gumbostrand & a pool of words

When I was 11, my mother, sister & I drove across Canada to attend Expo '87 in Vancouver. At the beginning of our trip I decided to dedicate a page in my journal to keep track of funny street/town names I saw on the way. I think I gave up somewhere around Wawa, Ontario (about 10 hours into our 6 day drive) once I realized the enormity of my undertaking. Still, all these years later, whenever I see a street or town name that strikes me as funny I mentally add it to that list. Today's addition: Gumbostrand. Seen from my bus window on my way here www.porvoo.fi/

Truth, Hate, Love, Lies, Dead - Kiasma Art Installation
The white words run in computer generated text across the black floor of a large, dark room. Grouped together and moving in a pattern I can't decipher, the words wash over and around me like small schools of fish "hate", "love", "lies", "truth", with the occasional "dead" thrown in when the words collide. Bathed in a pool of words. I loved it.

oh no i didn't...

My 'to do' list from this weekend:

Saturday - 5:45, V For Vendetta, Conf # 32179
Sunday - Kiasma (Art Gallery)
Monday - Check into Russian visa

Even more than the inanity of actually taking the time to write these down is this: the only very important item I sucessfully completed was attending the movie on Saturday. Had I not booked it in advance that morning, I'm pretty sure that would have remained incomplete as well. I suck at 'to do' lists. And I'm on holiday - I can do what I want ;)

Today I was able to confirm something I've been suspecting since arriving in Helsinki; the squirrels here have big ears. Very. Big. Ears. I bet that the Finnish word for 'Squirrel' translates to English as 'Sqrabbit'.

That's right folks. I'm here all week...

runnin' from god

I was a good tourist today, I went to the Uspenskin Katedraali (Russian Orthodox Church). Although I made it inside, I followed my usual 'holy crap I'm in a church' strategy of hovering around the entrance peering at whatever was visible from my post near the door. I have an aversion to churches. More than an aversion, really, they freak me out.

I've got the routine down: I think I'll be ok, enter the church, tentatively make my way inside trying to lose myself in the high, arched ceilings and hushed sounds, but then the walls begin to close in and I panic before rushing for the door. I know, its all in my mind but it feels real enough to me. Enough so that I generally avoid churches. I preferred waiting outside in the rain to taking shelter inside a local church with friends; ran out of the most peaceful church in Bayonne, France; had a panic attack in Westminster Abbey because I could NOT find my way out; and it took me until my third visit to Paris before I could bring myself to enter the Notre Dame (and then only to light a candle for my family). Churches make me feel the way I imagine claustrophobic people must feel - suffocated, panicked, unable to breathe. It's no one thing that gets me, it's the overall energy. I figure it's the legacy I've been left with having grown up Catholic (recovering Catholic, my dad calls it).

I remember when finally, ten years after finishing high school, I found the beauty in Catholicism. I was reading a book that contained a long passage from the bible with a message along the following lines: don't worry about yesterday, it's gone. Don't worry about tomorrow, it hasn't arrived yet. Don't even worry about right now - God is present. Instead, feel the sun on your skin, watch the birds, smell the flowers and know that God is taking care of you, there's no need to worry.

I was so angry when I read that. Why didn't I learn about that in my 13 years of Catholic schooling? Why, instead, do I remember standing in line in grade 3 trying to make up a credible sin to share in Confession because I couldn't think of a real one (and then laying awake in bed all night certain I was going to Hell because I'd lied in confession)? Why, after my parents' divorce, did I feel what hypocrisy was from the Church parishioners long before I actually knew the word? Why was I told, at 16 years of age, that I was going to go to Hell (sure, I was an irritating 16 year old but, really, to go to Hell for it?)? Why wasn't I encouraged to stop, enjoy the moment, know that a great power was there for me?

I've found my own ways of honouring the divine but when I think about the years spent in the Catholic system, the sheer number of us receiving the same wrathful, guilt-ridden messages instead of being exposed to the empowering and beautiful messages that also existed - I get angry. Such a waste.

Related but different news from Helsinki: the view from the church was absolutely gorgeous and I felt, for the first time since arriving, a hint of what true spring/summer in this city could be like and it was a fabulous moment.

on the balcony you say?

Last week while visiting the friends of a friend we got on the inevitable topic of sleep or, rather, the lack of it courtesy of their gorgeous 3 month old daughter. Somewhere in the midst of the discussion the following phrase emerged "...put her out on the balcony and...". The comment slid by for a few seconds while my mind went through one of those "did I REALLY just hear that" moments and I had to rewind the conversation to clarify that I'd heard correctly. I had.

