Free Riding

Riding on the back of a butterfly ~

such a magical flight through the air ~

while it dips and flits 

on breezes wafting with the fragrance of flowers on plants and even in trees.

Its wings, so fragile and colourful, welcome the weight of my soul for its flight

so I share in the magic of butterflies flying free in the warm light of the sun.

“Just living isn’t enough,” said the butterfly, “one must have 

sunshine, freedom and a little flower.”- Hans Christian Anderson”

~ Louisa Thomsen Brits, The Book of Hygge: The Danish Art of Living Well

Travel Writing

Writing my way into knowing

is a deep dive into waving

kelp forests of my mind to find what grows in those shadowed, eerily lit depths.

Writing my way into knowing

is a journey on a summer morning through rutted, grass lined roads into the wild expanses of my mind.

Writing my way into knowing

is a walk in the rain of early spring

on the tree lined paths of my mind

sheltered by a bright umbrella.

Writing my way into knowing,

warmed by mitts, toque and scarf,

is a skate on a winter cold pond

framed with great mounds of icy snow

Writing my way into knowing

is a safari across arid desert dunes 

only burning sun and azure sky overhead ~

keeping cool a challenge at best.

Writing my way into knowing

is a stroll through concrete jungles

echoing with a cacophony of voices,

my ears tuned for wisdom, direction and hope.

“A person does not grow from the ground like a vine or a tree, 

one is not part of a plot of land. Mankind has legs so it can wander.”

~ Roman Payne, The Wanderess

Filtered Feelings

Fragmented feelings 

zoom in lopsided directions 

with no apparent meaning~

reactions to the passing winds

of an unconscious mind

given free rein to wander.

No map to follow, goal to achieve ~ only knee jerk responses from old biases, opinionated opinions

journeying from childhood and beyond until they settle at eventide like fallen and crisping leaves in a forest.

“Is it really possible to tell someone else what one feels?”

~ Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina

Timed Writing Exercises for June, 2019 - Hot Water and Heat

Sense of place and setting scenes are two exercises that require a fair amount of brain power. Stream of consciousness writing demands rapid access to descriptors and word crafting. As I began clearing up some loose bits on my dining room table yesterday, I came across a couple of ‘postcard’ stories from this month's Writers group. We were a small group, and still just as entertaining as ever. I’ve included both our assigned writing as well as the writing exercise our host provided for the afternoon. This group imposed assignment for June was a choice of two openings:

‘He suddenly realized his survival depended on knowing what she was hiding from him’

or

“Should I ask why you have a knife in your purse?”

“It’s a dagger actually and no, you shouldn’t.”

Procrastination prevented me from writing out this assignment until the morning of our group. I already had thoughts that had mulled around for an entire month. Here is A Dangerous Liaison penned in about 15 minutes and edited today for this post.

A Dangerous Liaison

He suddenly realized his survival depended on knowing what she was hiding from him. Her voice was soft and just a little too sweet.  But the inflection was so slight, he couldn’t really tell if she was being insincere or it was just the way she spoke. He had only known her for a couple of weeks. They had been out to dinner several times. That should have been enough for him to get a sense of who she was. Then there were the two dances they had been to, She was an excellent and very provocative dancer. Still there were no clues. But damn, she was beautiful! Dangerously beautiful. Going to the movies did not count as they seemed only to sit in silence, her hand resting just above his knee. Softly and casually, but that hadn’t stopped him from being distracted from the movie. As the tension mounted - in the movie -  he could feel her nails dig ever so slightly into his warming thighs. But there was just something. An edge. Sharp and well disguised in her intoxicating presence. Cascades of thick brunette locks graced her bare shoulders. Their wine glasses were full, sparkling with champagne and hope. Steven took a deep breath and locked eyes with her deep violet eyes. 

“We’ve had a wonderful two weeks.” He hesitated, not certain of his next words. Fumbling, they tumbled out: “Should I ask why you have a knife in your purse?”

Daphne tossed her long locks and laughed cruelly. 
“It’s a dagger actually and no, you shouldn’t.”

