From him for me.

I saw the weed on my door handle and flicked it away. It wasn't until I had started the car that I began wondering about the irony of where it lay. How could it be that this pesky bud would land so perfectly where it did for me to find.
Early that afternoon, on his way home from school, he saw this pretty yellow flower. He thought of what a nice surprise it would make for his mom. He plucked it up and carried it home with pride then set it where he knew she was sure to find it.
I closed my eyes and made a wish.
...a wish that he keeps this gentle tenderness forever.
I'm thankful he's mine.

30.

And just like that, I celebrate 30 years. What an amazing adventure it's been so far. I think of everything I've done so far and am amazed. I think of everything that the future holds for me and I welcome it with my all.
I'm taking some time to reflect and to dream. Nothing is too big or too small to matter. I'm writing words that I carry in my heart. I'm excited and afraid all the same.
Raise a glass today and let's cheer to everything because every day should have in it a reason to celebrate.

Have a seat.

Join me today, right here in this cozy corner of mine. Choose a traditional teacup from my collection. There are ones painted with yellow lace roses, ones kissed with pink buds almost in bloom and still more that have gold trim around the edges. Be careful as there are a few that are chipped yet I can't bring myself to letting them go just yet. Maybe some day just not right now. Let me warm your cup with a spot of my melancholy tea blend as I reminisce. Please excuse my tears when they fall.
Quite some time ago, today was a frigid day such that it seem the world itself was trying to freeze time. I was jolted awake from an unsettled sleep in the dead of night by a pain so intense I gasped. I begged for it all to be a nightmare. I pleaded with the universe to let me be wrong. I called a friend in desperation. She knew.
The day whirled around in a blur of beeps, buzzes, bracelets, charts and macabre images that have scarred me. Routine phrases were used by those who knew what they were defined as though many were foreign to my untainted ears. I didn't understand. I felt alone and scared and broken.
On this day, all those years ago, I felt a piece of me change. I didn't know then what I know now but I knew I would never be the same.
I know now that's it's ok...that I'm ok.

A labour of love.

I tossed restlessly through each pain still in denial of what was becoming much too obvious. By 4AM I'd had enough and done what any person does at that hour; I began washing, drying and ironing laundry. The slight flaw in my productivity plan was that the washer/dryer are in our basement, a monstrous 12 steps down and back up. I made it work or at least as best a bull in a china shop might. Gravity does funny things to people.

By 7AM the denial had worn off and I was prepared to admit that I was, in fact, in labour. I called my friend who had just gotten to work. She took over from the moon and talked me through contractions all the while timing and gauging the severity. By 8, I was waking Hubby.

He ran out to get the car ready only to discover a peregrine falcon diving after its prey in our yard. A bizarre but intriguing experience as I watched from the kitchen window. We were ready to go. Overnight bag loaded, snacks , camera ...Hold the train! The memory card. I hadn't emptied the card. I had visions of clicking away at the shutter only to get the dreaded card full message and there was no way and on and on I ramble out excuses between contractions. I did a not-so-quick file transfer and we were off.

At the hospital, things started off slow. They confirmed what we already knew and then we waited. I was ok though the pain was gaining in intensity. At some unmarked moment everything changed. My friend arrived. My sister came in. There was a flurry of people in and out, checking, watching, silently waiting. I screamed, begging for relief. The nurses were tucked over in a corner negotiating who would be the unfortunate one to break it to me the only relief was delivery. Meds would not make it in time. I screamed. No one listened. I screamed with everything I had. They still didn't hear.
10 more minutes of body twisting, pretzel shapes, legs bent to my ears, ice-cold cloths and (you guessed it) more carnal screaming and it was over. Silence hung in the air. The doctor didn't even know anything more than a baby had been born.
The nurse who had taken the baby heard my disoriented question and responded with, "Congratulations, it's a girl!" and then the baby cried. I cried and they laid her in my arms. The newness, the wonder, the miracle. My daughter.
Happy Birthday, Baby-of-Mine.

Frozen Fun.

Spring break, 1995/96 school year. A junior high year and the first time I had an equally-adventurous friend at the cabin with me.


It was later in the evening on a Canadian cold March night. The snow glistened under the light of the moon and sparkling stars. We were two girls wanting some fresh air and fun. A short walk to the frozen lake should have been easy. We bundled up in our winter gear and tromped out the door promising to be careful and be back soon.

We chatted all the way down the dark path of evergreens. We talked about boys, friends, forever, the future ahead of us and the world. We talked about how we fit into it or how we moulded it around us. We were quite the pair. Nothing stood in our way. We knew no fear.

Arriving at the lake we found the very familiar lake symphony of the season. Despite the cold and the snow and the puffs of breathe that dissipated into the night's air, we stood listening. A lone owl could be heard in the distance. The lake looked like nature's puzzle with snow drifts painted perfectly in place. The trees swayed in the wind, the odd one shaking the night with a crack announcing its surrender while others were heard groaning in protest.

