Something is Everything

Something sounds so vague and,

like a lump of clay, needs shaping 

into whatever brings happiness or 

is just pleasing to the eye and ear. 

Something ~ left alone and ignored will

dry up, and in the distance of time, loses meaning and substance.

Something is like the fence for

ivy that creeps with tiny feet;

a wall of stone with blossoms frothing from cracks and crevices, or links of wire for blackberries that ripen, cling and climb.

Something is a cloud in the sky 

looking up, there are

rabbits, dragons or only a cloud 

stretched across the horizon.

Something is a tree named elm or oak

until a passerby says hello and pats 

its gnarly trunk imbuing it with 

the personality of a friendly guardian 

granting us shade from the hot sun or 

blessing the ground with pink ‘snow’ at blossom time.

Something is a vehicle by land, sea or air that 

whisks us away to where ever we want to go 

~ in a meander down a country lane to see what we can see,

past fields of heavy headed grain, herds of cattle, or flocks of sheep

or travels to other lands to see castles, windmills and history. 

We are all somethings among the rocks, trees and animals 

and when something joins us all together that 

we can cherish or dismiss or worse yet, ignore 

when something disastrous happens, 

our precious somethings crumble to ash and darkness.

I prefer my something to be

bright, warm and all around me so 

I can see, hear and touch 

somethings that are 

glorious or maybe just nice.

“You are the silence between the notes. The white space between 

the letters. The missing that makes everything else a something.”

~ pleasefindthis (pen name of Iain S. Thomas),

I Wrote This For You: Just the Words

                                                                                                                                                                                  

 

One Year Ago

It’s been one year, as of yesterday - March 11th, 2020 - when the World Health Organization declared a global pandemic of the Covid 19 virus. If I had heard only that on a news report, I may have been mildly curious. To think that my little corner of Canada would be affected would not have made much sense. If memory serves, I had met with my Walking Group, only two days before at our usual coffee shop. Rumours had already floated through Victoria about the possible news that would change all of our lives and perspectives. Businesses were beginning to close or restructure. We were hearing words like social distancing and the importance of hand washing. Masks had not yet ballooned into a subject of great consternation among the populations of the world. 

Little did our group know that, after almost sixteen years, our walking group that had already shrunk in size, would be denied the absolute pleasure of meeting every Monday morning for walking, talking and solving all the worlds problems - we had failed to be alert for a pandemic!  For the first many weeks, it was as though everyone had gone silent. Streets were practically empty, no one met casually for a chat, to the library, to the movies. No one knew how long this disaster would go on, how many things would be affected and could anyone fix it. 

Very gradually, we all picked up the few pieces that we could. Now, in my group of friends, (some would call us senior citizens) I can only name one person who is truly computer literate - the rest of us do the best we can. Over this past year, out of necessity, we have blossomed - or maybe sprouted. Zooming has allowed many of our social activities to continue. Facetime, Skype and any form of electronic communication (telephones!) has been much appreciated. Pale replacements for real face time, real hugs, laughter without an electronic tinge. Going to actual museums - but grateful for the virtual ones. Going to dance or music lessons - but grateful for the virtual ones. Book clubs meeting in actual living rooms - but grateful for the online ones. I could go on - but - I won’t.

My personal response to the familial and community effects of the pandemic? In July of last year, and at 73 years of age, with the help of my son, I uprooted myself and returned to Regina, Saskatchewan - my home province. I am still separated from many family members, but now the distance is shorter for some very important people - a son, my grandson and my great granddaughter. One of my sons  remains in Vancouver keeping his salon business active despite Public Health restrictions. Many days in this past year, it has been a challenge, but one I am so very glad I accepted. It’s become a wonderful part of my new normal.

“…they were just being normal, and they were enjoying

 that elusive state of simply BEING…”

~ Kristan Higgins, Good Luck with That

 

Book Review: The Henna Artist by Alka Joshi

This was a hard book for me to read. The life of Lakshmi Shastri was so much harder, but well paid. In order for her to keep body and soul together and her intention to own her own house, she worked her well pad magic in intricate henna designs on the hands and feet of the wealthy and powerful in Jaipur, India. Set in India from November, 1955 - November, 1956, when India was still in the grip of an age-old caste system and post colonial era, Lakshmi Shastri, a single woman with no family, had to finesse her way into this society. She was introduced to her clientele through the questionable good graces of the charming Samir Singh; his wife Parvati one of her first clients. He purchased from her sachets of cotton root so his many mistresses would be free of any unwanted burdens. She kept his secrets only so she could keep moving towards her goals. Lakshmi’s character did not seem to be a malicious person, just a woman who had run away from an abusive husband and, because of the shame to her family she left her home and had only to survive. A single woman alone in a culture that did not approve.

