occasion.

Here’s lookin’ at you, Kid!!

Something feathered, something blue

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It’s February – blah.  I shouldn’t complain too much about the weather since this past weekend was gorgeous, but now it’s Monday and the rain has been falling continually for a couple of hours.  Any of the beauty of yesterday has been washed away and the trees no longer seem to be stretching to reach the sun.  Their branches have resolved to reflect the mood of the weather and are hanging limply, not even attempting to fight the rain that saturates their bark.

I took these pictures on Saturday and wanted to post something uplifting to help me hold the memory of the sun that kissed my cheeks on the weekend and the canvas that the wind created in the sky by using soft bristles to paint the clouds.

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Stolen Moments

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This is another story written for Edward Hotspur’s Romantic Monday.

The first thing that struck her when she saw him was the depth of blue in his eyes.  She swam in the ocean of color before she was able to say hello and when she finally collected herself it seemed awkward, but only for a moment.  His smile and wit quickly reminded her what it was about him that had attracted her in the first place.  The embrace was slight but his kiss sent a shock through her system and she blushed.

Dinner began with a barrage of laughter and good friends talking about years gone by.  They stole a few glances at each other when they thought nobody would notice – his wink melted her.  She had expected nothing to happen since he had left his commitments behind, but only for a few precious days.  After dinner ended and the laughter subsided, the house fell silent.  She lay in her bed thinking about him, thinking about the time they had spent together in the past, in what felt like a different lifetime.  The tenderness and passion that seemed so natural between them lurked in her thoughts and danced like visions behind her eyelids.   She could still feel his breath on her body from those moments long ago.

The noise in the other room pulled her from her reverie.  She stole towards the distraction and saw him alone on the couch.  Tentatively she approached and was greeted with a warm smile and an invitation to join him.  His embrace was as she had remembered it so many times and she pulled herself closer into him. His arm wrapped around her and she stroked the hair on his chest.   The moment was idyllic.  No words were exchanged and none needed to be as they rose from the couch and he led her into the bedroom.  She lay on her stomach and he gently began to massage her shoulders.  His touch was electric and, yet, the softest touch she had ever felt.

Although still partially draped in clothing, their bodies began to move together.  She felt the heat from his breath before his lips touched her back.  His kiss was soft and sweet and she gasped in anticipation of having his mouth on hers.  She arched her back and turned to meet his lips.  Time stood still in those moments and they lost themselves in each other, he feeling her emotion and she feeling his pain. They both knew this shouldn’t be happening but neither of them had the will to stop. Their bodies moved rhythmically together and eventually they lay spent in each other’s arms, lost in the moment, lost in their thoughts.  He was the first to move and, as much as she hated it, she knew she should be back in her own room.  Nobody else could know the extent of their relationship.  Nobody could know of the passion so deep and so strong that it threatened to swallow her every time she saw him. He laid in bed with his eyes closed.  She leaned over and slowly let her lips trace the curve of his.  With a gentle whispered goodnight, she left him and closed the door.

The next morning, there was no awkwardness, only longing.  She wanted to embrace him, but would have to settle for a hidden trace of his finger along her arm.  He winked and her heart warmed.  One by one their friends emerged from behind different doors, coffee was poured and the day was planned. She sat with the group at the table, staying as close to him as possible and she longed to touch him.

After a day of great adventures, darkness descended, stars filled the sky and the wine flowed freely.  Conversations and laughter were caught on the breeze and carried infectiously around the lake.  Although the rest of the group had gathered by the fire, only four of them stayed by the edge of the water staring wordlessly into the night sky.  Dusk had long descended and the darkness enveloped them, but she could feel his stare.  Neither of them spoke as the group made their way back from the lake.  The flashlight beamed in front of them but they held back behind the other two by a few precious feet.  In the darkness she felt his hand reaching for hers.  Their hands clasped with such ferocity she thought she might lose feeling in her fingers but she wasn’t letting go.  Light filtered onto the path ahead of them signaling the closeness of the cottage and their hands reluctantly parted.   Their friends took chairs by the fire and he headed towards the cottage, his eyes asking her to follow.  She found him in his room and curled up beside him.

His lips met hers in the dark.  Sweet, tender kisses were shared, his embrace was comforting and everything about being with him just felt right.  If only things could be different.  If only these stolen moments weren’t the thoughts in her head every day knowing he would never be hers.

My Dog Gets Me

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I’ve spent my whole life surrounded by pets.  We always had dogs growing up and when I was old enough to learn how to debate properly with my dad, and win, we had a couple of cats. Although cats are certainly quirky and amusing to watch, I have always been a dog person and I always will be.