We breathed in the Earth. We stood silently side by side absorbing the moment...until our adventure set in. It was only a short walk down the frozen lake to the road. Neither of us had had our fill yet so we ventured ahead.

The snow was deep and we kept sinking, cleaning out boot after boot of icy snow. Somewhere we decided to head to the snow-covered ice on the lake. It was March and still frozen. The cold temperatures would surely have preserved the thickness.

We heard cracks and laughed them off as we danced along. Two girls together with no fear and an ounce of insanity. A new sound stopped us. The sound of rushing waters. No. It simply wasn't possible. Rushing water amid the silent snow, surely the cold was getting to us and we'd best be heading home.

We could see the destination road except that it was March and, contrary to our foolish thought, March also means the start of the melt. The melting snow became water raging a war over the icy path we were to take home. We were on high alert but maintaining calmness both knowing that panic would do no good at all. Along the lake we continued expecting to pass the waterfall, find a different way up the bank and then continue back to the road.

We soon found ourselves soaked through and through separated from the road only by the water filled ditch. Ambitious as always, we both thought that a giant leep could clear the water and find us on the right side. Turns out our frog genes failed us that night with both of us landing in the snow and water.

We did make it home and after an absolutely-deserved scolding, we curled around the fire with hot mugs laughing about our experience and crafting the stories we would one day tell.

Teach me.

Have a go at this video. Do you remember?

This moment.

There is a world of talk alive with living in the moment. Being in the here and now and documenting for tomorrow what is happening this instant has become a way of life. Today, I stepped back from the moment.
I looked past the heat and the escalation of frustration and took a rejuvenating, long, deep, breath. I swallowed the fresh wet air and absorbed the warm breeze into my soul. I wondered if the moment I stopped was the very one I was meant to embrace or if the one I was creating was mine to be. I thought of many ways in which chaos manages to infuse itself into the moments. I wonder about the choices we are each present and if our responses aren't the exact deciding factors of how it turns out.
My mind sailed away over the oceans of generations from which I descend. I thought of the dead. In their time, where were they in the moment? Was my paternal grandmother, whom I met but never knew, planning what canning would be prepared with the summer harvest? Was my maternal great-grandmother collecting what she could to provide for hungry children with a husband away at war? Did these roots on my family tree live exclusively in the moment or did they reflect back and dream ahead? Am I the very creation of whispers and wishes they released from their hearts?
Oddly enough or perhaps not odd at all, I couldn't recall what had caused the initial frustrations that warranted this redirection, this reestablished moment. I am excited for the next time one chances upon me.
I encourage you to take a moment and stop.

See you again!

May, I'm not ready to see you leave yet I more than understand Time waits for no one.
There will be May posts that I missed coming up in June.
Let's make this happen.
Raise a glass and toast with me:
An amazing month.
An amazing set of memories.
Cheers, Month of May!

Ponte in Valtellina

Ponte in Valtellina, originally uploaded by bttvirginia.

How I long to walk these streets again.
Flikr, take me away...

The Colour Purple.

I remember writing an essay in my final English course of high school. It was worth a significant amount towards my graduating mark. I sat down the evening before it was due having not yet finished reading the book it was to be about and I wrote. I just hammered out my thoughts on what I knew and I resisted the panic that I could feel creeping in. It didn't matter that I wasn't done (nor does it matter that I never have finished reading that novel), I felt and knew what I knew.
Into the wee hours of the night, I transferred my thoughts from paper to type. Typed assignment submissions for me had just been made mandatory and I'd neglected to remember how long typing took back then and how short the pieces became in comparison to the printed versions. I also remember how much I enjoyed the editing part of the process. Write. Edit. Reread. Read again. Edit some more. Change a word, a phrase, a whole section. Undo. Change one word again and move along. It was repeated so often in this particular piece that I couldn't remember where I had started and what my writing had evolved into. I just knew it could not be submitted late and there was no way I was going to give up. Finally, at some even more obscene hour, it was complete. I was satisfied I'd given it all that I had.
It was a piece filled with passion, courage, determination and perhaps a lack of sleep. There was a rawness in the writing expanding beyond the requirement of the novel that related to me personally. I can feel that same rawness as I type this memory now.
I love to write. Words are my playground. They entertain my mind. It is of words that my sandcastles are built. The murkiness and muddled mess left behind as the ebb and flow of the ocean wipe away what was fun leave my mark on the world. And so, after floundering for too long, I write again. I write from my heart for me.
That piece I wrote ten years ago, under a situation that I should never have been so careless to entertain, returned the best work of my school days.
*******
This post was prompted by Jen Lee. Visit her and have a look around. She is inspiring.