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– centuries old and a thousand kisses –

memories made of steam.




After wandering in dark and confusing dreams of late, last night,

restless, wandering, backing and forthing, in the misty pale light

of the shadows that have taken me haunting to unknown places of unnamed thoughts and the swirlings of the unknowns of everything,

the smoky gate lifted, and

without even the slightest clue of what the questionable density and torment consisted,

or the trigger that began its stirrings, I am left standing, relieved, and some as-yet-to-be-revealed way, opened –


I hope you are managing through everything that is happening in your life these days. I imagine big emotions.

Live them all; there is even joy in the most painful.

Gil taught me that. Grieving him showed me how big love is.

Let those big emotions sweep through you instead of holding tight for fear of them.

Let them make you cry and heal all the losses you’ve ever had.

Thinking of you,



I went to see MAUDIE today. It is a most wonderful film, a magnum opus, of a real woman’s life. A friend heard that Maud Lewis painted straight from the tube. She used house paint straight from the can. She was tremendously well portrayed. Her humour was like quiet gentle sass. It made me smile every time.

I saw her little painted house at the Gallery in Halifax. It was a humbling experience. So great a spirit was not to be contained.

She made what looked like an impossible life, beautiful. When she could barely hold a brush, still she painted. And Everett, he felt loved too in the end.

My Reality

Every one of us on the planet is living experiences that become the stories we tell. Only one of me or you exists in this whole world, and only one of everybody else

We have our mythologies, and tell our stories however we do, and we are mostly strangers. Stories help us to make sense of things, and they make us believe we exist.

Everyone has a book in them.

Make art instead of war, I say.


It is April.

The street sweeper has come.


Oh, when April blows the wind through your bones

And you turn up the heat, put on a sweater,

Or wrap yourself in a shawl,

Then wish there were a little wood stove somewhere,

And the thought of it warms you up.

Shadow Girl

Shadow Girl went out for a walk one day.  The sun was shining, and everywhere she went, her shadow went too.  She walked along in her red high-healed sneakers, humming a little tune.

She and her shadow walked through a landscape that started out with more shades of green than she could count.  It was a painted landscape with breathable air, fields with trees of scented blossoms, and mountains in the distance. The road through the countryside meandered and rolled over gentle hills, with here and there a little stone bridge crossing a stream. 

As they walked, Shadow Girl noticed that her shadow had gone away.  It did that sometimes. She sat down on the rock where everybody sits, beside the little lake that quietly reflects the little mountain.  She ate blackberries she had picked from the patch nearby, and a juicy yellow apple from the orchard.

Shadow Girl started singing, and as she sang, her song echoed back to her from the little mountain and the air was filled with the sound of her voice.  It was an ancient song, made of winds and placid waters, accompanied with the sounds of birds and laughter rising from the memories of the little lake and the little mountain.

The great old pine tree still stands where it has stood for centuries, the sentinel at the gate of the woodland path that Shadow Girl took, to get to the rock where she now sat and sang.