Wake Up World

“What did you do for fun when you were 10 years old?” I ask myself.  I wish I knew, I answer.

This morning I am thinking of a quote from the movie Cold Fever, “I learned that sometimes a [life] journey can take you to a place that is not on any map.”  I am thinking about Ayurveda teachings and my desires.  I’m terrible with directions, I travel on intuition.  Yesterday I followed the sun into my heart where I made a pot of soup.  Traversing vineyards, I look for my tribe and seek truth.

I wish I had played more as a child, dreamt frivolously, dressed up.  I wish I had embraced silly, irresponsible art.  I wish I had coloured outside the lines, auditioned, started a food fight.

I am asking questions, journalling like never before and thinking of my days spent in Newfoundland.

If nothing else, scatter my remains on water.

It’s amazing how you can be surrounded by people your entire life yet realize that none of that matters but some.  Recently I went into a dark, deep cavern of self and found my shadow.  It was pure destruction, it was ugly as all hell, it was a snot, sobbing mess of confrontation.  Compassion is a habit that comes when there is no light.

November is national novel writing month.  I fear a work of creative non-fiction within.  It is real and possibly isolating yet I am certain it will change my life, like giving up tasks that don’t make me happy, connection with authentic folk and touch.

This morning happiness is a road not on any map, gemstones and chrysanthemums.  I wrote pain soldier on a piece of paper and lit it on fire, I stirred the ashes into my soup and slurped it up igniting the pitta within.

Today I am a soul warrior with a laptop and a mug of coffee.  I am taking applications for my tribe and unveiling the 10 year old within.  Anything is possible when you have truth and a bowl of soup.





A Stroll

For many moons now I have been sending wishes out to the divine, willing my destiny, crafting a ship I’ll sail right onto the shores of purpose.  We are all energy I remind myself as I cut chords and break free of my yesterdays, floating into the after.

Last night with mercury in retrograde I walked down dark streets lined with oak trees and past churches hung with stained glass windows.  I should do that I said aloud, mentally adding another creative expression to my growing list.

Julia Cameron said, “Art opens the closets, airs out the cellars and attics. It brings healing.”

I am elated to announce I’m writing again – opening closets, airing out cellars.  I see my tribe and I am whole.  At my side is a little dog who is art, with broken windows for eyes and the heart of a saviour, save when a swinging branch startles him and he is unsure if he should protect me or himself.  Fear lurks over my shoulder, which reminds me I’m alive.  To my right a woman sits on a porch with a glass of wine and I have to stop myself from not talking to her.

The night is ripe with with rot and somewhere off in the distance I hear a jackhammer trying to penetrate what’s meant to last forever.  Like infidelity.  A man sits on a bench just beyond the light and asks me for spare change.  In my pocket is a plastic bag and an ear plug.  I have nothing I say, except for that which hides in an attic.

Fresh mounds of dirt look like graves and I bury any doubt I’ll make it home okay.  I am not the same person I was yesterday – none of us are.  I have balanced my heart chakra and think about spiritual freedom.  I hope our children know their intuition as well as some their desires.

Part of my journey is knowing there is only now and I am merely an observer of this life.  I open my windows, thank the universe I’m alive and write.

Far Away

Protect your heart from that which doesn’t serve you, draw lines in life and be bold enough to have a haven.  Our children deserve that, I say as I look inward at tiny copper wires of experience.  Once wrapped in a protective coating of naive thought, they have broke free, become frayed and are sensitive as all hell.

Instead I stand in the rain, holding hands, jet boots on my feet.  I nod my nose and hold tight as we genie our way into a world of possibility, invincibility, stardom.  Wind rushes up our pant legs, wisps of hair escape conformity, where we are headed I don’t know but it’s magical of course.

Come with me I say as  I blow a pink bubble of gum and we go higher to a place where no one cares about our physical selves.  A place where love is the currency and souls are street lights.  I stick out my tongue and catch a star.  I wish to end earthly bullshit and all forms of disease.  Fuck cancer has become civilized jargon and I approve.