Apparantly, in Finland, babies take their naps outside. Yes, even in winter. This blew my mind. Still does. Granted, there are a couple of million Finns wandering around who don't seem any worse for the experience (although Finns seem to have beaten Canadians at our own game of being quietly reserved so, really, who knows what lurks beneath ;) and God knows I'd be the last to hold up Toronto as the poster child for happy, healthy child rearing. Not when comparing us to a country that grants 3 years maternity/paternity leave, seems to have grasped the concept of life/work balance as that which means leaving work at work at the end of the day, and seems to have social supports that actually work.

It's just that I've been running the various scenarios through my mind; ones where I bundle up my baby, place him/her in their carriage and roll them outside to the front stoop to nap for a few hours through my mind and there's not one scenario that actually works. Not one that doesn't include the intervention of the child protection agencies, that is.

canadian girl, helsinki tram, good friday

pretty serious stuff, this walking

A few years ago in a distant land named Peru, a wandering Canadian girl met a wandering German girl and the two decided to embark on a journey. Most people embarking on such a journey approach the experts, the tour operators, and allow them to do what they do best - organize trips. For some reason, it escaped the attention of both said wanderers that there may be something to this and they instead opted to rent a donkey and use a guide book to navigate a 7 day trek through the cordilla blanca on their own. During the course of the journey they discovered many, many, oh-so-freaking-many reasons why it really makes sense to have the help of porters, cooks, and tourguides when walking for 7 days straight at a crazy high altitude where oxygen is a hot commodity. Particularly when one of the lovely wanderers (ahem) gets a very aggressive parasite on day one of the trek and all kinds of bodily functions go awry. But. That's not the point of this post.

The point of this post is this: the German girl walked funny and she had accessories to help her do so. Spring loaded walking poles made of very special material that was explained to me in great detail but I wasn't paying attention; I was busy looking on the ground for walking stick for myself. It was a very 'old world/new world' moment where, I'm afraid, my wooden stick did very little to further the gauche image North Americans seem to carry back in 'the seat of civilization and culture' aka: Europe. In addition to special walking shoes and fancy walking poles, the German also had special walking steps. Apparently, one walks a special way when travelling uphill and a very different way when moving downhill and don't even get me started on the very special walking steps required when mud, rock, and uneven terrain are involved. I thought the German was a bit odd.

Then I came to Helsinki. I may have been a bit hard on the German, I'm beginning to suspect that this very serious attitude toward walking is less a 'German thing' and more a 'Northern European thing'. After a week spent wandering the streets of Helsinki, the paths bordering the ocean, and the city parks, I've observed a shocking number of people walking with their very special walking poles. Apparently, the terrain in Helsinki city streets is not to be trusted. Perhaps rugged mountain passes emerge without warning in the middle of city intersections? The ground heaves, the earth rolls with unaccountable volcanic action? Whatever the reason, walking poles seem to be the remedy to safe and happy city walking. So much so that I don't even really notice them anymore. Except the ones running with them, they still look strange.

sunday

I left Toronto on a gorgeous spring day. Patio cafes had been reassembled, I had my first sandle-sighting of the year, and the streets were packed with people toting bundles of flowers and pastries. The combination of sun, people and colour after a winter of black, burgandy and grey made it feel as the village was bursting with life. Although Easter isn’t until next week, the afternoon carried a definate holiday feeling and I joined the masses wandering along Bloor street before assuming a spot on a park bench just to enjoy the fact of being outside.

It was lovely, but not necessarily the best idea since at that point I had less than 1 hour to get home, pack, and close up my apartment before leaving for 5 months of wandering. Suffice it to say, that last hour was a chaotic one ending with me tearing apart my bags and repacking them in the parking lot beside my mom’s car. I’d like to say that I was ruthless in that final revision to the ridiculous amount of things I’d packed but, really, I think the proper word is stupid. I’ve no idea what I ended up keeping and what stayed behind. I can tell you this much, my belt didn’t make the cut and I’ve literally dragged my butt through 14 hours of travel and 2 airports one hand on my bags and the other clutching my waistband.