*****

My second postcard story was our assignment that afternoon. We were given several sentences to use. They have been put in italics. When presented they seemed like the beginning of a story, however when I started this timed (10 minute) exercise it seemed natural to split them up. I did leave out one sentence about how ironing was not at the top of her list. I rather ran out of words somewhere around ‘heat of the day’, but the timer was still going so I just put down a lot of words. I’ve done bit of editing just to have this story make more sense.

It really was a rather difficult write!

Heat Wave

A heat wave had struck. They had been warned that it was coming but the family had not thought that it would feel like a hot iron sitting down on them and holding them fast. Their house windows were open mouths. The walls of their rooms, drying so that the wallpaper began to brown at the edges, seemed as though flames would begin to flicker, burning the paper vining roses that climbed the walls. Starched shirts hung stiffly on the clothesline. No breezes at all. The fabrics hung as still as the leaves on the trees. Electric clothes dryers were only a fantasy, luxuries saved only for the rich.  Sweat poring from her brow, mother's only thought was that, once evening cooled, the heat of the iron would be too reminiscent of the heat of the day. Summer on the farm was always welcome, but this heat wave was not. This was to be their lives for the next two weeks. Water would slowly dry up, the land sucking it dry, except for water evaporating into the dead still air. Washing clothes would be more of a chore. Open windows, whether with or without screens to keep bugs out, would be the order of every day. The hum of cicadas timed the stillness of the air. Even the children were more quiet - only asking for shade.

(Later I explained to the group that the children weren’t allowed water for their plastic swimming pool, but didn’t have time to write all of that.)

“Your intuition knows what to write, so get out of the way.”

~ Ray Bradbury

Slips, Slumps and Standing Up

Slipping into Month #5 of Retirement:

Wondering ~

were all those years a dream?

where did my passion go?

was it all for naught?

Until 

I see memorabilia

spend few moments with colleagues

opine about addictions issues

listen to interviews about health care ~

every day securing my place between then and now.

Until 

A slump slides in wearing slippers

shifting the ground beneath my feet.

‘I don’t know how to engage with people out here!’

Gathering 

my strength of will and my pen

with determination and alacrity,

my sense of purpose, 

hopeful vision and wonder, 

begins to blossom once more.

“It’s exciting not knowing what tomorrow, 

or the next month, or the next year holds.”

~ Lucy Boynton, actress

Managed Time

Only one hour

for food I love to eat

for clothes I love to wear

to a gentle bossa nova rhythm.

Only one hour

to get ready for Monday,

to write this poem

when a sky of blue domes above.

Only one hour 

to be in the moment

for living a good life

and enjoying the beat.

“Time is the most valuable coin in your life.”

~ Carl Sandburg

All Things Great and Small

Marshall Davis Hersberger
(Feb 23, 1912 - September 18, 1995)

The journeys our fathers take are long, circuitous, and full of life lived. From Saskatchewan on the Canadian prairies, to the state of Maryland on the east coast of the United States and back to Saskatchewan, my dad seemed to have lived a very full life. Was it all to his satisfaction? I will never be certain. The young man standing by his cab #112 in Maryland, U.S.A., very likely had the dreams and ideals of a young man setting out. He could certainly have had the desire to be a dad someday. I’m grateful that he was our dad ~ all nine of us. To support this large and busy family, he rode the tractor spring, summer and fall to raise the grain that was our families mainstay. Plowing was not limited to the field but to preparing the gardens, planting them and carrying for them. Was he perfect? As perfect as any human being who has walked this earth. 

He loved his family and he loved the land. A favourite memory of mine is going with my mom to the field he was working on with supper for dad. My memory says it was a hot meal on a real plate, coffee from a thermos in his favourite coffee cup and dessert and it was my turn to go. My memory suggests it was a hot summer day. How often this occurred I don’t recall. What I do know is that my dad's journey included, not the greatness of fame and fortune, but the greatness of being my dad. The small things? Little bits of how to hold a hammer, plant seeds, and table manners and so much more.

“It doesn’t matter who my father was; 

it matters who I remember he was”

~ George Herbert (poet 1593-1633)