Frozen Moments

Evergreens lightly dusted with frost. Branches silhouetted against a pale blue sky.   Chimney smoke.  Winter white clouds.  Raw, chill.  A warm oven.  Oatmeal muffins and black coffee. Silence.  Where are you?

WordPress Daily Post~ I Was Here

Daily Prompt~ I Was Here

The opportunity to gift a letter to the future inhabitants of a newly discovered planet.

http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2013/12/26/prompt-here/#like-62812

To You,

“But eyes are blind. You have to look with the heart.”
― Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

As you stand on the surface of this newfound world, I ask you to pause and consider my words.  It has taken a lifetime to find them, for that is the nature of the beast.  One must live a lifetime or in the case of the inhabitants of Earth, millions of life times to discover the truth. Which is very simply, love.

Your curiosity will lead you to create.  Carefully, approach the precious landscape, respecting and protecting all that you discover.  Once destroyed, it cannot easily be rebuilt. Accept your fellow man.  Forget about boundaries to designate my land from yours.  Didn’t we learn?  Wars are fought over invisible and man-made lines. Be respectful and share what resources you have with those in need.  One world.

Build your schools and welcome your children through the doors. Promote literacy and encourage problem-solving strategies. Educate them against hatred and cruelty toward another. Watch them at play, you will learn from their innocent wisdom. Be observant to suffering and offer support to ease the struggle.  Cherish your brilliant, your creative, your everyday, for it these individuals that will lead.  Write your mission statement around social responsibility. We cry the same tears; we feel the same pain.  One world.

Cherish your elderly and those vulnerable to life.  Keep them safe and ease their struggles and pain.  They are your elders and your wounded, deserving of compassion.  Spare no expense to bring some comfort, hope and joy into their grayed world.  Humanity.

My world forgot as it spun on an axis of greed.  It is not too late for you, though.  You are fortunate to have a chance, an opportunity to create a world of beauty, promise, and hope, a world that promotes peace.  Are you ready to take on this responsibility?  It is not about you, it is simply about love for another.

Sincerely,

Me

Imperfect Beauty

Imperfect Beauty

It is important, this deep and personal need to create simple, beautiful spaces. Whether it is, cuttings gathered from nature, vignettes, gathered bits and pieces, sparkle and shine, or a simple lit candle shining brightly in the dark.  Our spaces comfort through their serenity, simplicity, and simple beauty. A book close at hand, a blanket to snug beneath, and a mug of hot tea or coffee to round off the bliss.  Why do we choose to nest the way we do, our individual styles often different?  Our homes tell our stories.  Look and listen.

It works like this.  The beauty and creativity that my mother possessed now passed along to me.  “Always look at an item with fresh eyes, see the beauty in the broken, repurpose a piece,” are her wise words.  Fill your spaces with only that which inspires you or tells a meaningful story.  Sometimes, our stories are sad.  For that reason, I choose to feather my nest with that which makes me smile, the pretty, the broken, the chipped, evidence of love and beauty. Imperfect is beautiful.

The hunt to discover an object of beauty is compelling and sourcing the area for an affordable price point is addicting, an alluring drug to the soul. No apologies, I seek beautiful store-bought and found items. Through writing, decorating, planting and doing, my heart heals. Comfort and joy await those who enter through the door.  Spaces are pretty, soft, unusual, old, and consciously created, staged for effect, purposely creating a careful lived in shabbiness of chic.

A promise to myself, many years ago, that when I became a mother or grandmother, I would be the best that I could be.  When they forgot, I remembered. My family would know love; there would never be a question or a doubt.  No one left, forgotten, dismissed, omitted.  Always, forgiven, always loved. I would have wished as much as a child and now as an adult, those wishing words sent forth on the chilly winter winds. Some can’t hear them, though. Perhaps, you will catch the whisperings in the silent spaces beneath the twinkling stars.

This holiday season I have left many of the Christmas decorations tucked away within the storage space. It will be a simple celebration.  There will be fewer family gathered round the table.  The children are grown and are beginning and continuing their own holiday traditions. In time they will appreciate that it isn’t about them, it is about others.  Love is always about others.

On display, there is a wooden Santa, a symbol of love and generosity.  A tinsel tree adorned with glass birds to sparkle in the winter’s light, a reminder that spring will surely come and there will be new beginnings.  The light will shine a little brighter.  Treats, decadent, rich and chocolate, sit in a glass bowl, delights for the soul.  Offerings.  Mini white lights fill the glass vases and miniature evergreen trees adorn a table.  A glittery box houses a miniature nativity, the Christmas Story. There is a boxwood wreath to grace the front door.  All is calm.

