The colors of my memories

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Posted on November 12, 2015

My umbrella could not protect me

from the rain that would come.

Like a tsunami of emotion,

sadness hit me with a fury,

threatening to pull me into its current

and drown me in its torrents.

Some days the emotion feels heavy, oppressive,

like wax dripping on canvas,

and the thin veil of my resolve is not enough

to shield me from the pain of loss.

But on the good days,

I can bathe in the colors of that storm.

I am the black and white character

wading into a flushed prism of good memories

and I no longer feel alone.

Although you are not physically here with me,

your brush still adds a splash of life to my canvas

and those hues make me feel connected again.

How good it feels

to walk through the reminiscence of you.

(image credit)

A little blood on Halloween seems almost redundant

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Posted on October 31, 2015

I used to love carving pumpkins. I was one of those weirdos hoping to have the most creative pumpkin on the block, so I bought a carving kit and some patterns and locked myself in a room to avoid distraction.

Walls were spattered with stringy pieces of eviscerated pumpkin. Elongated strings of profuse verbiage slithered under the doorway, assaulting the ears on the other side of the door, and small drops of minor arterial spray infused themselves into the paint on the wall. But at the end of the painstaking process I achieved success! The copious amount of band-aids, blood loss and light-headedness were worth the effort. My pumpkins were the talk of the town. My then-boyfriend’s children (who I still refer to as my step-children) were even proud to acknowledge the creativity on our front doorstep.

After my first attempt, I became a little less guarded when it came to the carving process and the whole family would get involved. Where there were originally only two arms covered in pumpkin guts, eight sticky arms reveled in the joy of dissecting the large gourds and separating the seeds from the gooey mess. Each of us skilfully created our masterpieces and sat back with a smile as the toothy pumpkins returned our stares.

The house would begin to smell of the roasting pumpkin seeds and, after a massive clean up, we would light our pumpkins and snack on the seeds in the darkened living room. The memories of those nights of laughter and camaraderie are the ones I still hold close.

As the eve of Halloween approaches, I am slightly saddened that those years are so far behind me. I live on a street where no children trick-or-treat so there is no need to create any more scary faces. Perhaps this year I should take advantage of the fact that my digits are all still intact and drag out the carving tools once again. I’m sure my dog would like to sit in the dark with me staring at faces like these:

Happy Halloween everyone!

Which side of the road should the chicken be on?

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Posted on October 30, 2015

It is almost November and the weather is going to great lengths to remind us of the impending torture of unpredictable temperatures and precipitation for the next thirty plus days. Today was a glowing example of that. The remnants of Hurricane Patricia swirled hungrily around our little town and brought with them the feeling of doom that always precedes winter. The rain fell sideways and the South West wind systematically unzipped our coats to leave us feeling exposed to the elements.

On my drive home from work, watching the storm-laden sky become even darker, I could think of nothing more than crawling into a cave of blankets in my living room and allowing myself to succumb to the heat that would soon be escaping from my baseboard heaters. The thought of having to cook a full dinner did not impress me at all so I visited the grocery store and purchased a warm, fragrant pre-roasted chicken.

There is nothing better than comfort food on a cold, grey night. The pungent smell of the chicken permeated my kitchen as I boiled some potatoes and made a somewhat deconstructed stuffing. Onions and celery were left to saute with some bacon as the potatoes were mashed into submission. I usually love to add some flare to the presentation of my meals, but comfort food speaks loudly and needs neither pomp nor circumstance to assert its message.

The food was delicious. My heaters obliged by taking the chill out of the air but the meal lacked a certain something. I love my solitude. I enjoy my own company and I have several friends, one close friend in particular, who admire me for being so content on my own. But my “Thrifty Thursday” Chicken (as the store labelled it), my mashed potatoes and bread-less stuffing would have tasted much better had I been able to share it with someone special.

There is much to be said about living on your own. That privilege of freedom defines gratitude better than a thousand dictionaries. But the joy of being in a room with someone who helps accentuate your happiness is immeasurable. Whether those moments are shared in silence or lost in a cacophony of laughter and endless conversation, those are the moments that create memories. And those are the moments that can sometimes make solitude feel a little more like loneliness.

I should have saved at least one

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Posted on October 28, 2015

My mother and I never had a traditional greeting when we called each other. Instead of the banal “Hi Mom”, I could not help but deviate to the voice and the very unusual way Steve Martin used the word in Dirty Rotten Scoundrels. If you’ve seen the movie, you’ll know what I mean. For those of you who have not had the pleasure of viewing this 1980’s masterpiece, allow me to introduce you.

When she was still with us, I would dial my mom’s number and when I heard her voice say hello, the first words out of my mouth were “Muther, muther”, doing my best to imitate Steve Martin as the classic character of Ruprecht. She would always respond with an elongated “yeeeessss”. It was our thing. It was something only the two of us shared and it made me want to call her all the time just to hear that extended response because it made my heart smile every time I heard it.

