The Land of the Never-ending Future

A new day, like a new page,

is an invitation to create something new with the familiar.

Will this new design be made from hopes and dreams for the future, or disappointments and achievements of the past?

Will there be more questions than answers?

Will answers bring more questions 
along with relief or worry?

The best design blends color, textures and memories ~ 

brightness and dark in a counter balanced tapestry. 

Shades of the past overlap today 

into all of our tomorrows to reveal 

The Land of the Never-ending Future.

“Learn from yesterday, live for today, hope for tomorrow.

The important thing is not to stop questioning.”

~ Albert Einstein

A Path for Precious Memories

A Path for Precious Memories

The old writing desk sat indecorously close to the wall in the garret of the old house on an old street in an old town. This haphazard arrangement positioned the desk so that, when I sat here to write, I could look out over an old rose garden. In the spring, the old garden was full of wild flowers and ever present morning glory vines. There did appear to be an attempt, long ago, to create flower beds and order, but the overgrown yard and the old house had been left alone for many years. The carefully ordered flower beds had almost disappeared into the multicolored jungle. In amongst the chaotic growth were tall saskatoon bushes, remnants of a long ago attempt to transplant something of the prairies to an island far from prairie community pastures.  

It was in such community pastures that families tumbled out of cars or trucks to get each year's delicious fruit destined for wonderful pies, jam, syrup and the freezer. Big plastic ice cream pails and anything else with a handle that would hold berries came from the trunks of cars. The smallest bucket went to the smallest child. Some adults would only use specific pails bragging that they had ‘used that pail for the last ten years’ and ‘if I don’t use that pail, I don’t find that many berries’. Others made sure the little ones had containers with good handles. Having good handles prevented many of the berries, those that escaped hungry little mouths, from being spilled into the tall grass and lost to all but the ants and little burrowing things always grateful for the bounty. A good stout handle also avoided the tears that came when all that work, hard for a little boy or girl when it was so hot, tumbled mercilessly into the grass. Or worse yet, into a fresh cow patty!

Wrapping that memory in tissue paper and setting it in a safe place, I found one lonely ice cream pail in the mud room of this old house and set out to my back yard to find enough of the sweet purple berries for a pie. When I returned to the kitchen, I found not only enough for a pie, but a small bit that just filled a china fruit nappy. Setting the fruit nappy with its treasure in the freezer, I slipped back into a memory of winter tastes from that young time. Busying myself with other tasks while they froze, I started making a delicious saskatoon pie. The few berries froze quickly, and pouring milk over the berries, they iced all around giving me little individual treats full of sweet purple juice turning the milk mauve. Dusting my icy gems with a bit of sugar, not nearly as much as when I was ten,the sweet milky snack awaited.  Ice melted as the warmth of my tongue rolled each one around seeking the edge of the skin, teeth bit into the soft inner flesh.  Taste and texture of the prairies filled me with wide skies and hot dusty summer heat.

“Nothing is ever really lost to us as long as we remember it.”

~ L.M.Montgomery, The Story Girl

Storyteller ~1

Who are you?  

Where are you?

Looking in a mirror, I see you ~ 

dressed for work, 

dressed for play, 

dressing up, or

putting make-up on ~

hair being arranged.

But who are you?  

A crooked back, 

epileptic, 

a nurse?

Where are you?  

In each memory and in each vision.

It grows difficult seeing you 

as you shift and change from either place.

And so I look around me.  

see the things you do. 

Too suddenly becoming the tasks 

but not the soul of the tasks.  

As the wind blows the willow trees 

releasing leaves in their gentle fall to the ground, 

so your soul is the breath that moves our task ~ 

filled with soul’s intention.

You become a vessel, a great facilitator to be honored in each moment.  

And so, to be honored, I offer you my great gratitude, 

thanking you for all that we have shared and done together.

I also commit, once again, that 

your care be foremost in my mind,

daily caring for you first,

for from your finger tips and heart, 

with feet planted firmly, we live.

“You are the storyteller of your own life, 

and you can create your own legend or not.”

~ Isabel Allende, 

Chilean-American Writer and Lecturer

Trifling with Trifle

I have dared to create a trifle all of my own ~

A lovely, but too moist, angel food cake made with Pear/Applesauce, fell apart and, as a flop and a failure, could surely have met its demise then and there.

But it tasted so good!

And - I can’t bear to throw food out - even if it is just cake.

Over coffee with a friend, I told her of my mishap,

how I would use the badly damaged cake in my daily desserts.

'By adding cake with my fruit and yogurt, it would almost be like a trifle.'

Inspiration took the floor!

As soon as I got to my kitchen,

these two lovely bowls of my ‘Trifle’ were created.

***

Trifle has quite long, rich and varied history!

The first known written documentation was in England in 1596.

