An Evening at the Ballet

Last evening was filled with the vitality of dance. Graceful, beautiful poise and precision flowed from the stage to a packed house audience at the Royal Theatre at 805 Broughton St. here in Victoria. Walking to the theatre with friends in an unusual, for Victoria, crisp cold of early winter, the four of us joined throngs of theatre goers to see the Ballet Boyz. Ballet Boyz is a dance troupe from the U.K. whose only stop in Canada was in Victoria for two nights - Nov. 14 and 15. Formed from ten men, each one an experienced ballet artist, this dance troupe is internationally known and travels extensively. A first for me, this performance was not the delicate ballet I have been exposed to on television. For me, attending any ballet is outside of my frame of reference, my career having consumed most of my life. Attending this remarkable performance was a conscious move to see a part of life outside of that career world. Not only was I not disappointed, but I learned more about myself as an individual outside of nursing and the work world.

“Dancing is creating a sculpture that is visible only for a moment.”

~ Erol Ozan

By the Light of the Moon

Words

drip….dripping

drip...dripping

Time 

Tick….ticking

Tick…..ticking

Vitality

Cozy in flannel

Sleep

zzzz…….zzzzzzzz

“Sleeping is no mean art: for it's sake one must stay awake all day.”

~ Friedrich Nietzsche

Patrick's Secret Gift of Kindness

Sanford Fisher’s painting hangs on my wall 
A simple shack in a prairie snow storm
Sparse trees, bare and black, edged in white
Pale drifts of colour vitalize winter sky ~
reflected in snow laden brush.

Thank you Patrick..
Rest deeply in peace.

“The spirit of an artist’s gifts can wake our own.”

~ Lewis Hyde, “The Gift”

Book Review: The Confabulist by Steven Galloway

The Confabulist. The title tells the core of this story. The first page opens the door into the story with a scene between a Dr. Korsakoff and a nameless patient. The last sentence of this first chapter introduces the mystery of this man’s identity. By definition, confabulation is ‘the confusion of imagination with actual memories or the formation of false memories, due to a psychological or neurological disorder’ (The Encyclopedia of Psychology - Psych Central)

I have read several reviews on the Goodread’s site - not all - but several. I attended my monthly book group yesterday afternoon. The discussion was lively and full of questions never completely resolved.

My own perception of this book, initally, was that it just seemed a history of Harry Houdini, as told by the protagonist, Martin Strauss. There were many characters with much intrigue however there was an emotional flatness that did not seem to match the level of intrigue. I came away from the discussion and reading with the interpretation that this book is about one man's descent into memory distortions and dementia, describing the disruptions that rob an individual of their vitality, replacing them with paranoia and fear. As dementia is a puzzle that defies being unlocked, it seemed natural that Harry Houdini, with renown for magic and escapes from the unescapable, be the subject of this story. Unfortunately, I was in a minority with this idea both in my group and on the Goodread’s site. 

Steven Galloway, whether my interpretation is accurate or not, has beautifully crafted actual details from Houdini’s life as previously documented, along with spiritualism, politics and international intrigue. Memory and magic, belief and perception are all part of this well written story of magic and memory.

“Magic is believing in what we understand is not real 

because we want it to be. Magic is that tiny fraction 

keeping you from infinity. And right now this is magic.”

~ Steven Galloway, from The Confabulist

Remembrance Day 2014

Just before writing this, I watched and listened to Canada’s Soldier, a CBC documentary hosted by Peter Mansbridge. This powerful documentary retraces the experiences of soldiers in the first World War through letters, graffiti on the walls of tunnels in France and the words of family of soldiers in that awful war of 1914 - 1918.

Earlier I watched the Remembrance Day ceremony at the National War Memorial in Ottawa. After the ceremonies of laying wreaths, a rededication of the War Memorial by Princess Anne, and all the ceremony of this day, the march past began. At other Remembrance Day services, in other towns or cities and in other years, the march past has never failed to bring a tear to my eye. My heart feels full and proud. Proud of the continued service of the many men and women that are served their countries in so many capacities. 

