Christmas cheer

My dear daughter smiles
Three pigeons on snowy roof
Christmas fades away.

(This post is part of my "Growing Up & Growing Old" project.)

Turning the tables

In the 70s, the Royal St. Lawrence Yacht Club lived on pretense. The management and the members believed they were a cut above the riffraff. They also had a good restaurant that served lunches during the week. The other more humble, more laisse faire yacht clubs only served food out of vending machines.
 
My father, then president of a telecommunication company, was invited to a lunch at the Royal St. Lawrence Yacht Club. He was invited by a manager of a competing company. She was one of the only female mangers in the field at that time. She had an old fashion name, Mildred. Yet, she was bigger than life… the puffed-up hair, the dangling clanging jewelry, and always wearing a power suit of glorious colours and large shoulder pads.
 
My father in contrast enjoyed wearing comfortable pants, a Jack shirt, and sandals. Even in winter.
 
He was admittedly not looking forward eating at the Royal St. Lawrence Yacht Club, but he was, after all, Mildred’s guest.
 
As they arrived, my father noticed the nose of the maître de ruffling. “We do not allow our gentlemen guests to dine here without a jacket”, he said condescendingly. My father looked at him in disbelief. The maître de then used his two fingers to take out a jacket of sorts from a back cupboard to highlight his point. It was obvious at first glance the jacket was far too small for my father’s build.
 
My father turns to Mildred, a colleague he does not know so well, and asks, “Would you be so kind and lend me your jacket?” Mildred’s eyes sparkle. “Do you want me to remove the butterfly broach?” No no, he insists, that’s fine.

(This post is part of my "Growing Up & Growing Old" project.)   

For Claudia (RIP)

Our first White Christmas
With family and dear friends
Lost friend though not here.

(This post is part of my "Growing Up & Growing Old" project.)

Photo by Filip Bunkens on Unsplash

Winter solstice

Grey skies with dark clouds
Sigh, daylight never comes
Warm quilt on my knees.

Photo by Damian McCoig on Unsplash

Vimeo Staff Picks

Looking for inspiration? Do you want to tip your toes briefly in a pool of culturally interesting films. There is the wonder of Vimeo. Try skipping through their Staff Picks.

 
I tripped over “Shots in the Dark” with David Godlis. An excellent multimedia film focusing on one bar at one point in time. It was the moment in his young adulthood and my youth. 

Food for thought

Love this video, Day In The Life Of A Michelin Star Chef. Watch how Chef Jane of Jeju Noodle Bar in New York spends her days. She radiates such calm, intensity, and grace. A real treat.

To the dancer in you

Here are three K-pop songs that have given me much much joy. Whenever I need a pick-me-up, they indubitably raise my spirits. I find it fascinating how K-pop artists can sing and dance beautifully and how much they are involved in their art. The more popular artists often write or produce their music. 

The first treat is Move from Taemin (my all-time favorite of K-pop artist). The music video is a piece of art. A masterpiece. They published three music videos simultaneously, each focusing on another aspect of the song. The third one features the Japanese choreographer of the song, Koharu Sugawara, dancing along with Taemin. Brilliant. 

For a second treat, please watch the song Naughty, performed by Irene and Seulgi. Throughout the song, they magnificently use the “tutting” dance style. If you want to concentrate only on the dancing, here you can see them dancing the choreography in a dance studio. 

Finally, one of my favourite music videos last year was 'ON' Kinetic Manifesto by BTS. Not only are the staging and performance exceptional but the choreography is done by Sienna Lalau, a 19-year-old Hawaiian Samoan woman. You can spot her in this dance performance at the beginning. She is the one with purple hair in the center of the drummers/dancers.

(This post is part of my "Growing Up & Growing Old" project.)

x

The best idea I ever had

The best idea I ever had popped up in my head many many years ago. It was on a Saturday afternoon when I was 10 years old and playing with my best friend, Arlene. My father had brought the two of us to see our new house in Baie d'Urfe in Montreal. 

We ran around the empty rooms. which echoed our giggling excitement. To our amazement, we discovered the house had a laundry shoot. A modern wonder! From the top floor down into the basement there was a metal shaft to throw dirty laundry down.

While my father was off somewhere taking measurements of the rooms, Arlene and I were left to play on our own. We were fascinated with the laundry shoot. We'd throw our winter jackets down from the top floor, run downstairs, pick them up in the basement, run upstairs and start all over again.

Eventually, I wondered whether it wouldn't be more fun to go down the shoot ourselves. Like the tv series "the flying nun". After some planning, I decided to leave our jackets at the bottom of the shoot to cushion our fall. I thought it would be best to go head first so we could see where we were going. 

As I was holding Arlene by her dangling knees, and asking her if she was ready, my father entered the room. I heard a deep intake of breath in the stillness. He spoke ever so quietly and said to me, "Do Not Move." 

(This post is part of my "Growing Up & Growing Old" project.)  

The days are short and dark

Advent's candles lit
The wreath with its berries shines
Come darkness what may.

Photo by Laura Nyhuis on Unsplash

Announcement from Management

Subject line: as of today, all employees who are not vaccinated are to work from home

“How are you doing?”, Lisa asks her colleague, Jane, over Zoom. Jane puts on a brave face, which instantly unfolds into sadness. Unexpected tears brim over and run down her face and drip off her chin. Quiet. Breathe. “You are the first person who asked”, Jane says, still obviously upset. “Really”, Lisa puzzles, “I’m sorry. I can’t image how you’re feeling.” “As if I am walking around with a “Unvaccinated” stamp on my forehead.”