Lakshmi’s story revealed the many layers in India due, cultural norms and rules, long standing caste systems and the recent post colonization of the British. Alka Joshi spun this story slowly and clearly, each step of the anxiety that Lakshmi lived was detailed as beautifully as she painted her henna designs. Malik, Lakshmi’s protector, a child of about eight or nine when she found him on the streets was hired to help her in her business. Although he was Muslim to her Buddhism, they became fast friends. He supported her when her anxiety escalated with the introduction of a sister that she did not know existed. Radha, 13 years old, was brought to Jaipur by Hari, the husband she had fled. This twist to the story created new layers of worry for Lakshmi. Head strong Radha, had had little parenting and resisted Lakshmi’s attempts at parenting: an out of wedlock pregnancy ensued, a royal adoption proposed. All Lakshmi’s plans and relationships crumbled as easily as a castle of cards. 

Themes that run loudly silent through this story are the oppression of the women of the culture, and the strength of women to survive despite their status: economic or societal. Pressure to bear male children, and yet pressure to abort any children if a pregnancy was inconvenient. Lakshmi’s story revolves around these themes. Despite these difficulties, The Henna Artist had quite a satisfactory ending. The tension that author, Alka Joshi had built, was eased slowly and gently much to my relief. 

“When the Goddess of Wealth comes to give you her blessing, 

you shouldn’t leave the room to wash your face.”

~ Hindu Proverb (front page of The Henna Artist)

Title: The Henna Artist

Author: Alka Joshi

Copyright: 2020

Publisher: Mira Publishing - This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

Type: Novel

Format: Soft cover

ISBN - 978-0-7783-1020-4

Chapter Two, Episode Twenty-four - In a Tizzy - Situationally Theirs

Review, Revision, Edit and Update

To review In a Tizzy, I read it out loud to myself. I found a few sentences, in several paragraphs, that either were awkward to read or were just lacking. My writing challenge was to restructure the sentences in question and maintain the intent. I find that when I have left a revision for period of time, I am not as invested in the words. If I leave it too long, I may not even know what the intention was!

In a Tizzy

Nibbling at the edges of her intention to stay as far away from exposure as possible from the Covid19 virus was her worries about this new situation. Ever since the episode at the hospital with Em’s long lost daughter, Dez Eliot had been more wary than ever. It was certainly not Jeremy’s fault that he just happened to be a doctor working on a Covid unit and he just happened to marry Em and she just happened to be her sister. But that’s what it is! Dez knew she could have hidden in her apartment, slammed and locked the door, hiding from everyone, including her sister, until the viral pandemic dust had settled, but she wasn't willing to give in to that wretched feeling of claustrophobic isolation. 

Her intention really was to stay safe, not get sick and keep her relationship with her sister solid. Otherwise, Dez was alone in the world. She hadn’t even  seen her good friend, Matt Hamilton for weeks, hadn’t even heard from him. She wanted to think it was because it had been winter and he was busy doing winter things for his orchard. Dez practically shouted. “Orchard! I haven’t done a thing about the Estate orchard and spring is around the corner. Now that I’m letting Em stay here and she’s going to be in contact with Jeremy, even if with masks, hand washing and distance, I've been nervous about going out to the Estate very often. But I’ll think about that later.” Dez went to the desk in her bedroom cluttered with books and papers, some from the orchard workshop at Matt’s last summer. She gathered them all up and took them to the living room.

Dez’s television was on low for Public Health updates for Hartley and the Island. A commercial just ended as she sat down on her couch in time to hear   “……vaccination rollouts on the Island……”  Relief flooded her. Picking up the TV remote, she turned the volume up. She knew that Jeremy, a health care worker and physician on the Hartley General Covid unit, would be one of the first to get the vaccine. The Channel 4 reporter had continued “….will not prevent the disease but will prevent serious illness……”  Dez, not a woman who scared easily, had struggled this past year. Usually she stepped right into the fray, but this viral thing was one she chose not to take on. This invisible virus! Why, even in her own building with people she had come to know over the six years she had been there, the halls were usually empty. No gathering in the foyer or middle of the halls to visit. If it did occur, everyone wore masks and kept their distance. Nods and the occasional attempt at conversation had made her apartment building feel like a tomb. It would be such a relief to have Em here…… The Public Health Officer’s voice broke through her thoughts “family members of health care workers may also be considered in the first roll out...”. She sighed and smiled to herself, clicking off the TV, glad that Em would be taken care of as well. 

“I hate being in such a tizzy or muddle or just feeling….. a real mess. lf I want to feel comfortable having Em here, my apartment needs a good clean and I need supplies. I love her, I love her, but it’s pretty risky right now. What do I need? More masks - the disposable ones, I’m out of hand soap almost - so that goes on the list - and hand sanitizer for when either of us come through the door. - I suppose we could carry some - no, I do that already and always forget it. A mat for our shoes so we don’t track anything in….” She tapped frantically on her cell phone. “Oh, and a room divider so I can set up a sort of guest bedroom for Em - I think I have one in my storage unit. The building has a cot I can rent….. I’ll have to think about that one. Now, I’d best clean my house and choose a corner for Em’s ‘room’. Worrying about all this stuff won’t get any of it done.” Dez picked up her cell phone and called Your Pharmacy and Grocery Basket and ordered hand soap, hand sanitizer, some Lysol spray and wipes, and two boxes of masks for pick up later in the day. 

