True

when wishes are spoiled
and hopes disfigured, I ask

is there a lesson yet unlearned?
did I miss Karma's cue?

but in the darkness
I am reminded

I mapped my own course
true to the North of my compass

and a star reappears

for no matter how rough my path
it still belongs to me

and I am proud
to own it

trying

I am only a writer

I score my reality

with my pen



reflect life’s images

back to you

like that of a

lake still



shimmering before you

clear

clean

complete



but water – like truth –

is inconstant

___ constant moving

__________moving in

__________moving through

my emotions



I am only human

my words are human too

Yes, I read my horoscope more than a creative writer should ... but you can't tell me there isn't value in pondering this one:

If you don't articulate your conscious desires,
your unconscious patterns will come true.

... now if I could only figure out which one to tackle first - conscious or unconscious ?? I feel like it's a treasure waiting to be discovered ...

spring has sprung

My little prairie city is managed by strange weather gods.

A week ago it snowed.
Today, it was plus twenty degrees Celsius.

With the sun out and about, I wrote and read outside -- usually a rare event in April for my province. I'm not usually home long enough to see them, but I finally got to meet the two small hares that I know frequent my yard.

It's a small miracle, considering I live smack dab in the middle of the city.












As the evening progressed and the sunlight deepened into twilight, I grabbed my camera and visited one of my favorite haunts today.

People sometimes tire of our flatlands, but we have a secret gift that only comes out when the sun rises and sets ... the canvas of our sky.

When I need to

I look to the skies

and I am reassured

all is

as it should be

Blessings upon your week, friends.

one and the same

I can breathe again.

For the last six weeks, I’ve been suffering from a flu virus that alternately bestowed symptoms of coughing, low grade fever, stuffed sinuses, (repeat, repeat, repeat, etc.).

At first, I thought I was suffering from burnout. Then, I wondered if eating well and exercising was a myth. This was followed by a suspicion that something was wrong with my immune system.

Yesterday, I was told this year’s flu lasts four to six weeks. A sigh of relief. I’m not a wimp.

In the finale, I spent the last five days at home sick. Today is the first day I can breathe. More importantly, I can laugh without breaking into a fit of coughing. That’s what I missed most – laughing.

I embraced it all, when I was sick ... all modes of healing and all faith belief systems.

I’d switch from Buckley’s cough syrup to fresh ginger, from Sinutab to accupresssure. Sometimes, I’d have faith in the body’s natural defense systems and do nothing at all – let the fever run, I’d say. Boil those viral bugs! Made appointments with my doctor. Booked some time with my acupuncturist.

I started off with meditation – embracing the pain and suffering, realizing how lucky I’ve been to be healthy, when I was healthy. After a while, I went to the Judeo tradition and started bargaining with God. “Come on,” I’d say. “Next month, I promise to kickbox twice a week and no more junk food. Just get me out of this hell.”

Back to my Catholic roots, I comforted myself by thinking if I died, I’d get resurrected anyway. And, if that didn't work, I supposed reincarnation was an option, since I’m nowhere near Nirvana.

In the end, it was a combination of everything that got me through the last six weeks. I’ve always believed that there is no one set of rules, no one correct spirituality. When all is dark – you just have to believe. It’s the faith that matters.

… and maybe eating lots of garlic.

the exchange

I have no seeds to spare,
I gently told the crow,
You flew into my realm
sowing stories upon the wind
weaving color into my day

though I have little of value
to offer in exchange

For I have no seeds to spare,
my hands are rough with work,
but I can guide you where
a spring runs fresh and
bursts forth in words and grace

though it’s not mine to share
nor to give, just to show

I have no seeds to spare,
my back is bent from toiling,
but I can lead you to a meadow
where I’ve found certainty
that there is greater and there is good

though this trail can be tangled
and rough to travel

I have no seeds to spare,
I whispered to the crow,
and offer endless skies
for you to soar and find your way
and collect more tales to tell

though only with my heart’s wish
that you’ll return to me

before the harvest comes to pass
when I’ll have seeds to spare

choosing words

They had experienced loss.

With only one suitcase of clothes, they had arrived in Canada, survivors of oppression for being part of an ethnic minority under Saddam’s rule in Iraq. They carried samples of spices that hinted of their homeland and left behind a mother, who lamented their pursuit of writing, the cause of their parting. His three years of prison, for the crime of writing poetry, was one of the reasons they decided to finally flee.

But they had their children. And they had each other.

Ten years later, a new language on their lips and a new home in their hearts, I am privileged to know them. They are committed people – to their community, to their writing, and to one another. They are older now, in their mid-fifties, their children integrated into Canadian life.

Is it because English is still new to them that their words ring with honesty?

“Did your husband tell you I saw him yesterday?” I asked the wife. “No, no.” She looked up at me, reaching to place one hand gently on my cheek. “He did not tell me he saw your beautiful face. I did not even talk to him yesterday.” Her r’s roll in a deep rhythm. “We are so in love you see. People in love don’t need to talk to each other every day.”

I nod with a genuine smile, accepting their expression of romantic love that goes against contemporary portrayals.

I describe how her husband spoke to my writing class the other night about poetry.

The short cropped curls around her face bob up and down in enthusiasm. “Oh, I’m so glad. His poetry is very powerful, very beautiful. He is a deep thinker and a good man, my husband.”

My heart grew lighter. I knew this couple dealt with the regular stressors of most families. Too much work, not enough time. She wished she could see her kids more often. She wished she had more time to write. They struggled with sustaining a livelihood, their family and their art. But, always the same words of love and admiration come from her lips, and just as often, from his in return.

No eye rolling, no complaining, no resentment.

Their words are uttered in the midst of the lunchroom, by the filing cabinet, sometimes even in the hallway. But, I am amazed at their power to create hope in me. They are simple words. They only seek to share their life as it really is.

But, the words are a testimony that lives can be fashioned to match our values, and not the other way around.

The words they choose – in every day conversation – make a difference in my life.

And it reminds me – the words I choose everyday – can make a difference in others.

Gentle Surprises

I'm much too sick to write anything coherent, so in lieu, I'm posting a picture of this baby panda that my friend, San, sent me. She saw him (her?) in China last year.




I don't know what it is -- but this picture fills me with such wonder. Like I'm five again. Like the world still has surprises for me. You know - the kind of surprises that aren't exploited by paparazzi, Oprah, or the news. Gentle surprises.

Too bad the panda isn't my totem animal ...