There is an undeniable presence of generosity, compassion, and kindness that gently fills the air.  If only the generous Christmas spirit could stay throughout the year. Note the hope that tenderly rises after the storm has passed. If only these heart-felt beats would live on and on. It is possible.  Love one another. We share this amazing world.  Stand for peace and harmony. Forget self, reach out and offer a hand.  Forgive.  Celebrate family and remember, love is always about others.

I wish you love and happiness.  Forgive another, start the journey to heal, reach out a hand in friendship, and surround your world with love and joy. Thank you for sharing your posts, stories, blogs, re blogs, tweets, “likes,” comments, and writing support.  All is bright!

Snow baby

Snow baby

 

Merry Christmas to you and yours!

x   ~ Grace

Layers

My mother slowly exits the car and pauses, looking back at me, through the open window.  I ask, “Would you do this mom, if you were me?”  There is a pause of seconds, although for a few brief moments, I am  sensing that she won’t approve.   I still need my mother’s approval.  As a child, craving approval.  Her approval. My mother’s eyes look toward the grey, clouded skies. Turning to face me she says, “I don’t know.  I am old now. I don’t have the energy.  I had to let it go.  Do it, though.  You have my blessing.” I note my mother’s blue eyes are layered, bluing, greying, mistier now.  Some days, I feel as if she is lost, far away, somewhere within their depth.

We all get lost, searching through a foggy veil, for pieces that we may not find.  What we discover is dirtier, shabbier, thinned out, for that’s what time does to its precious bits, forming discreet layers of love’s evidence.  The tears, dust, and deceit, tucked between the pieces of laughter and love.  Collect the tattered bits to preserve them, before we forget. Their structure, beautiful and raw. Evolving over time, the evidence of love.

My mother’s approval comforts me.  It is in part, for her, that I keep trying to right the wrong, validate, earnestly reminding her of the beauty that surrounds.  She is giving up, I sense that. Stay strong, I whisper to the wind. We will find our way, mom. Behold the beauty within the bits. 

You

Some days I can feel you standing behind me.  I know it is you as I hear your heart beating. The rhythm of my heart beat matches yours and for a moment, we are as one.  I feel your presence.  Please come back; this time you will stay.

December’s Words

Your last, whispered words spoken were, “I love you, honey.” It is as if the words floated through the air between us and found their way inside, under my skin, pumped through my blood stream until they found their home.  The four little words tattooed on my heart. Those four little words have a surging, pulsating power of their own.  The power to reassure me when I doubt, the power to comfort when sadness seeps in, and the power that allows me to offer a hand in forgiveness when I find myself in the midst of anger. Questioning. Just words spoken.  Still, words hold such colossal power over our mind.

On the anniversary of your passing, I take comfort in those four little words for I was wandering lost in a forest of uncertainty and doubt.  Frightened and fearful.  To walk away from a loved one, one must reach a grey place.  For there is no joy in this act. Then, one must switch off a piece of heart cell, much like one switches off a light.  Click, done, off.  Only then, is it possible to turn around and walk away.  Well, almost possible for it never gets easier, just possible.  The scar thickens, providing a protective barrier. For this is what happens when hearts break, something penetrates deep inside, thickening and scarring the core of life.  Just words that hold the power to pull us together, reconnect us, healing our brokenness.  Bits and pieces fall away from our shell until I imagine us finally gone.  As you are now, gone from my life.

I love you, dad.  Just four little words sent forth on a winter wind to you.  Catch them,  tattoo them on your heart.

x

Hello, December!

The crisp December chill slaps my cheeks as I pause to take in the scenery outside the door.  There is a reason that I love December so.  It is not for the cold, although it forces my senses to attention, rather, it is the warmth, from the ever-burning fire of December, that captures my heart.

The rains have ceased and the frost of winter has arrived. The earth sparkles and shimmers.  Sunlight from above, kisses the ground below. The sight, breath taking and miraculous. The cold heightens focus, my senses suggesting, take another look. There is beauty in the world.  

A close friend texts, “Where are you?  Join us for coffee.” The mall is busy, yet I seek company.  Somehow, coffee tastes better with friends.  We sit, two generations of women, sharing stories from life.  Their company soothes my weariness and I wish to stay near, savouring the warmth and comfort between sips. What would life be without these friends?  Love and gratitude are sent forth into the universe.

