short, unfinished sketch of funeral flowers...

A Moment...

Before the moment, or is there a moment? Something freezes in time, or does it, or is it only what we embellish? Perhaps we create a moment to represent the other moments, a snap shot of time that didn't happen like that at all.

Otherwise we'd go mad with the intricacies of living. Overwhelming details. Simplify, this is the mantra.

Why not take that stream of photographs, and play them as a slide show. Why embellish one when many will do? Let's overwhelm ourselves while the carousel goes round. As we breathe, so we shall image. Snip snap shutter bug. Flutter bug. The moments are memorable; each one.

Only what we remember isn't there. If there were a camera it would tell a different story to the one of our inner narrator. What we remember isn't on celluloid, or pixelated. We can't upload our memories because they aren't orchestrated that way.

Not as one memorable moment.

Our moment is an amalgam of moments. Clarified, pure. The image that fits our interpretation. O, we rewrite it. Re-image. Revise. Take new angles and slants. Add new information, remove old patinas.

I'm not saying it's a finished moment, or that it's untrue, only that it never existed.

A to Z Meme

I've been tagged by a beautiful bluebird for a meme

accent: mostly Canadian, but have been told undercurrents of English Southern African/Zimbabwean & British, & probably some Swahili rhythms

booze: red wine, usually Merlot, and dark beer, Guiness is good

chore I hate: vacuuming, swishing floors with a mop and bucket way preferable, or sweeping

dogs/cats: a Springer Spaniel with me, a shy black cat at my mother's at present

essential electronics: computer, digital camera, sound equipment, does coffee maker, fruit smoothie blender and toaster oven count?

favorite perfume/cologne: Angel - all kitchen scents, over a hundred, no floral, but usually don't wear perfume

gold/silver: silver for my lunar/lune-y self

hometown: TO, where I've been since 10

insomnia: wake for a few hours in the night frequently

job title: umm, dog walker, chief housecleaner, mother, writer, artist, editor, receptionist, tutor, meditator, blogger... :)

kids: two

living arrangements: close

most admired trait: empathy (by my daughter's estimation, though she had a far longer list of her least admired -:)

number of sexual partners: how delightful

overnight hospital stays: pneumonia at 16, for 2 weeks, one night after my first child was born

phobia: snakes, especially the extremely poisonous ones found in African jungles

quote: "Develop this good heart that longs for others to find lasting happiness..." and seeks to help others realize themselves, their gifts, live their potential, something to that effect, it's by Sogyal Rinpoche in The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying, and I started two journals with it, and kept it on my desk, and the phrasing slips my mind now...

religion: amalgam of mystical traditions, I'd venture

siblings: two brothers

time I usually wake up: anywhere from 5am to 8am, depending on if I've been up a couple of hours in the night and if I'm working or not

unusual talent: untying knots

vegetable I refuse to eat: did a big internet search last night on vegetables trying to find one I didn't like - my daughter thought I was crazy, but still haven't found one

worst habit: letting the world drift by, or myself drift in it

x-rays: too much dental work

yummy foods I make: due to sparse living circumstances I don't cook much (no stove or oven), but my daughter remembers the homemade pizza on the pizza stone, the fresh cinammon buns, various roasts, the arrays of curries, and as soon as we move to a place with a real kitchen again...

zodiac sign: pisces

No tagging - but please do this meme if you're delighted or intrigued or captivated by it...

Slipstream, oh the tangled garden

post removed by author

"Never Got to Love You"

My tiny video clip of Leonard Cohen and Anjani Thomas, that Google kindly uploaded directly. I was holding the camera high above my head, couldn't see the viewfinder. The clip stops because my camera ran out of memory. It's just under 2 minutes. They are singing, "Never Got to Love You" from the CD.

I took this image from Book of Longing off the Blue Alert website, have digitally added copyright information and linked it to the site. It's too beautiful not to share.

My ex Mother-in-law died yesterday. The last time I saw her was in 1998, on a night when she came to look after her grandchildren so I could go out. I was working in an office when she passed away but I felt her presence so clearly, I knew. When I got home, my ex phoned and told our daughter. She said she just can't believe Granma won't be there this Summer, or at Christmas, that she won't see her again. We cried a lot. I helped her pack so she could catch the bus to the small town in southern Ontario to be with her Dad and brother. I wished I had a car and could have driven her, and also seen my son, who's living there and has taken it very hard. The cancer was virulent, fast, just over a week from when it was discovered; thankfully she didn't have to suffer long. I didn't get to see Granma, the way it worked out, but I did spend 2 hours in the hospital on Wednesday feeling close. She was 84; a good long life. Bless her. Bless her. Bless her.

The one who is dying lies in the hospital bed upstairs, unable to speak. The oxygen mask; the breathing tube.

The other one sits at the table at the end of the cafeteria by the window that looks out on the parking lot and the trees of the ravine and writes.

Canada geese walk carefully on the wet gravel, drink at the grey puddle, or stay under the pine trees out of the rain.

Upstairs the family drama unfolds. They don't expect her to live the week. It was all very sudden, this illness, this immanent death.

Those who know she is downstairs pretend she isn't. They think the old and beloved woman would have forgotten. They want to protect everyone. They are lonely, sad.

But she hasn't forgotten. Nearly breathless, the morphine dulling her consciousness.

The rain drums in the puddles.

The sprinkler is ridiculously on, a constant gush of water as high as the trees.

Sprays of water accompany the cars on the bridge passing by.

She waits.

Perhaps what needs to happen will be understood. Perhaps there will be courage through fear.

Before the end there was a chance, but no-one listened.

She waited at the window at the back, but was not called. Absolution never happened.

The Canada geese rise and fly in formation over the weeping willow trees.