Almost done though. The overhead map shows that we’re flying over the Baltic Sea and are due to land in Finland in 2 hours. It’s been a month of endings bringing with them change, upheaval and uncertainty; exactly what I’ve been seeking. I am excited but at a loss to describe how I’m feeling beyond that. Perhaps once my spirit catches up with my body, once my psyche really understands that I’m unemployed, unencumbered, footloose and fancy free for 5 months I’ll be better equipped to put words to it. Right now, there’s a part of me that hasn’t caught up yet but every time I look up I see nothing but blue sky and fluffy clouds and I'm reminded that I'm on my way. Next post is from Helsinki.

saturday

I’d been worried about her, this new roommate of mine. It was her name that concerned me so: Sunny, what kind of a name was that? I wasn’t sure but I imagined its owner to be a dippy, ditzy, private school princess, although I hoped I was wrong - and I was. Our first meeting consisted of her catching me, music blaring, clothes strewn about (unpacked I would have called it), standing in the middle of my bed for no real reason other than it seemed a good place to be; jean shorts, tank top and hair piled high in a messy ponytail. It turned out that between the two of us, I was the dippy, ditzy blond.

She was the yin to my yang. It would have been impossible to find two more polar opposites to share our tiny dorm room but it was wonderful and it worked. In hindsight, I think it worked because of Sunny and in spite of me. While, we’ve both matured with age, I'm the first to admit that I had a LOT longer to go.

You could draw a line down our room: her side and my side. The former sparsely decorated, tidy, organized and the latter a study of chaos: pictures covering the walls, clothes spilling out of drawers, dirty dishes optimistically labelled ‘experiments’ to escape dish duty, and stuff piled high everywhere. I don’t know how she put up with it but she is, and always has been, gracious, kind and tolerant. We had fun. We covered every embarrassing topic that couldn’t be brought anywhere else, a group of us serenaded her through her first bought of alcohol poisening (‘Someone’s puking my lord, kumbayah’), and we convinced ourselves that natchos and salsa constituted 'health food' and indulged ourselves on a nightly basis.

She got married this weekend in one of the funnest wedding celebrations I’ve ever attended. As I listened to the speeches and watched her and her husband circulate among the guests I realized just how long we've been friends, how much we'd both grown, and how lucky I was that she kept me in her life. It's so strange the way the years creep up, the way things like weddings, promotions, babies, new houses etc. startle me with their 'evidence' that we are, in fact, of 'that' age already. Even stranger that I never would have guessed way back in my first year of university that life would only get more fun with age, not less so the way I imagined.

friday

Was that me writing about feeling trapped? Seems like it must have been a lifetime ago but, really, it's only been a few months. When I gave notice back in January it seemed like the three months until I left would last years. For the first few weeks, time did seem to move at a snail's pace but these last 1.5 months have absolutely flown by. So much so that here I am - my last day of work - and it's barely registered.

There are students and colleagues I will miss when I've left, but there hasn't been a single moment where I've doubted my decision. I've learned a lot about the kind of Counsellor I want to be and the kind of environment I need in order to really thrive at work. It's time to go.

This is the third time I've picked up and left for an extended bout of travel. The first in my early 20's, second late 20's and now in my early 30's. It's been very different this time. Not so much my experience preparing to leave but in the responses I've gotten, particularly around leaving my job. A lot of us seem to feel trapped, and I feel judgemental even saying that. I don't really know how people were feeling but the energy coming at me in conversations the weeks leading up to my departure, mostly from those outside of my immediate circle of family and friends, seemed almost bittersweet and tinged at times with regret, envy, and disapproval. At least that's how I experienced it. It was a real conversation stopper.

When I was getting ready to leave I copied out a poem my sister, Ekah, wrote for me for Christmas a few years ago. I love it and I wish the same for you:

Sister. What I give to you:

Infinate room to roam
and the safest place to stop.
The largest field,
with the goldest grain.
The deepest sleep
with the sweetest dreams.

I'd make you quieter than a snowfall,
softer than a baby's babble.

Put you on a butterfly's back
to fly over the greatest ocean
into the thickest sunset of all your favourite colours

Make you small and untraceable,
like the fingerprint of a fairy
left on a stained glass window comprised of all she ever wanted

I would give you peace that transcends all...

how can the soul of the seeker not fly

These last few weeks have been strange ones; empty of reading, writing, talking, even watching movies. This is different. I usually read several books a week and compulsively watch every movie, even the terrible ones, right to the very end but lately I'm picking up books only to put them down moments later and renting movies but barely making it past the opening credits. Not really a phone talker anyway, I've avoided the phone even more so than usual and have even moved my practice home instead of going to the shala. I would say it's because I just want to be alone but I don't really think that's it.