A dog is the one truly unselfish friend that will love you unconditionally.  Callaway is a blend of black lab, border collie and psychologist.  She gets me, and she has such great intuition when it comes to my moods and my feelings.  We lead a pretty happy life and she is a joy-filled dog, but if I am having an off day, she senses the change in my mood and doesn’t leave my side.  If I am lying on the couch, she will leave her regular spot on my bed and be on the floor right beside me. Every now and then she will sit up and rest her chin on me just to check in and see how I’m doing.

Dogs read human energy.  They may not be able to correctly identify the specific emotion as a human would, but they feel the change in that life force and react accordingly.  She visibly becomes agitated if she senses that I am upset, she consoles me if she senses I’m feeling down, and she never ceases to be there for me.

And through all of the ups and downs that she understands and helps get me through, somewhere in the process she always manages to leave…….

 …..paw prints on my heart.

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A short joke to brighten your day

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When I got married, I wanted the gift for our guests to be memorable…..so I made a cookbook.  I collected recipes and jokes from our friends and family and spent many hours in Microsoft Publisher putting together a creation that would be a lasting memory.

This is one of the jokes that was given to me.  I just found it again and it still makes me laugh!

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Mahatma Gandhi, as you know, walked barefoot most of the time which produced an impressively thick callus on his feet.  He also ate very little which made him rather frail and, with his odd diet, he suffered from bad breath.  This made him……wait for it…..

A super fragile callused mystic hexed by halitosis.

You’re welcome!

 

 

(Image courtesy of Google)

Stalking isn’t always a bad thing

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Let me preface this post by assuaging any negative connotations about the subject line.  I am not a dangerous person.  I do not hide in bushes and make a mental note of people’s habits and movements.  But when something strikes my fancy or my funny bone, I can be tenacious and become extremely enthusiastic.

I work at a large resort, and often people have difficulty finding time in their busy days to call us during business hours. Many messages are left and returned.  On the odd occasion, a game of phone tag ensues until we finally connect voice to voice.

I had the good fortune of returning messages on a particular day and it was serendipity at its finest.  When the recorded voice message first began, I thought that I had dialed the number in error.  But the further I got into the message, the funnier it became and I began to giggle.  By the end of the comedic rhetoric on the other end of the phone, I was in hysterics.  I phoned back immediately to listen to it again, and the message became even funnier.  My co-workers were concerned that I may be slightly losing my grip on reality, but when I called the number a third time and put the message on speaker phone, they were laughing just as hard as I was.

The crowd continued to swell in the office and in response to the demand to hear what was so funny, I kept calling back.  After the mayhem died down and I collected myself, I called another four or five times to write down, verbatim, what the message was so I could steal it.  I’m sure the poor gentleman that called for rates was marginally alarmed at how many times the resort had tried to return his call.  Although we were apparently desperate for his business, he surprisingly did not call back.

I have since modified the message to fit the time allotted on my cell phone.  I have thought of changing it to something a little more professional since the cell is my only phone, but what would be the fun in that?  Here is the gist of how the original message sounded.   I hope none of these apply to you….but since I have struck up some friendships with some of you, I now know they just might.

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 Hello, and welcome to the Mental Health Hotline.

  • If you are obsessive or compulsive, press 1 repeatedly.
  • If you are co-dependant, please ask someone to press 2 for you.
  • If you have multiple personalities, please press 3,4,5 and 6
  • If you are paranoid, we already know who you are and what you want, but stay on the line while we trace your call.
  • If you are schizophrenic, listen carefully and a small voice will tell you which number to press.
  • If you are delusional, press 7 and your call will be transferred to the mother ship.
  • If you have short-term memory loss, press 9, if you have short-term memory loss, press 9, if you have short-term memory loss, press 9.
  • If you have a nervous disorder, please fidget with the # key until a representative comes on the line.
  • If you have amnesia, press 8 and state your name, address, phone, date of birth, social security number and your mother’s maiden name.
  • If you are menopausal, hang up, turn on the fan, lie down & cry. You won’t be crazy forever.
  • If you have a masochistic complex, please press “0” for the operator. There are 200 calls ahead of you.
  • If you have low self-esteem, please hang up. All our operators are too busy to talk to you.

I had posted this earlier in my blogging journey, but after a series of repeated calls to my cell today with no message, I finally understood why and called back to explain the message.