Scribbling a note on a stray piece of paper, she stuck it on her bulletin board: “Call Matt - see if he’s ok” She was about to put her mask on for her trip to her storage room, when her phone rang and Matt’s name popped up on the screen. Reaching for it, she knocked her cell phone on the floor and scooped it up in one, almost graceful, movement. “Matt? Is that you?!” “Hey Dez how are you?” “Matt! I was just thinking about you. How are you? Where have you been?” A quick chat, they decided to meet in the park. It was a beautiful, almost springlike, day. Matt would bring coffee. Two hours later, after catching up on all their news, their worries, and of course, Emelina and Jeremy’s elopement, there was a pause in their conversation. Dez checked her watch. “Oh, Matt, I have go! I have to pick up some supplies at the grocery store. Can we meet tomorrow for lunch out here? If it raining we can eat over there in the gazebo.” 

“It’s OKAY to be scared. Being scared means you’re 

about to do something really, really brave.”

~ Mandy Hale, The Single Woman: Life, Love, and a Dash of Sass

 

Over There

'Over there' is always an option 

- a boat I can travel on

start the engines to stir waters

feel the sun warming my face,

and wind combing my hair ~ but ~ 

does it fit with my intention 

to put my feet down and

stay still while my pen moves 

curving into letters 

swirling into ideas 

until my hips get sore

my hand cramps and

I wiggle just to keep my blood flowing. 

over there may be across the room

or outside on the water or the prairies 

when the words begin to flow again. 

am I making excuses for myself

so I can put my pen down?

this artistry paying only dividends of enjoyment 

painting word pictures in black ink or pixels. 

bending to the old messages 

- maybe not always so old -

that zeroes in on dollars and cents 

when it is sense that should be attended to. 

bending to those messages 

carved and curved into my memories 

like rutted grooves of an old vinyl recording. 

spinning ‘round and ‘round without stopping 

until I really look over there 

is that option really all that much better?

is it just busy work?

only a different form of play?

will I come back to what intrigues me most 

putting pen to paper to curve and carve out 

what my head, hand and heart want 

until over there is a rest, a pause, a refill for

it is the well outside of me that

refills my spirit and gives my body rest 

from this unproductive but joyous thing - 

(I sound like a scratchy voice on a very old message machine.)

So I hoist my sails,

sling a pack on my back

and write a story of 

over there. 

“Writing is its own reward.”

~ Henry Miller

 

All These Little Things

Intrigued by the pull of the things

that I think I need to own, 

people I think I need to see ~ 

restlessness stirs in my legs

while my feet remain at rest. 

Always ‘I wonder if….’ ~ and

‘it wouldn’t happen to me’ or 

‘it would be so nice to have what I don’t have’ and

from a darkened corner of mind, echoes a question  - 

‘What would happen if you just live with what you have and be with friends and family as best you can

(without whining).’

Would that intrigue the same way?

From another darkened corner of my mind 

a pout-y child, tears shining in big eyes,

‘but I want what I want when I want it and..and...

and I want to give and get real hugs!’ 

Somewhere in the middle

can be a place of calmness and acceptance

my middle self becomes intrigued with my surroundings.

finding little joys that spark with lightning speed

laughing out loud and learning over the airwaves because I can.

and in the middle there is also time and space

to be sad or angry that the ease of life 

we once knew has vanished and yet

I am intrigued by the gentle pull of these all little things.

“I was especially perceptive to all things beautiful that morning 

- raspberries in blue china bowls were enough to make the heart sing.”

~ Irene Hunt, Up a Road Slowly

Shadowed

Taking intention for a walk?

What intention?

To just be outside?

To visit a good friend?

To follow the shadow on the wall?

To fill my ‘creativity bucket’ 

pandemic restrictions cramped my style

no roaming all over! merely

circling around the neighbourhood

oh, and the cold - today banished

 - prevented me from roaming at all.

morning’s sunshine shadow on my wall

beckoned me ~ this afternoon

not feeling all that creative I write:

I had been brave ~ I had gone for a walk

without snow boots, but

my ordinary shoes ~ not water proof ~

I avoided puddles! 

slipped/slid on ice crackling over 

thin slicks of snowmelt. 

my body strong, balance kept me 

from frigid muddy puddles 

flowing from dirty snow 

bumping along sidewalks,

mounds of icy snow watering 

the lawns beneath and

fading fast in the warm sunshine.

In the sunshine of 

laughter, coffee and rhubarb upside down cake

the icy tension of isolation from friends faded fast.

“Walking is man’s best medicine.”

~ Hippocrates