The mall is beginning to fill with people. Young and old shoppers, bustle about.  Strangers to one another. Yet, people pause a moment to smile, hold doors for another, share a comment over the clamouring crowd.  The red suit, a symbol of Christmas, comes into view.  Children stand spell-bound, patiently waiting, in a never-ending line, for a moment, one enchanting moment with, Santa Claus.  The wish to receive that special gift is whispered into Santa’s ear.  A chance that their wishes will come true.  For who does not hear the whispered words of one so innocent to the realities of life.  We never forget this moment.  Did Santa listen?  Hope and love are sent forth into the universe.

Does the magic of the holiday season make us kinder to one another?  Or is it that we remember that moment of youth, when we knew hope and it filled our hearts.  When we whispered our wishes in Santa’s ear and they traveled on the wind to a starlit kingdom far, far away.  Perhaps, human nature wishes for hope and love, and when we lose our way, like a compass, these gifts return to us, setting us right back on course. Forgiveness and compassion are sent forth into the universe.

For these reasons, December is my favourite month.  The twinkling white lights, the allure of gold and silver ornaments, the candle’s light, and the everlasting love that shines forth from mankind.  For a moment in time, stand transfixed by a beautiful world.  The wonder of fairy tale possibilities surround us as the silent snowflakes tumble.

Gently shake the glass snow globe and place it on top of the table.  Watch the snowflakes fall. Remember the good, remember the love.  Pray for peace and show compassion toward one another.

Snow baby

Snow baby

Let it Snow!

When I opened the blog site this evening, I noticed something a little enchanting happening!  Snowflakes, wordpress style!  I had forgotten that the wordpress “elves” can make it snow during the month of December!  Those “followers” that follow my writings from life know that I am bespoke to snowflakes!  Thank you wordpress for reminding us to celebrate the upcoming season of winter and its

Snowflake

Snowflake (Photo credit: Gui Seiz)

glorious gifts!

Let it snow!  Let it snow!  Let it snow!

The Beginning

“Tell me the story; I can see from your eyes, you have a story to tell.  Did someone break your heart?”  “Yes,” Grace replied.  “Did you break their heart?” Lily asked.  “Perhaps,” was the reply.

It was Tuesday, the beginning of five days together.  Enough time to talk and wonder, squeezing moments from time, stretching the days into nightfall.  We are good at this game, Grace mused.  For Lily and I never seem to have enough time together.  We seize upon the moments we have. Grace knew that soon Lily would fall captive to the lulling music of time’s tempo, believing the moments to be plentiful, lasting. Soon, their moments together would be fewer and farther between as life interrupted and others vied for Lily’s precious time.

Grace wondered, what is it about time’s force?  In youth, we embrace summers that seem to last forever until we spin and turn to face the winter of an older, unrecognizable self.  When did time pass me by? Our allotted time, almost spent, the clock winding down, until we realize what a fleeting commodity time is, how we’ve misused it, wasted precious moments, falsely believing, we had time banked, a foolish notion of forever.  Perhaps, that is what I was guilty of, making you wait, believing that I had enough time in a world where I wished time to stand still. 

Lily passed the turnip to Grace for chopping.  They were making soup, something warm to thwart the penetrating chill in the winter air. God knows, the child hardly knows what a turnip is, Grace thought. Let alone a frost.

      Lily, my beautiful child.  When Grace first laid eyes on the child, momentarily she beheld the face of one so familiar, her grandmother, Alice or English Alice, the name Grace’s mother used when speaking of Alice.  For the child, named Lily, held the essence of Alice, beauty captured in appearance and passion for all things found in nature.  For flowers, insects, and strays surrounded and found Lily, wherever she ventured.  Similarly, Alice, enchanted by beauty and at one time vulnerability, until she turned her back on every living thing that evoked those qualities from her. Viewing the likeness of Alice in her granddaughter’s face was a pivotal moment for Grace and she resolved that this child would never muse over the puzzle of abandonment, the missing pieces, or a missing grandmother.

      The pot simmered upon the stove top and Grace’s thoughts wandered back to a time many years ago, a time filled with whispers of hope and promise, when time possessed a particular suspended quality, as if frozen and still.  The story of her birth.

Once upon a time, or so the story is told, in a town in winter, Grace Elizabeth Smeaton, arrived on earth. It was a bitterly cold morning.  Feathers of frost clung to the windowpane, offering an opaque and shimmery view to the world outside the glass.  The world beyond the stark walls of the hospital room appeared enchanted, Father Frost had returned to the land, waving a wand true to winter style. The scene, dressed in white and glittering with ice, offered up quiet elegance to the morning light.  This gift was a suitable ornament for a wee bit, a winter sprite-like creature’s birth.  Grace so named after her mother’s aunt, and Elizabeth, after one of her mother’s given names.  The hospital that housed the child’s mother was also known as, Grace Hospital, the simple setting, fitting, as patience and mercy abounded within the walls and within the nature of this fresh child.