It’s been just over a year and a half since she left and I still find myself nonsensically picking up the phone to call her. There are still things in my life that I only want to share with her and, although I know she has all of the details of my life, I just want to hear her voice one more time.

I think back to all of the voice mails she left for me and I berate myself for not saving any of them. Even if it was the most trivial narration of what had happened in the dining hall, that simple communication contained the timber and gentleness of the voice I have known for longer than I have physically been on this Earth.

Sometimes I think I have been able to pull that sound from the vault of my memory but it will always be missing that special element. It will always be missing her, just as much as I am.

I’m hearing the voices again….

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Posted on October 16, 2015

I have had a debate going on in my head for a long time. I am a very spiritual person but I don’t devote myself to a particular religion. I don’t grace the interior of a church on a regular basis but I do believe in a higher power and life beyond this place we call our reality.

As I child I had a few “imaginary” friends. I don’t recall their names, nor do I remember how long they graced me with their presence but I know, undoubtedly, that they were there. I watched a movie years ago called ‘Heart and Souls’ with Robert Downey Jr. and the discussion I was used to only having in my head came barreling, full force, into my here and now. Perhaps the innocence of my childhood allowed me to hear things beyond my three-dimensional limitations. Just maybe my mind was permitted to be open to hearing the spirits that chose to help me on my journey through this physical world and those voices in my head were not merely conjured by childhood imagination.

Similar to the plot line in the movie, those sounds in my head were slowly extinguished as I got older. As my childhood innocence was replaced by teenage angst and the stress of being a young adult, the voices were unable to permeate the reality that had stolen my youth. My ability to connect with those ethereal intonations was replaced by the clanging, brash sounds of adulthood.

I have been to mediums and people who are able to channel the spirits of those who have moved beyond the physical world. Some have been a pure hoax and some have been truly blessed with the ability to connect with those voices that wait patiently on the other side for those who are able to hear them and willing to listen. Through those people I have learned more about spirit guides and souls who have passed but are still connected to my soul.

I can occasionally hear those murmurs again. Faint whispers land gently on my ears, each with their own unique way of communicating. I like to believe that those voices have always been with me but I became too surrounded by the cacophony of life to hear them. I take solace in the fact that I am never truly alone and if I listen closely enough, if I really stretch myself beyond the closed walls of my mind, the whispers of those friends and family will follow me through this journey into whatever adventures lay in wait for me after this one.

What life is really about….

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Posted on August 31, 2015

As the eve of a hectic work day pulls the shade of night down over the day, I am blissfully distracted from the bewilderment of the myriad of events that unfolded to create that hectic day. I am fortunate to be able to cast those disquieting moments aside and dwell on the touching moment from the previous night.

Making cakes is a process I enjoy immensely. It truly allows me to lose myself in the creative process and pour my heart into something I love. I create with the purpose of wanting to make the occasion that much more special by making a simple birthday cake into a much more personal experience. Very rarely do I get a glimpse through the eyes of the intended recipient but on Saturday night I was able to see the joy from the other side.

I was the one holding the cake as the birthday song began. I was the one to present the cake to a very surprised birthday girl. And I was the one who most appreciated the tears of joy that welled in the corners of her eyes. It was a truly touching moment for me.

Her reaction made every ounce of my effort worthwhile. Her heartfelt emotion made every tedious detail on that cake worth each extra moment I took to make them as close to perfect as I could get them. It may be just a Scrabble cake to some but to her it was the first personalized cake she had ever had and I was moved to tears to be the person that created that memory for her.

That one moment will play over and over in my head as I am laboriously working into the evening hours on my next cake project. And when my wrists are tired from kneading fondant and my hand is beginning to shake with exhaustion when I am trying to pipe the last details on a cake, I will remember the look on her face and summon that next wind to keep going.

Life is about counting the memories and not the calories.

A place on my shelf but a much bigger place in my heart

It’s not narcissism if someone else writes it

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Posted on August 11, 2015

He wandered in from the past like a daydream.

The words in his email hung in my reality like a cartoon balloon.

I had spent months trying to track him down,

hunting him like he was an endangered species,

trying to bring him back into the safety of our tribe.

But he was in the wind.

He left no scent of his trail and he had found refuge in his own world.

After leaving the chase behind,

we became the hunted and he, in turn, became the hunter.

There is a muted sound that is made

when two worlds collide.

It is the sound of making right what was wrong,

of discovering things you hadn’t realized were lost,

of filling a space you had forgotten was empty.

And even after all the time that has elapsed,

some days it feels like he never even left.

He is that consummate friend you know will always be there,

even if it is twenty-five years later.

He is the man who any mother would be proud of,

(and other mothers would have a crush on).

He is a man I am honored to call my friend.

It is not often you can find another heart on a sleeve

that recognizes that placement as a strength and not a weakness.

He is a kindred spirit, a confidant,

and he is a friend I will not let disappear again.

Don’t be offended, but I am not a fan of the Beetles

Simple truths and salty tears