Inside my pocket is a stick of palo santo which smells amazing and fuels my fire to be more, give more, love more.  Happy vibrates in our cells as we ‘ess’ our way through the universe.

Robert Southey said, “There is a magic in that little world, home; it is a mystic circle that surrounds comforts and virtues never known beyond its hallowed limits.”

I am building a little world with fire at our feet and 11:11 on our tongues.  A world where what we look like matter less and how we treat others is more.  I expand my mind while decreasing expectations as I build a box of everything I can control and use everything else as kindling for an amazing life.

I am healthy, I am free and one day I will rewrap wires, seal off the ends in a protective coating of wisdom and move euphorically into my next life, a mystic circle of love.


Ring of Fire

This morning I’m sitting with Johnny Cash and a mug of green tea.  I’m twelve years old and nervous as all hell.  Kids just know and I knew I wanted nothing more than to help her out – even just a little.  I’m wearing blue jeans that fit too tight and a free perm.  The kitchen is a mix of wallpaper and soft butter-yellow paint.  I look out at nothing and dream of far off days, of going to Jackson in a pair of blue jeans and her, completely free.

Looking back I wonder if she ever stood in that same spot and dreamed of having no responsibilities, of travelling the world, of life without us.

Peace is knowing I wouldn’t trade any one of my tomorrows for just one yesterday.  Cash leads me by the heart back to days when she spent more money on music than she had.  Ricky Skaggs, Conway Twitty, Dwight Yoakam, Dolly Parton all people in my past.

This morning, yellow is a finch.  My aunt remains in critical care and I hope our children look back on days when music filled their hearts and know they were always on our mind.

Joyce Maynard said, “It’s not only children who grow. Parents do too. As much as we watch to see what our children do with their lives, they are watching us to see what we do with ours. I can’t tell my children to reach for the sun. All I can do is reach for it, myself.”

Last night, laying beneath the stars with autumn on the horizon and cool in the air, I thought about how cyclical life is.  How it repeats.  We have more things and more technology.  The world is more global, our reach is farther, our loyalty less.  And I think about her and where she never went.

I am ready for routine and to have my office back.  I am eager to regain mindfulness and listen to the sounds of a guitar.  I can see that girl in her blue jeans and am in awe at her growth.

And I hope she goes far.

The Fall

This morning I stepped out of bed and onto a feather.  Birds on a wire, wings in my heart.  This morning there is no supposed to be’s or have to’s.  There is dinner plans and right now, and nothing in between.

Slowly I am breaking free from what seemed to be a long, drawn out dream with dusty roads and old men.  It was copper pots and parking lots, vintage and villains.

Shel Silverstein said, “I’ll take the dream I had last night, and put it in my freezer. So someday long and far away, when I’m an old grey greezer, I’ll take it out and thaw it out. This lovely dream I’ve frozen and boil it up and sit me down and dip my old cold toes in.

Such a privilege to look back on days with grey hair and old toes.  I want to dip my feet in a life that changes colours with the seasons.  I want to wash my saggy skin in rain water and sip champagne from the bottle.  I want to roll in leaves and feel cold, dark, but not dead dirt.

These days I am mindful about chunks of time, years, eras, decades and every single day.  Pre and post-discovery.  I am the flames in a fire and the birth of next.  I’ll take the pre and ferment the good.  I’ll toss the rest aside.

Being right in the middle of life’s evolution, I am coming into full and complete awareness.  It’s the moment you’ve dragged your ankle over a taught line but not yet hit the ground.  After all, the ground is dead and straight up is that time of your life when you think you’ve got it all figured out.  The fall is the in-between, it is that slow, interesting place of a-ha.  It is the years post-discovery, the revelations, the truth.  It is looking around at people who are mirrors of who and what your never want to be.  It is beautiful looking forward and never looking back.

This morning I am dreaming about love and daisies, falling into the ocean and where I never have to be.  This morning I am all about the post and the tomorrows and the feathers that fall at my feet.

This morning I have my dreams in the freezer and warmth on my feet.  Happy Saturday.