Grace, a name fit for a child who would pass through life in a polite and willing way.  A tiny, swaddled babe, whose rosebud lips, suckled the air.  “A Gerber babe with the full face of a cherub,” crooned Gracie, the aunt that dropped by to view the new-ness.  Grace’s paternal grandmother, English Alice, would reluctantly appear to stand crib side; “If you had, had a boy, I wouldn’t have come,” were the malevolent words uttered from the pursed lips. Shocked, Grace’s mother thought, the witch.  For who does not celebrate the birth of one so freshly pressed, so innocent to the stories?

Alice, perfectly coiffed, her bouncy, marcel waves set, a blue wool coat buttoned tight and leather gloved hands to protect her from life’s touch, leaned over the crib, blowing a cold wind that would seem to follow Grace throughout life. Apparently, English Alice, had standards, and the baby girl was scrutinized under her piercing visual inspection. Even Alice had to admit that there was something superior about the child created from inferior beginnings. Clearly, Alice was relieved to view a baby girl in the crib, as the thought of a little boy was too much to bear.  Alice had known the heartache brought on by troublesome, little boys that grow up and rarely return. For now, Grace had passed the test. For you see, English Alice had a heart and she held onto hope, a hope for love.

Home was a simple, yet elegant Craftsman style house in the heart of the town, owned by Grace’s maternal grandfather, James.  A tyrant within the walls of his home, James’s rages were merciless when directed toward his daughter, Grace’s mother, Marge. Grandfather James had agreed to allow the new babe to stay in the room off of the kitchen, the one with the view of the cherry tree.  As well, he needed a housekeeper, his only daughter, Marge, could earn her keep by performing household duties.  For Grandfather James, also held on to hope, hope for Marge’s forgiveness and love.

Grace’s parents, Marge and Roy Smeaton,were young, bruised souls clinging to hope and promise. Theirs was the hope of improved worth in life and the promise of a brighter future.  Love wouldn’t be their strong suit for both parents had scars on their hearts, left by the sins of their parents. However, the couple wished for love, to believe in it, to awaken its tender affection for another.  Grace Elizabeth was their beloved, a small gift from the universe to humankind, their hope for love.

The room with a view of the back property would prove to be the finest choice of room, as a large, magnificent cherry tree grew just outside the window. Grace would spend hours observing the solid shape centered in the yard, its strong, constant presence a comfort to the child.  Days passed in wonderment as the cherry tree changed with each season and with each change, its boughs brought new gifts to place within Grace’s expanding world.  One season, when Grace turned seven, the tree offered up a robin’s nest, the small bent twigs intertwined.  Woven among the twigs, was a shiny piece of tinsel, a glittery thread blown free of the family’s Christmas tree, a forgotten gift of love.

Upon awakening, the tree would be the first image Grace viewed, the twisted boughs reaching out as if to hug her at dawn.  “Come play.” In the darkness of night, the tree boughs swayed and tapped lightly upon the glass of the window, whispering, “we shall cradle you to sleep”; and in moments of sadness, as Grace pressed up to the bark, the tree would shelter the despondent child.

It was a beautiful setting, the home tucked, snug and safe, under a blanket of warmth, knit from threads of hope, promise, and love.  Grandfather James’s temper and outbursts mellowed to a quiet grumble, even English Alice began to smile. Time slowly moved forward, the seasons continued to bring change and Grace’s pleasing qualities polished the family’s predictable world.

Just as every fairy tale has good and evil, every life will have a piece of each, some lives more of one trait or the other.  A sinister, cold wind had followed Grace and the child would need to learn how to survive the brewing storms ahead.  The solid cherry tree would remain stoic and strong, reminding Grace that change is inevitable and storms can be weathered, if you choose to face them.

“I don’t understand,” Lily spoke.  “Why would English Alice speak such words to your mother?” To understand my grandmother’s simmering anger, I shall need to continue the story.

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Sniffing out the best new music

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Wear what you love, not what they say you should like.

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Be Positive, Patient and Persistent...

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Never get lost in the Sauce

SKYLARITY

Paradigm Shift, Mindfulness, and Personal Empowerment

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Is there no way out of the mind? Of lazy litanies and trying to make sense on the way down the rabbit's hole...

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Give me a sentence. I'll write you a story.

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My BOOKS https://www.amazon.com/Dean-J.-Baker/e/B00IC6PGQM

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