I've tried applying different labels, trying to find the right way to describe how I'm feeling. None of them fit. I'm not depressed, not hibernating, not withdrawing, not 'just going through a quiet phase', not unhappy; really, I'm the opposite of all of these things. I'm absolutely content, happy and present. More so than at any time in the past. I just don't find myself wanting to engage. That's the best I could come up with to describe how I'm feeling: not inspired to engage. Even that, what the heck does that mean? My Aunt put words to it last weekend by observing that I've already moved on, I'm no longer here. That may be it. What I do know is that I'm not looking for distractions, not open to diversions, in that sense, I do just want to be left alone to...be.

This morning I took myself to my favourite coffee shop in Kensington Market to write bringing with me Rumi & Iyengar for inspiration. I got so caught up in Rumi's words that I didn't even make it to Iyengar. Although I've read the passages in the book I'd brought many times before, I read them through new eyes today, smiling to myself as I read. How can one person express emotion so perfectly and so succinctly?

The passage below caught my attention, brought to mind several people I know who are receiving messages loud and clear but each, for their own reasons, struggling to follow.

"How can the soul of the seeker not fly
when a message arrives saying,
'You have been trapped in life like a bird
with no wings...come, come back to me!'

What is the secret that opens the door?
The key is the flutter of the soul's wings
and it's endless longing.

When the door opens, walk on the path
where abundance awaits you,
where everything old becomes new
and never look back.

Drink from the hands of the wine bearer
and you will be blessed
even in this life".

I hope you find what you need to follow the paths revealed to you :) r.

Sometimes a cat is just a cat

Spring has blessed us with her presence and the people of Toronto have hit the streets wearing t-shirts and happy faces. I feel like I've been set free after a long, dark winter and take every opportunity to get outside. At home the windows have been thrown open and the cat has been stuck, riveted, to the windowsill as he rediscovers the sounds of the outside world.

Watching him this morning reminded me of this time last year, his first spring with me. Over the years I've always felt bad for cats when I noticed them sitting by windows looking out with what I imagined to be longing. When I noticed how curious my cat was about life on the other side of the glass, I bought a leash and took him outside thinking I was doing a very good thing.

Instead of bounding about, exploring the new sights, smells and sounds as he had in my very benevolent imagination; he cowered in the shadows of the building, pressed against the ground as if willing himself to disappear, meowing what I imagine was the cat equivalent to "there's no place like home, there's no place like home". If he had ruby slippers to transport him, I'm sure he would have been clicking his little paws madly and meowing even louder. I was so disappointed.

Then I thought about it. What I had done was the equivalent of dropping him onto a whole new planet that he didn't even know existed let alone speak the language, know the customs, or understand the inhabitants. Pretty cruel, actually. It made me conscious of the fact that watching something, even wanting something, is a whole world apart from actually getting it. That sometimes what you want isn't really what you want at all. That having what you desire dropped into your lap can be a terrible thing, sometimes we just have to find our own way there.

Then it made me think 'For craps sake! Sometimes a cat looking out the window is just a cat looking out the window - stop procrastinating and get your ass to work'. And that's what I did :)

same kid, different sandbox

Coffee this morning with I. was frustrating. I enjoy our conversations; the drift between poetry, life, and random topics like today's discussion about skunk cabbage. Even more, I love the way that snipits from our conversations work their way into my thoughts throughout the week, adding something new to whatever I'm mulling over at the moment. So why, then, am I so frequently frustrated during our conversations?

Today I felt something different, something deeper running beneath my frustration: I felt overwhelmed. It hit me for the first time that I. and I have very different conversation styles. He's able to jump into conversation the moment he arrives, almost as if he can hit a 'play' button and, that's it, instant conversation. I'm different. I'm slower to take in my surroundings, to observe what's happening around me, to get a feel for who else is sharing my space and where they're at. I need that time.

Today I got lost in the flurry of I's words. While my mind was still trying to make the transition from that quiet, internal place I was sitting in, I. was already sharing his excitement about the poem he's reading, the statue he found at Edwards Gardens and that, yes, the skunk cabbage is out - spring is just around the corner. As my energy was slowly creeping forward, tentatively reaching out for that comfortable place where our energies could meet and melt together, I's was rushing forward and crashing against mine before completely submerging me like a tidal wave. It was too much. It is too much.

