Feeling Saturday

On my way home from the park

Today is Saturday

The calendar says so.

Even my computer says so.

Shifts have shifted 

Dad didn’t work Sundays ~

except seeding and harvest times

I did

Saturdays, Sundays, holidays

Shifts have shifted

Now I can feel Saturday

Quiet release

Walking in the sunshine to the park where Monday to Friday 

a quiet green lawn is marked by chalk-lines and crows ~

Saturday and Sunday

the soccer pitch is busy 

orange shirts against green shirts

directions, cheers, groans

calling over songbirds and traffic.

Sitting on a green bench

pencil-sketching an imagined daisy?

I’m feeling Saturday.

“The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen 

or even touched. They must be felt with the heart.”

~ Helen Keller

Imposters

March 2019 - John Hendry Park, Vancouver

Empty spaces filled with memories hold notes in the music of song, string words for a necklace of story,

flit and wave between winded flowers and branches

define each raindrop that falls in spring and summer showers, ease the ebb and flow of love, distance and laughter between you and I 

Empty spaces are frauds ~

ghosts of what has been

whispers of what could be 

until someone spices them

sprinkling new and memorable experience,

filling them with wonder and curiosity.

Empty spaces 

like the path I walk upon

between grass and garden 

carry me into mystery and magic ~

thin lines between curved puzzle pieces 

disappearing as pictures unfold in front of me.

“We are aware only of the empty space in the forest, 

which only yesterday was filled with trees.”

~ Anna Freud, Austrian Psychologist (Dec.3, 1895- Oct. 9,1982)

Heart-fill

‘Braving the Void’ ~

the title of a book read long before these many days with silent emptiness pooling around me.

A void that can only be felt

as I pass through rooms

filled with my furnishings,

precious writings,

overflowing book shelves.

A void that can only be felt

when my cupboards stagnate

from the busyness of creating 

tasty work lunches, routine 

abruptly altering even grocery shopping.

A void that can only be felt

when my personally scheduled turn 

at the laundry room is no longer

timed to a work schedule,

but merely when the basket is full.

Filling the void cannot be merely 

the tasks of daily busy work ~

unless my choices of nuanced

colours, music, aromas and light

bravely reshape my heart’s emptiness.

“It is not yet a feeling that points her in a direction. 

It is just the feeling of a vacuum, a void waiting to be filled.”

~ Eleanor Catton, The Rehearsal

Tangled

“I will have more time dedicated to writing the stories, poems and essays that swirl in my head.” This line was penned in my blog post from November 9, 2018. I had no idea. None at all. There are still only twenty four hours in each day. I was of the mistaken impression that the only time slots that would open to me were those from my work schedule. Seemed a logical idea to me at the time. I’m still in the process of locating that ‘time dedicated to writing……..’  Stories,  poems and essays seem to have sunk to the bottom of the pond like stones. Having been away from Victoria several times since my last shift on February 16, time seems to have been dedicated more to Wilson’s Transportation and BC Ferries! However, I’ve enjoyed more family visits than were readily available to me, so that I’m more than willing to accept.

What I am learning is there is another feeling in this early retirement phase. It is a feeling that is wrapped around, tangled and woven through each day. From awakening to sleep. Body memories that have not yet fully received the message that living life does not have to run at breakneck speed. There is a new order to be discovered. Unless there is a specific appointment time, living life can be done much more thoughtfully. Peering about for changes in habits of a life time that no longer serve. Learning that there are more choices available in time spent on the simplest of activities. Learning to specifically locate this ‘time dedicated to writing’ or any other art (painting comes to mind) by positioning myself correctly. Positioning involves place (here or maybe there), a most optimum time (for me it’s the morning), and the  necessary tools. Should there be other travels to take, formal lessons to be learned or time spent with family and friends, I want ~ and need ~ them all to be positioned authentically. Retirement offers a release from being so very tightly wound and tangled.

“Let go of your old tired habits and plant new habits in fertile soil.”

~ Harley King, author

Nothing in Particular

When I travel, in my short jaunts, I see so many things. Hear so many voices chatting about so many life events and plans, large or small. Participate in so many conversations. Family yes. Sometimes friends. But the most interesting, because of it’s newness, is my seat mate on the bus or a child on the ferry. Conversations that would never occur until that bus ride, or ferry crossing, we may never have met and may never again. On the bus, passengers are all in orderly rows. Always a book or my iPad with me to keep me entertained until I feel a nap coming on, I keep myself occupied until, and if, there is a moment of connection. On a bus ride, it begins with some experience that all the passengers share. Like a sudden slowing in traffic, or a traffic jam. A shared moment in time that can be just seconds, or can evolve into polite chatting. Delving into whether our destination is the same. An off hand comment about what ‘vintage’ we share. This last trip, the topic of retirement came up. She retired several years ago while I’m still trying to figure it out.  

On the ferry, all the bus, car and truck passengers become one large milling throng headed to the upper decks for fast food or a sit down meal with the wake of the ferry trailing along behind. As the line ups shrink, we each find our place. Families at tables for four, couples and singles at smaller tables. In the fast food cafeteria, I think it is first come first served and grab the nearest available table. After all are sated, some of us meander to the gift shop. Others sit in the rows of chairs along the sides and in a large waiting room. Books are read, naps are taken, children - as children are - busy finding hallways to run in, games to play and windows to watch out of. Parents needing a sharp eye to keep sight of some of them. This last ferry ride, I was playing one of many games on my iPad. I had found a seat at the side of the ferry. Then I hear a little voice: ‘That looks like my favourite game.’ About 7 years old, skinny with a shock of blond hair, he remained by my side for the next ten minutes giving me tips and pointing out where the next move should be. I shared my own thoughts about the logistics. He replied in an offhand manner “You say things nicely” and then the purser announced it was time to ‘Return to your vehicles’. 

Two memorable conversations about nothing in particular. Just sharing space and time for the moment when our paths crossed.

“It is good to have an end to journey towards; 

but it is the journey that matters, in the end.”

~ Ursula K.Le Guin, 

The Left Hand of Darkness

A Rose for Aunt Mabel

There are many sad days, but none sadder than when one very cherished life passes from this earth. Today the passing of Aunt Mabel Jones at age 93 is that cloud over the sun. Sad for her family, her friends and the many, many lives that she touched with her smile and her warmth. Looking through old photo albums for a picture of her was unsuccessful. But it will not be necessary. I remember her with great and deep fondness. So the rose is Aunt Mabel ~ sweet and beautiful. 

“An aunt is a safe haven for a child. Someone who will 

keep your secrets and is always on your side.”

~ Sara Sheridan

Rushed

Yesterday’s muse did not 

follow my own parameters

for it was not begun with

the Y that should have been.

So this evening to offer

repair for my lapse 

in attention to detail, 

I use said Y in humble apology.

“I’m sorry if this all seems a little rushed and desperate. It is.”

~ Chuck Palahniuk, Stranger than Fiction

Glistening

Family stories like glistening moss ~ 

green jackets covering family trees

in the rain-forested canyons of time.

“Who we are takes generations to create and doesn’t end with death.”

~ Stanley Siegel