From then till now trifle seems to have been a dessert made from what was available to brighten and lighten a festive meal.

First recipe - merely sugar, ginger and rosewater.

Sixty years later milk and bread joined in - with only a bit of alcohol (to soften the bread I’m sure)

Trifle has been call a 'fool' or 'foole'!

Bread was exchanged for sponge cake through the ages.

Jelly (liquid gelatin dessert) was added.

English Trifle has also been known as ‘fool’ or ‘foole’.

Scottish Trifle - Tipsy Laird with Drambuie or whisky

Southern U.S.  another variant is ‘tipsy hedgehog’ or ‘tipsy parson’

Creole trifle, also known by two other names (Russian cake or Russian Slab)

Italy has a similar dessert known as ‘zuppa inglese’ - meaning English Soup!

Spain  - a distant relative is 'bizcocho boracho'

Consistent with history, Susan's Trifle was born of what was handy and from my imagination:

my delicious angel food cake - moist with Pear/Apple Sauce

raspberries and last years black berries in the freezer

lovely thick greek yogurt instead of custard.

Drizzle a little honey between the layers, a sprinkle of nutmeg on top and there you have it!

Delicious!

“The history of the world is the record of 

a man in quest of his daily bread and butter.”

~ Hendrik Wilhelm van Loon, the Story of Mankind 

Resource:

Wikipedia

'The History of Trifle' - What's Cooking America webpage.

Slotted Schedules

\

We all need schedules.

Don’t we?

Like a slotted spoon dipping into a pot of soup, schedules catch bits of life to be shared with someone else.

Be careful!

Goodness may drain through, letting some savory bits escape our taste buds.

Or a schedule could be seen like this gate,

bars that showing only rectangles of sunshine, eyed jealously from in front, 

or ~ trapped on the other side, mere glimpses of the busy, lively street below.

Wind whistles through,

wafting scents and aromas,
bearing sounds and music of 

another life that might await us.

Gates do have value though,

keeping dirt, chaff and riffraff out,

allowing a moment in time to stop,

open the gate,

look both ways before proceeding. 

Like this gate,

there is a lock on our scheduled lives.

We are the only ones with the key to that lock.

(Now where did I put that darn thing?

And what does it look like?)

Schedules also have value ~

promoting give and take within

work

family

community.

However, if we give ourselves over

only to a schedule with others

we will have locked our own interior gate

and hidden the key.

And, more frightening yet...

time alone may feel directionless and disconnected.

Find the lock.

Find the key.

(If it's been locked too long, it may need a bit of oil...)

Open the door..........

“Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one’s courage.”

~ Anaïs Nin

A Question of Politics

Politics is a funny thing....

Not an amusing sort of funny, but curious.

Today in Victoria, there was a protest of thousands of citizens

giving voice to the local grassroots concerns about development of the Northern Gateway Pipeline.

On tap on TV was the third and final U.S. Presidential debate.  

Topic?  Foreign Policy with all the nuances of the leaders from two disparate party policies. 

The political layers for both of these sorts of events

weave throughout our societies via

personalities

principles

Where do the layers start ~

At the grassroots and grow up

Or at an economic top and trickle down

What about those folks in the middle who live and work whether

someone wins or someone loses

Which issues come first ~

personal and daily 

local and scheduled

regional and broader

national on an even broader scale

global and beyond my limited understanding

And whom do we believe ~

politicians

developers

protesters

media

colleagues

neighbours

What parts are played by ~

culture

religion

gender

education or illiteracy

housed or homeless

illness or health

art, music and literature

Behind the images and reflections that we are given to look at,

what events have already occurred below the surface?

Curious isn’t it?

I wonder ~ is there a principle to guide all of these things?

“In dwelling, live close to the ground.  In thinking, keep to the simple.

In conflict, be fair and generous.  In governing, don’t try to control.

In work, do what you enjoy. In family life, be completely present.”

~ Lao Tzu

Rocks in a Western Sea

Great rocks buried beneath the waves,

their rising humps seem awfully brave.

Each day met with sun or cloud, and trod upon by a noisy crowd 
of seagulls, crows, dogs and me when we walk by this western sea.

The ocean covers more or less 

when tides roll in upon the mess 

of sea life clinging to the rocks;

icy water gives them shock, 
and quiet tides a bit of rest,

shallow water being best.

Looking down through water clear,

I see the folds of rock that steer

deep waters in from west or east

around this silent, solid beast.

The giant rocks as God created,

all to the Universe are mated. 

Pebbles small, boulders large, 

gigantic mountains all submerge,

to live outside man’s laws and creeds,

and lying still they do no deeds.

Caring not for good or bad,

they have not feelings, gay or sad.

A rumpled foundation for wayward feet,

the earth argues not, each time we meet.

“Adopt the pace of nature: her secret is patience.”

~ Ralph Waldo Emerson