It may take me longer than some to warm up but once I'm there, I'm there. I think I was the same as a child. I'm pretty sure I was one of those watchful kids; that I didn't like being grabbed by the hand and pulled forward preferring, instead, to watch for a while, get the lay of the land and then ever so carefully, unobtrusively work my way in. While I'm able to manage, to hide my reticence, to make myself move more willingly forward, it's definitely learned behaviour. Left to my own devices, I need that time to slowly melt into my surroundings. After all, I'm the same kid, it's just the sandbox that has changed.

crawling

Crawled my way through practice this morning. Had to redesign most of the seated poses as 'lean very slightly forward-asana' but as I was moving through the finishing poses I was overwhelmed by the strongest feeling of gratitude.

Even when its bad, its good.

enough

Ok. I've had enough with the pain. As much fun as these last three months have been with the constant, incessant, neverfreakingending throbbing pain, it's time for this party to end. This week saw the addition of a limp to the previous benefits of extreme discomfort when sitting, climbing stairs, lifting my leg to put on my pants...ya know, any activity that doesn't involve lying down.

I've stopped looking for the lesson, stopped viewing this as a chance to practice non-attachment to my yoga practice, stopped thinking this is an opportunity to treat myself with compassion. At least tonight. Today I finally gave up and stopped my practice at the seated asanas because I just couldn't take it anymore. And then I cried. Where do I go from here? My practice is a non-negotiable part of my life. It's what helps me connect, keeps me focused, helps me centre. I love it, but it hurts. A lot. And it's not getting any better, in fact, its getting worse. I stopped practicing at my shala a few weeks ago because I truly think I might smack someone if they tried to touch me, to adjust me in any way, in any pose - and that just didn't seem very nice. What do I do?

And what's really irritating is that although I'm SO frustrated, SO tired of being in pain, and SO full on fed up with it all, my ability to truly wallow in my misery is marred by this: I can't help but smirk at the fact that life is, quite literally, a pain in the ass.

That and the fact that I've just realized I have time to get a tourist visa for Russia or India but not both.

a drama queen even in boredom...

A journal entry from 10 years ago today made me laugh(amazing the things I can find to do when procrastinating from cleaning). Here it is:

March 19, 1996
I happened, out of boredom, to read an entry in this journal. My eyes opened wide in surprise - heart beating faster, I turned the page, the blood ran from my cheeks and I began to sweat, though I was suddenly freezing. I forced myself through one more entry before slumping back in my chair, glassy eyes staring blankly ahead. My pen rolled across the desk, coming to the edge and teetering for a moment before plunging to the ground, I smiled to myself pleased at the symbolism. It was true...still is true:

I. Am not. Interesting.

Hah! I crack myself up. I guess the more things change, the more they stay the same ;)

finishing up

I leave in a few weeks for five months of travelling and, as my departure date nears, questions about whether I'm 'ready yet' are coming with increasing frequency. So frequently that I have a request: Can you all stop asking me that? I don't quite know what you mean but I can pretty much guarantee that those things I should be doing haven't even occured to me yet - that's the way I do things.

That's not to say I haven't started preparing for my departure yet. I have. I'm engaged in a mad frenzy of finishing up 'stuff' and I'm having a great time doing it. Fancy lotions, conditioners, and shampoos that I would normally use sparingly are being tossed about with complete abandon - bathing has become a most decadent affair. I'm gradually making my way through those 'hand wash only' items that languish at the bottom of my laundry bin waiting for 'next week' when I 'have more time'. And I'm working through the pile of books that have been given to me as 'must reads'; just about done Bruce Chatwin's 'Songlines', finished John Irving's most recent 800+ page excuse for a novel tonight and began 'Reading Lolita in Tehran'.

The one area that's proving challenging is the kitchen. I'm finding the strangest things in there: cans upon cans of palm hearts, bamboo shoots and baby corn (who eats baby corn?), way too many boxes of cooking chocolate to make sense, brown rice, basmati rice, risotto rice, millet, wheat berries, amaranth, gelatin, yeast, 3 bottles of molasses, 6 different types of vinegar, white sugar, brown sugar, turbino sugar, icing sugar, splenda, egg replacer, stevia, agar agar, arrowroot, guam, tapioca...I don't even eat these things. Which explains why they're still there, commiserating with each other on my shelves.