A Simple Sunday

This morning listening to the sounds of the lake, I see words swirling like white caps.  It’s a cool Sunday in August and I’m writing – more often.  A sign to me something is transpiring, brewing, churning like that which swirls beneath the sea.  11:11 brings me the chance to will my way through life, one thought at a time.  An open window, plans for our future, a ghost in my peripheral.  Or perhaps it’s an apparition, either way, the lake is churning up words.

The busyness of today’s world is pushing people apart or maybe is always has.  Though perhaps we were once stronger in character. It is elevating our expectations of happiness, driving us to exhaustion.  This moment, I am pure peace.  I am thinking of two little guys who are probably having the time of their lives, completely spent, not knowing their momma is at the bottom of a lake thinking deep, loving thoughts about them.  With so many pressures to be everything, I surmise married life is getting even tougher.  Everything is elite – our homes, our cars, our desires and our extra-curricular .  Our children are on the fast track to invisible scholarships and professional sporting careers.

Not me, I want to work simply, but be bold.  I want to make one hell of an impact on my world.  I want to make breakfast and go back to bed.  I aspire to push off in a boat and see the stars – in the sky, not in the news.  I want to be slow and methodical and at ease.  I want manners, family dinners and for them to experience boredom.  And I want them to know the weight of the words they profess.  Honour, strength in character, everyday-ness.

“It is our choices that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities.”  J. K. Rowling

I hope they always look out at the world through windows in their homes and in at their lives through their hearts.  I hope they aspire to travel to fanciful places but take with them all of the lessons I’ve tried to instil.  I hope they know walls are not meant to keep others out but to keep them in.  Grounded, solid men who do not get caught up in being too busy to know what’s important.

This morning from the lake I am thinking about all that is amazing, magical and made from tiny simple moments spent beneath the sea.


I am writing about music and thinking about love.  Today is the last day of a week spent with the boys.  Small victories in a tough world.  I feel called to learn more about energy and have a pocketful of rocks.  Somewhere in my life’s lessons I am meant to appreciate the gift of imperfection.  I often think too much, I wander in my sleep, I make mistakes.

Yesterday, off in the distance, where the prairies meets the sky, I thought about the memories we make with our children; ones I wished I had made with my dad.  I thought about the curves of his guitar and the songs forever embedded in my soul.  Country roads and dirty feet, I swung from trees and watched my heart hover over a wheat field.

A full week spent with the boys has been the perfect reminder to start everyday fresh, all over, alive.  To step out of bed and thank the hell out of the world.  It was the perfect reminder that not every minute is our finest but that in the end, our life will be a rare collection of beautiful memories.  One rock, one prairie sky, one song at a time.  Being a parent is the ultimate training in pure love.  It is standing up for what is right and befriending humility.  It is selfish, pure, unwavering love.  Giving up is not an option, nor is giving in.

And so this morning I rest knowing I am sending them off with wheat in their blood and imperfect in their bones. But more importantly, love in their hearts.

“Creativity, flexibility, tolerance and love are natural states of mind and our purpose is to nurture them to full blossom.” – Ronit Baras

As I sit beneath the stars, looking back on a well-lived week, I will think of creative moments.  I will embrace tolerance and work through my lessons in flexibility.  I will skip a stone across the lake and feel the love between a parent and her child.  It is rare, unbreakable and completely imperfect.  And I will think of my aunt who would give anything for a few more days to be a mom.

And when I start to ache for 10 and eight, I will roll a rock between my fingers and think about our moments when I looked across the prairies and found myself.



Meditation can be anything that takes your hand and leads you away.  Right now I am holding hands with a new mantra and swinging through I am’s.  Shungite pendant vibrating in my chest, my feet are bare and I am free.

I can smell the earthiness of fall, when candles burn and the boat is put away.  I feel the warmth of a fire and taste crushed grapes on my tongue.  Warm blankets, cozy nights.  I can see a laptop and a story unfolding, one task at a time on my road to peace.  I can see where I am meant to go and that means that I can see.  At my side is a list of ways to incorporate more authentic in my days, more goddess in my ways.  I’m starting to see a future.

