The Chain

The Chain

I believe that we are being born anew every day - given another chance.

Who we are,  our essence or spirit, is in the process of becoming with each breath that we take;

our spirit does not require a diet of huge achievements - it is constantly feeding off of our attitude,  It grows more beautiful with every positive thought and accomplishment, every smiling link that we add to the whole.   With each act of kindness, we are strengthening our link in the chain of life, and feeding it the energy that it needs, to be strong for all of the other links - our parents, children, grandchildren, brothers and sisters, friends - all those that we hold in our hearts and who count on us.

 When the seas get rough, we can secure our vessels with that wonderful supporting chain:

Hold onto the chain,

In the midst of your pain,

Trust in the strength of each link;

Though doubts may obscure it,

Have faith and be sure, it's

Stronger by far than you think.

With great love they speak,

Each voice so unique,

Timeless, they're born yet again,

These links built of love,

Drawing strength from above,

Hand in hand forming the chain.

The Colour Of Sunshine

The colour of sunshine!

 This was the title of one of the pieces of music that I was listening to as I did my Tai Chi routine this morning.  I find the slow meditative pace of this exercise to be a time of deep and creative thought, and of heartfelt prayer.

Though I can't see the colour of sunshine, or the substance of prayer, I know that both have the power to lift my heart and spirit.  As the sun draws warm colours from everything it touches, and gives back life-giving food to mankind and the earth, I believe that prayer, though invisible to the human eye, is viewed as a beautiful, powerful rainbow of hope by the soul which, as it is lifted, shares its own amazing colours, adding to the brightness and warmth in the world.

The colour of sunshine

Depends on its diet;

If it drinks from the ocean,

Or a lake laying quiet,

Then it puts on bright blue,

With a sparkle of green,

And its hair sometimes gleams

With a hint of marine.

While crossing a meadow,

It bounces off flowers,

It feeds on red clover,

And sends back rose showers;

It picks up blue tips

From the bluegrass, I'm told,

And to compliment dandelions

Dons its bright gold.

The colour of prayer

Depends on its diet;

If it drinks caring thoughts

From a soul that is quiet,

Then it puts on bright blue

As it soars high above,

And returns, dressed in gold,

As it echoes God's love.

Much Ado About My To Do List

Much Ado About My To Do List

It seems the 'Bard' and Dickens were up to no good last night - they put their heads together and decided that 3 am was the perfect time for a creative session.  No need to inform Edie about the time change, "she loves laying awake at that hour anyway, and it will give her a different program to tune into other than Worriers Anonymous!" -  annoying pair, but they were right:

These two spirits took me on a journey back in time, somewhat like Scrooge's Christmas Eve experience, to a small house on the banks of the Rideau River.  The program that I tuned into was a series of vignettes that featured a poor family of 7 children and two young parents and the intangibles that fed the imagination and ignited the wonder in this little child's heart:   the smell of my mother's delicious 'meals for the masses', her tears as we tickled her into laughter, or as she hugged our hurts away; the dancing eyes of my father as he shared one of his jokes, and quipped Jimmy Durante's "I've got a million of 'em!"  There, vying for room on the well-worn couch, sat an eager group of children passing from lap to lap, members of the newest litter of kittens and afterwards, not so eagerly, passing the buck about who's turn it was to change the newspaper in their box!  Another scene unfolded of the family gathered in the living room, sharing in total silliness; in jokes and games and in the exuberant singing of familiar songs with Dad on guitar and mouth organ, the leader of our band.

  I was completely wrapped up in childhood when the Bard interrupted my reverie by proffering  this line from his 'Julius Caesar':  'The evil that men do lives after them; the good is oft interred with their bones.'  Ok - that was negative, or maybe it was meant as an optimistic warning, a reminder to act now rather than judge now;  the power of the good memories we make each day, may be all that is needed to prevent one of our loved ones, or a stranger that our words or actions have touched, from going down those 'evil' paths.

So, as this New Year unfolds, my 'to do' list will be topped by:  'Judge less and make more good memories'.  May they live long after I'm gone and hopefully my loved ones will be able to repeat Dad's line, "I've got a million of 'em!" 

Huddling Together At Christmas!

Perhaps it's this fresh fall of snow that has me thinking back to our little home and how much Christmas meant to all of us.  It was the great equalizer - every child had the same chance to get onto Santa's 'nice' or 'naughty' list, and we all shared the same hope  - that the Child in the Manger came for everyone.

I took a mental trip back home, and put some thoughts down in the form of this poem - I hope that it touches the little child in all of you as we huddle together in the warmth of this Christmas season. 