So far, work has benefitted the most from my efforts to clear out my cupboards. Last Friday I was able to use my inexplicable surplus of rice krispies and corn syrup to make vegan rice krispy squares and this Friday it'll be an apple walnut loaf which should finish off the homemade applesauce ambitiously stocked away in my freezer. Next week? Who knows, but one thing is clear: I'm going to have to start getting creative. Send your suggestions for baby corn chocolate millet bread my way.

can't argue with that

I keep getting tagged with emailed quizzes to 'discover your inner Disney character'. I delete them all with no small amount of irritation. C'mon, my inner Disney character? What nonsense.

Today my discovery that it is, in fact, Tuesday NOT Wednesday coincided with yet another invitation from my very persistent Disney friends. In the mood for distraction, I finally accepted. Here are my results: You scored as Sleeping Beauty. You are beautiful and enchanting, and as sweet as ever.

Hey, I can admit when I'm wrong. This test? Clearly not nonsense.

all is coming

I have only one page left in my current journal which, to me, is so very appropriate. All of my journals follow the trend of ending at the same time as I mark a transition in my life, concrete reminders of the closing of one chapter and beginning of a new one. On this same day next month I'll be free and somewhere else. April 11 will be the first day of five months as a tumbleweed. I'll have the space that, re-reading my current journal, I've been craving for a long time. I have no idea what's going to fill that space, or even why I need it so badly, but what's important is that I have it and that I'm giving it to myself.

Before I fill the last few pages of a journal, I always read through the entries from start to finish to observe: what's happened, how am I doing, what strange dreams actually make sense with the grace of hindsight, what was I worried about and how did it turn out, what people, places, dreams, ideas, things, symbols keep popping up? It's been an interesting nine months with entries bridging a chilled out summer, ridiculously busy fall term, and a winter marked by transitions. One thing that struck me was the tone of several entries where I expressed deep disappointment in myself. It was interesting to observe my expectations spelled out so explicitly: that I not settle, that I pay attention to how I'm feeling, that I be authentic in my choices.

I forget the source of this quote but some very smart person said that "there are years that ask questions and years that answer them". I often see that reflected in my journals but this one was a bit different. Where my last journal was very clearly a record of questions, this journal showed a bit of a respite from both. Its simply been a year of living. But its also been a year of preparation and a year of growing pains. Reading back over my experience of this, before I really knew what was happening, I observed a lot of impatience: change now...figure it out now...start now...I need to know now.

In addition to striving, attending to my feelings, and being authentic in my choices there's something else I need to add to the mix: patience.

spring has sprung

The sun is already shining happily and it's only 8:30am. For the first time in several long winter months, it found me in bed this morning and bathed me in its warmth while I lounged lazily; sleeping in but just awake enough to revel in the decadent feeling that accompanies sleeping in.

Walking to the coffee shop on the sunny side of the street, I imagined myself dropped into a Norman Rockwell painting: people walking slowly, hands held with toddlers precarious on their unsure but determined legs; bakery doors thrown open, the enticing scent of fresh-baked pastries chasing after those passing by; young boys on bicycles weaving in and out of pedestrian traffic and young girls in skirts that have been waiting eagerly all these months for warm weather to make their appearance. The feel of the sun after the dark winter was palpable, almost as if I could reach out and scoop it up into a warm, golden sunball.

Last night I had bookclub where we set a record by not mentioning the book once but the conversation, a mix of goofy, ridiculous, academic, and touching, didn't suffer in the slightest from it. And now I sit in the sun, ignoring my morning papers in favour of writing and watching the pigeons socialize on the window ledge. My only agenda this weekend is to get outside and enjoy the sun. I can't imagine a more wonderful day.

Summer postcard, 2005

I wanted to add something to bump the previous, cranky entry down but, unfortunately, I'm fresh out of inspiration these days. This postcard from camping last summer was buried in my daytimer and it gave such a welcome respite from this rainy winter day - it'll more than do to ease the crankiness of the other...

Well, here I am camping. I sit quietly on a sun-warmed rock looking at the big blue of Georgian bay. Watching a family of birds feasting on bright pink thistles in front of my tent. Since the thistles have such fragile stems, the birds flutter down from a willow bush to dance over the pink blossoms, picking at their pollen.

Mingled in the thistles is bright blue lavender which attracts orange, black, white and yellow butterflies. So, I sit at 4:30pm in the shade with this mad symphony of colours trembling in front of me. The bay is very quiet with an evening breeze creating prints, like a cat has danced across the water, over the stillness of the deep, blue bay.

Pink thistles, blue lavender, green/gray willow leaves, dancing birds, brightly coloured butterflies and the warm, georgian breeze lifting my hair. I hope I remember this come winter...