Do you have any new ones you think I should add to the list?

comunikating fonetikly

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In this day and age of technology and digital communication, spell check is a wonderful tool.  It allows the author of written expression the ability to enhance the reader’s experience by communicating effectively and correctly.

Back in my college days, we weren’t as fortunate.  Leather bound copies of Webster’s Dictionary and Roger’s Thesaurus were never far from my reach.  I loved words and I wanted to be sure I expounded my visions in the purest possible form.  During those impressionable years, I attended school with many people who seemed to be as permeable to prose as I felt I was.

There were certainly exceptions to that rule, and my best friend Sandra had a college room-mate who was the poster child for the opposite end of that word spectrum. (you know who you are!!)  She spelled phonetically.  However it sounded to her, she seemed to create a new language to convey her message.

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They were very caring room-mates and diligent to a fault about keeping the others aware of their whereabouts to alleviate worry.  They maintained a white-board on their refrigerator so they could communicate where they were and when they were expected to return.  While visiting the apartment one afternoon I happened upon this board and stared at it with growing wonder.  Although the symbols on the board resembled those of the alphabet I could not decipher the language in which the message had been composed.

Upon realizing that I had not left the kitchen, Sandra returned to find me still engaged in a staring contest with the white board.  As many times as I listed my head from side to side I still could not digest the meaning of the strange epistle on the fridge.   It wasn’t until Sandra took me word by word through the note, sounding out every syllable, that I finally understood the concept of phonetic spelling.  After that the intent of the scribble became crystal clear.

The “fonetik spelr” and I are still close friends to this day.  I find it amusingly ironic that she studied Sign Language in school!!  I am happy to report that she has mastered much more of the English language – no longer will we wury bicuz she tuk her baik to wurk and waz caat in trafik – clooz the buuk on this peij, no morr keiass.

Slaying the dragon

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Even if it is broken, it can’t always be fixed ~SN.

My mother always used to tell me that I like to find the ‘broken ducks’ and fix them…..and it’s true.   I seem to be magnetically drawn to people who I think I can “save” in some way, even though they may not be looking for salvation.  If I look at it honestly, with no rose-colored glasses, my childhood perpetuated this need to create a sane world in a universe of quiet insanity.  On the outside our life was perfect, but on the inside there were things that created the person I am today and ingrained the need to make life as perfect on the inside as it seemed on the outside.  But I chose to focus on others rather than focusing  on myself.  I felt the need to create a picture by painting by the numbers that belonged to other people instead of the numbers on my blank canvas.  I grew up as a child of two alcoholic parents and the need to fix my parents spun into a life of restoring a sense of normalcy in every life but my own.

No matter the size of sword you carry, sometimes the dragon is bigger than you anticipated and it cannot be conquered by steel alone.  Although I spent many years of my youth trying to slay that beast, it had far more power than I anticipated and my life became a battle far greater than a teenaged girl was prepared to face.  The need to vanquish that dragon spilled into my marriage and the cycle of alcoholism and redemption breathed new life.  The dragon was alive and well with a different face and a new attitude, but it was the same dragon I had been battling for years.

slaying the dragon

(Photo courtesy of Google)

Perhaps it was the wisdom that came with age, or perhaps the sword I had been wielding had gained strength over the years, but the dragon I was faced with in the days of being married didn’t seem to possess as much strength as the dragon of my youth and I was able to overcome its fiery existence and reclaim the life I was meant to have.  Maybe that dragon still lingers, awaiting its chance for revenge, but I have finally drawn the line.  My stance is rigid and I am ready for that battle.

If there is anything this blogging journey has taught me, it is to be honest.  Not only honest in my life, but honest in my writing as well.  And whether that honesty presents itself in traits of a character or a mere extension of myself in this forum, it is freeing.  I have shared parts of myself I never thought I would divulge and it has liberated a piece of myself long since buried.  I have fixed myself by escaping the confines of my past and breaking down the walls that caged my future and instead have trapped the dragon in that cage.

I don’t know if I’m writing this to remind myself of the strength that I need to hold close to my heart or if I am writing this to finally free the dragon that I may never slay.  Regardless, tears slowly slide down my cheek as I free this last bit of anguish and look ahead to what will be.  I cannot change the past, but I can certainly shape my future by letting that dragon rest as I move on to a new castle that is free of that beast.

My life is a blank canvas.  It awaits a new story board and a tale that is yet to be written.  And maybe the canvas is slightly damaged, but I will embrace those impurities because the vision of the artist still holds the potential for a beautiful new masterpiece that is waiting to be created.