Come Closer

When I lived in the city,   my eye would be drawn to bright lights. Winking me into a bar or restaurant for comfort and warmth they often plopped me in places I didn't actually want to be, and I would quickly leave, vaguely disatisfied for having been sucked in. Like a moth to flame.

Not so now.

Now the light is finer, truer, and real. It draws me in and entices me, making me want to linger longer than I should. I am often late.

Some things just demand to be seen.

I can't codify cute. But I know it when I see it. Beauty. Boldness. Something catches my eye, turns my head, and speaks to me.

Often more loudly than it should, and I get swept up in the moment. Attention deficit I am not...perhaps, no actually, the opposite. Attention overload.

I can lose myself in the moment, the memory, the meaning. I am sometimes not present because I am all there.

My favourite walk is right outside my door, full of mystery, signs and signals. It stops me cold in my tracks. I truly cannot understand how others can simply walk on by! But they do, leaving me behind to ponder..what animal? Where was it going? Or was it coming? was it being chased? or chasing? I am chastened by all this. Humbled. Smaller. But more complete.

My inner child is evidently alive
and well. It does not take much to take off on a flight of fancy. And "why?" is a question often asked.

As the crow flies is sometimes just a short little walk out the front door.

 

I wish you  all a wonder full new year!

A Christmas Letter, 1942

In 1942, the world was at war, and families around the globe were missing loved ones as they celebrated Christmas. The following letter was written by my grandfather, Dr.Arthur Richardson Brown to his children, A.G., Margaret, Eleanor, George and Ruth ....

Lloydminster, Sask. 

Christmas Eve, 1942

My Dear Children,

It is Christmas Eve. The house is quiet. No excited voices, no pattering feet disturb our rest. And yet---there are six of you, little Bena Mae in her snow shrouded rest in Saskatoon, Ruth somewhere at home, George in England in the brave garb of the Seaforths, Eleanor cheering her navy lad in Halifax, Margaret in Toronto bearing with fortitude the denial of her heart’s desire but encouraging her  brilliant young husband in public service, and our first born A.G. at Ottawa for his first Christmas with Mabel using his fine mind in war research---six whose tiny clinging fingers are forever clasped about our hearts, six whose shining eyes have lighted our many Christmas trees with the “light that never was on land or sea”, six whose echoing laughter still trembles softly on the drums of memory, six gifts of life and charm and hope and love which your beloved mother cradled in her affection and fed with her body and sustained with her unselfish soul. Six of you, six miracles, six demonstrations to prove that love is the secret of the good life, that love is life.

And so despite the miles and miles of lonely prairie, of dark forbidding forest, of weary wastes of water which separates us tonight we are joined in spirit about this family tree and your mother and I once again marvel in the glories and mysteries of life, once again catch the murmuring music of the spheres; for love reaches through and beyond all barriers of space and time; we reach our arms about you, feel “our life’s glow” and watch the twinkling lights of yet another Christmas.

If there is one gift we prize above all others it is the love of our children; if there is one gift we bestow more gladly than all others it is our love for our children; if there is one message we would have them accept and ponder more deeply than all others it is that love is the secret of the good life, that without love there is no meaning in Christmas or living or philosophy, or systems of government or economics or dreams for a new and better world.  Knowledge gives us law and order and system
and the mechanics of progress, but love is what dreams are made of, the stuff of nobility and worth, the warming stream which feeds our lives and brings them to
 fruition in truth and beauty and purpose.

And so my children, on this Christmas Eve, your mother and I once again tender you our gift of love. May it warm your hearts, enlighten your minds, inspire your souls, and direct your steps along the paths of fruitful and happy living. And we thank you for the privilege of being your parents, for the joy you have given us,
for the inspiration you have been to us, for the proof you
have given that life is good
and that all’s right with this world.

                                                With all our love,

Dad and Mother

All of the people in this letter, with the exception of Ruth,
who is now in her 80's, are gone,
but my Grandfather's words still ring true,
and the greatest gift of all is still Love.
Merry Christmas!

This Hoya started out at my Grandmother's home, and has since been divided and shared. It's at least 35years old,  and has blossomed continually since I received my slip two years ago...including this blossom which I just noticed today.

A little gift from Grandma?



Cold Comfort

As a snowy white blizzard  blasts into my world, it changes. Colours, shapes, textures, temperatures, even smells.

There is more, and there is less. More intensity, less lingering.

More softness . Less definition

More shades of gray. Less of every other colour.

This wintery white world envelopes us, and dictates changes

that we must make to survive it.

It slows us down. Insulates. Isolates.

Makes us late.

Until we learn to leave earlier.

Which we do. We slowly adjust.

The first day is always the worst. The topic on everyone's tongue.

Why does - 5C feel  frigid in December,  and downright balmy in March?

Imagine getting used to that!

But we do.

We  are proud to be part of this northern land.

And it gives us cold comfort in return.

U's Gone.

U’s Gone

I know I pt it somewhere, bt I can’t remember where?

It’s not nder the bed, I know, becase I jst looked there.

It’s not p in the attic, on top of the boxes and bags

They’re missing too becase I moved them

When they sddenly started to sag.

It’s crios withot it, many words don’t look qite right

Sch a simple little joiner with two arms that make things tight

A lovely  sbtle sond made when yo prse yor lips

It never stops it’s fsing, wants s joined at the hips!

If yo come across it shortly, please try sending it my way

As I’m trying to end this message

And I don't want to misspell my name!

Ssan.

for more thoghts on the letter above, please go to http://www.abcwednesdayround3.blogspot.com/