I do not believe that war is necessary nor does it appear to be effective. I have no other solutions to the many issues that our world faces globally. What I do know is that the vitality of many young men and women was destroyed completely. For many others their vitality in the face of returning home from battlefields far away is shrunken and distorted. This is where I see that war is the most ineffective, and this is also the place that I see the most need for honouring all of our soldiers.

Ordinarily on this second Tuesday of the month, I would be writing a book review. Because of living in a democratic country, I can attend book groups - and read the books of my choice. Last night, I attended a Mayoralty Debate at Our Place, a community center for the homeless population. Both the debate and the voice given to the homeless within that debate is also a result of freedoms won by the lives and psyches of soldiers.

So my deepest thanks go to all soldiers that have created this freedom for us. 

“War is the greatest evil Satan has invented to corrupt our hearts and souls. 

We should honour our soldiers, but we should never honour war.”

~ Dean Hughes, Far From Home

A String of Lights

A tiny light of joy twinkled years ago
More flared and shone as years went by
Then dimmed in shadowed scarcity
Never good enough
Never right enough

Another light twinkled strong and bright
Last Friday night ~ not years ago
Brilliance and vitality shone with friends around
Now is enough
Now is right enough.

The light of years ago glowed bright
And all the tiny lights o’er years gone past
‘til a string of lights lit up my soul.
I am enough
I am right enough.

“The history of your happiness is the history of your feeling connected.”

~ Vironika Tugaleva, The Love Mindset

"Show Up, Be Seen, Live Brave" - Brene Brown

Personal growth does not seem to have an end point. This weekend was filled with two days of learning about the emotional traps of vulnerability and of shame. When the potentials of both of these traps are addressed on a personal level, stepping out of certain ineffective and possibly damaging behaviours is possible. This workshop, developed by Brené Brown, LLC and facilitated by Bryn Meadows, Certified Daring Way Facilitator, was illuminating and challenging. Brené Brown’s research into vulnerability expanded after she read the quote ‘it is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and blood...who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high acheivement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly. - Theodore Roosevelt”

As small group, we were able to discuss and disclose in a safe and well run environment. I appreciated and am grateful to all the attendees and especially to Bryn for this very worthwhile weekend of growth. The vitality in the room waxed and waned with emotions supported and softened by caring and laughter. 

For more information access the websites posted:
brenébrown.com
brynmeadows@me.com
thedaringway.com 

I am attaching a re-post from my blog post from June of this year:

Remembering Shame

This inspiration came from a garbage bag and a toothpick.
An innocent looking, but used, toothpick lay on my kitchen counter.  
Not especially dirty, but used and needing disposal.

The garbage bag? 
Innocent white plastic - a clean liner to my kitchen garbage container.

vivid shaming memories of 

everything done wrong, 
been told I’ve done wrong
even been suspected of wrong doing.

Throwing it in the freshly lined kitchen garbage pail, my hope was that it wouldn’t make a hole in bottom so nasty stuff wouldn’t leak out. As I put my fruit and vegetable peels in a separate container, I quickly dismissed that as an unlikely possibility.

vivid shaming memories of
who do you think you are
you can’t do that
don’t bother trying
you shouldn’t have done that

Memories, shaped like toothpicks, do not grow as we grow.
Forgotten parts of the memory are
youth of the child or teen or young parent............
exciting inspiration like fragile balloons
life experience behind the voice of that memory.
(and that voice may have been my own! using those same words on another!)

vivid self doubt
planted deep and nurtured carefully
fed and watered with shame and tears
roots clinging to the soil around spirit
choking out healthy growth.

Once self doubt is planted 
and if memory is to be believed 100%
can there be any turning back?
Or like the weeds in the garden, 
four foot tall thistles with vicious barbs,
or the undergrowth of an untamed field
are we willing to find tools to tackle this long planted self doubt?

“Shame corrodes the very part of us that believes we are capable of change.”

~ Brené Brown, I Thought It Was Just Me: 

Women Reclaiming Power and Courage in a Culture of Shame