 Huddling Together At Christmas!

Huddling together

By the old oil stove,

With the sound of the wind in the chimney flue;

There's snow on the roof

And it pounds on the door

And the ice has the windowsill stuck like glue!

But oh, the excitement

That fills the air,

For, it's Christmas Eve and there's hope all around,

The wind's no match

For the strength of our song

As our voices join in glorious sound.

We've hung our stockings

And said our prayers,

Put on our pajamas and hopped into bed,

With our eyes closed tight

Can we make it through the night?

I won't let the Sandman see me raise my head!

At light of dawn,

On Christmas morn',

We're huddling together 'neath the Christmas tree,

There's candy, nuts,

And colouring books,

And packaged surprises - Whose will they be?

With Dad on guitar,

We giggle out songs,

If we miss some words, we don't mind in the least,

The smell of the turkey

Fills the house,

And mom is the artist who creates our feast!

These Christmas memories

Come back each year;

They lift my heart and make me smile; 

Though the wind blew fierce,

Outside our door,

Our home fed the hope of this little child!

I decided to look at the'fun' rather than the scary side of Halloween, and came up with this little treat - Hope it gives you a smile!

Hallowe'en Fairies?

They're rarely seen

On Hallowe'en,

But you might hear them call;

With twittering notes,

In colourful coats,

Hiding out in the leaves

Every Fall.

They fly through the trees,

And land where they please,

Filling the air with their giggles;

When you're not aware,

They'll pull on your hair,

And laugh as they watch

You squiggle! 

You don't need to run,

They just want to have fun,

They'd rather have smiles

Than candy,

So this Hallowe'en,

If those fairies are seen,

Just keep your best laughs handy!

Home For Remembrance Day

Home for Remembrance Day!

Sometimes our eyes speak louder than our mouths - the ultimate body language.  As I stared into two soft eyes in a picture frame, the voice of a young soldier spoke loud enough that I finally paid attention,  "Please, it is time - I want to go home."

 While visiting an antique shop, years ago, I had purchased a photograph of a very young WWII soldier, beautifully preserved in a handsome oval frame, protected by convex glass.  Not paying so much attention to the picture as to the frame, which I thought I might re-purpose to enhance one of my own oil paintings, I brought it home - and there it stood at the back of a shelf, with a growing assortment of other picture frames.

  It came with us as we moved from our farm in Osgoode to our new home in Prescott six years ago; still just another lovely potential picture border, until a couple of weeks ago.  That's when I decided to stop being so stubbornly selfish, and to start purging some of the 'treasures' that I had squirreled away in my art closet.  I was thinking of passing it along to a local charity sale with some of the other frames, until my husband thankfully intervened and pulled it out of my donation pile.   There I stood once again, staring into brave eyes that were patiently waiting;  I carefully removed the picture from the oval, and there on the back was the name of the soldier: Mr. Alf Root, Lansdowne, Ont. with what I assumed was his war tag number written at the top: 2310.

  With his picture now back in the frame, the hunt is on - I find myself offering to be the legs for this man: I'm walking about - on my computer, trying to find someone who can help identify his family.  So many times, I have gone on extended nostalgic journeys back in time whenever I pull out our own family pictures and albums and hear again our loved ones voices.  I believe that those who have touched our hearts and souls throughout our lives continue to communicate with us, that our spirits go on forever, fellow travellers on our homeward journey.
 Therefore, I will persevere with my walking fingers, and as those eyes keep entreating me, perhaps I can help return this one soldier home, to the arms of one of his own family members for Remembrance Day.   

A Mother's Reflection:

My newborn slept against my breast,

And I whispered, "How beautiful."

I held him out to the world,

And it echoed, "How beautiful."

I sent him into the world,

And the world touched him

And I felt pride, and I felt fear.

He came home wounded,

And I held him against my breast,

And I whispered,  "How unfair."

Then I sent him out again,

Armed with tools that I hoped would help:

Love, faith, patience, tolerance, kindness, listening skills,

And I said to him, "Be my peacemaker."

He came back home confused and wounded,

And I said to him, "Don't despair, you are growing, and I am so proud of you,

This pain will be part of your strengthening."

And he went back into the world,

Bruised, but determined and hopeful.

Then he laughed,

And the heart of the world skipped a beat,

For he had touched the world, and it had responded,

He became aware of a unique something within that he possessed,

That was his to build, develop, and share.

He wondered aloud, "Who am I?"

And a voice answered;

He knew that voice,

It whispered, "How beautiful."

And again,

"You are mine, you are more precious

Than you can possibly imagine."

And this mother echoed in gratitude,

"How beautiful!"