“If you want to make good use of your time, you’ve got to know what’s most important and then give it all you’ve got.”  Lee Iacocca

I must make movement more important, I have to stop apologizing.  I am going to purge more and hold on less.  I am investing spare change in wholesome food and spiritual guidance.  I am thinking maybe I should start a course, chart new waters, reach out.

Bare hands I start moving dirt.  I want to touch his bones, hold onto his DNA.  I want to see the empty vessel that was his soul.  I want to crawl into his silky coffin and whisper in his ear, “I’m ready to do big things.”  I want to look up at the stars and see his angel smiling down upon me.  And I want to stay there until I feel the warmth of a fire.

Then carefully, I want to cover my tracks, close up the box and return to my life, greater than.

For whatever reason I can see.

It’s time to polish my personal philosophy of life, envision myself down the road; for I know wherever I am headed, he’ll be there and I will swing.


Summer is a beautiful mix of calm and chaos; weekends spent roasting loins, toasting friendships and diving into the unknown.  It is lazy days, decreased productivity and healthy habits floating by in tire tubes.  It is long hours spent kibitzing, lots of laughter and overindulgence.

This past weekend was a beautiful remember to accept myself, wherever I am at. It was sharing war wounds, showing vulnerability, no make up.  It was older and far wiser.  It was also being exposed to the five languages of love.  It was a revelation to learn that what I need is not what I thought I did.  And so it was also a chance to grow.  It was taking inventory and honouring years of becoming beautiful souls.

This morning I awake to quiet acceptance, yoga and coffee on the deck;  I am slow and methodical, making good choices, thinking the best thoughts.

It’s time to invest more in my tomorrows than my yesterdays.  I am looking forward, waving goodbye.  I am here right now with purpose and great experience.  I am a nest of love with arms wrapped around my boys.  I am flawed and fallible and I wouldn’t change a damn thing about that.

This morning I am open to burning rigidity, I am mindful about the love my children need to feel whole and I practicing acceptance as I attempt to teach them to be men who know what they want and spoil the loves of their life with pure, kind actions.

Henry Miller said, “There are only three things to be done with a woman. You can love her, suffer for her, or turn her into literature.”

In my mind, I see a woman who begs to be written.  She is naive and rigid turned wise and willfully loved.  Summer is too much and not enough.  It’s time to shed old skin, exfoliate painful parts and make the most of every bit of sunshine for not only do my lips wish to be kissed but so too does my skin.

Good morning Monday, flawed, often criticized, I love you.

Cleanse, Live, Love

From the just beyond my desk, I find solace in the company of everything wet and weeping.  It’s the perfect landscape for hand painted faces and porcelain dolls.  10 and 8 walked in the door and suddenly I could write again; a melodic beat vibrates in my heart.

“Never apologize for burning too brightly or collapsing into yourself every night.  That is how galaxies are made.”  Tyler Kent White

I wrap my arms around them and feel as though anything were possible, even for china dolls.

As I make my galaxy of stars, I am conscious of what’s required to realign my soul. Forced stops and a bathtub filled with dreams.  Book deals, plan tickets.  I can see forever and nothing all at once.  Probiotics and schedules loom, wine tours and the harvesting new prose. On a piece of paper I scratch ways to be more peaceful, ways to grow my life. I don’t apologize. Instead I pray for her and take chances on myself future.

I hope my boys collapse each night from a day well lived. I hope they appreciate full moons and the lure of the lake. I hope they give themselves permission to experience every emotion and I hope they really live their lives.

I’m rested, I’ve pulled out a journal.  I am free.  From apology, from can’ts, from tiny porcelain tears as I tire swing my way over the lake and into the weekend.

Solace is old friends, bright lights, farm feet.  It is knowing everything is going to be okay, that there will always be wind and that freedom comes in living the life of my dream.  In bathtubs and on beaches, beneath trees and under the sheets.

It’s time to push the limits, exhaust love and let everything out as I write amy way into a new galaxy, one day, one star at a time.