They look at each other across the screen. Lisa wishes she could give her colleague a hug. Jane continues, “I feel so ostracized. Even in our team. If only someone would ask why… I would at least have a chance to explain. It’s the silence from colleagues and friends that is hard to bear. It’s so heavy. I can’t breathe. I wish they would ask why…” 

Lisa listens and after a longer pause she suggests, “Let’s meet up and go for a walk later this week.” “That would be lovely. We could wear masks.”

(This post is part of my "Growing Up & Growing Old" project.)

Ode to Professor Wang

Professor Wang walks down the corridor from his office to the lecture hall eyes straight ahead. He never looks at or acknowledges anyone he passes. He walks with stooped shoulders and with a slight limp.

It is rumoured that he suffered corporal punishment during his childhood in the Chinese Cultural Revolution. It is also rumoured that he was one of the discovers of modern technology. 

Outwardly, his is not an imposing figure. The moment though, when he steps into the lecture hall, all that changes. He stops at the front of the room and waits for silence. Once given, he repeats the sentence he spoke in his previous lecture. 

Then he continues talking, explaining, describing, and extrapolating without pause, without any visual aids or prompts... 90 precious minutes long, which fly by in seconds. He talks about quantum physics, laser theory, the future of medicine... who would ever have thought such science could be understandable, let alone interesting.

The lecture is over. He turns and stares straight ahead at the door, his escape, his exit,. He pauses momentarily, clears his throat, and nods his head. It is almost a bow... to what... to his students, to science, or the emptiness he leaves behind?

Photo by Linus Mimietz on Unsplash

(This post is part of my "Growing Up & Growing Old" project.)

A short grey winter day

Sunday afternoon
Fingers quietly strumming
The sun sets early.

Photo by Caio Silva on Unsplash 

One of Pat's gifts

A friend recommended that we read the stunningly beautiful book, Braiding Sweetgrass together. When I opened up the first pages, I thought of my mother and how very much she would have enjoyed "discovering" this book.

Pat had a gift of finding and gifting books that changed my life. She introduced me to War and Peace when I was a brooding 15-year-old. If I go to my bookshelf and draw out randomly a handful of books from the middle of one shelf, here are the books she sent. Books that I still treasure so many years later:

• The Book of Ebenezer Le Page, by B. B. Edwards
• Playing with Water, James Hamilton-Paterson
• Migrations to Solitude, by Sue Halpern
• A Country Year, by Sue Hubbell
• Twelve Years (An American Boyhood in East Germany), by Joel Agee

What a gift my mother had to connect books to people. Over and over, even though we lived in distant countries from each other, she passed on her discoveries.

(This post is part of my "Growing Up & Growing Old" project.)

Photo by Brian Yurasits on Unsplash

My outside world

 

My heart seeks beauty
November day of greyness
Coldness seeps inside.

Photo by Anne Nygård on Unsplash

Yearly mammio

The lightness I feel
After the doctor says all's well
Oh... now I can breathe.

Photo by Valeriia Bugaiova on Unsplash

(This post is part of my "Growing Up & Growing Old" project.)

Many years later

 

For Dave

Image a sea sprite racing
In front of the ocean waves
As they break upon the reef below.
Sitting cross-legged on the cliff edge
My brother slowly tips the urn
With our father's ashes. I sit silently
In prayer, "Thank you. Be free.
I love you. I forgive you."
The ashes mix with the sea foam
And get carried downwards
Gone. Gone. Far away.

(This post is part of my "Growing Up & Growing Old" project.)

Stretch

 

Early this morning

My yoga teacher texts me

"Bring along a belt".

(This post is part of my "Growing Up & Growing Old" project.)

Rude awakening

Lying down in the grass

I look up beneath the

Dome of magnolia blossoms

Squinting slightly, I see

The fairies painting 

Tinges of mauve over pinks

Over the whits of the petals.

The sunlight dances between

The branches and

Makes me sneeze.

Photo by Andy Feliciotti on Unsplash

Ambiguity

She’s your granddaughter?
The curse of late motherhood
(Chest out, chin up)… no.

(This post is part of my "Growing Up & Growing Old" project.)

Nature

Age is nothing else

But connecting the fine lines

Past flows into now.

Photo by Peter Aschoff on Unsplash

(This post is part of my "Growing Up & Growing Old" project.)

"Vorfreude"

Friend from far away
Arrives for a long visit
Anticipation.

Photo by Andreea Popa on Unsplash

Whispers and memories

Dead leaves at the bottom 

Of the pond telling stories 

My summer has past.

Photo by Weiqi Xiong on Unsplash

(This post is part of my "Growing Up & Growing Old" project.)

Joyous autumn morning

Mist on the water
I want to capture it now

Still, it disappears. 

Photo by Todd Aarnes on Unsplash

Little Lord Fauntleroy

Here is a picture of our family's own Little Lord Fauntleroy. At first glance, I see a girl. Only on further examination, I realise he is a boy.  

... many generations later, our family brightly embraces LGBQA+ diversity.

(This post is part of my "Growing Up & Growing Old" project.)

All it takes

All it takes is

Moving from left to right

A swaying of my hips,

A sigh leaving my lips

Unannounced. Such

Yearning... for love,

for a life well lived.

(This post is part of my "Growing Up & Growing Old" project.)  

I wish I knew his name

Deep in our family archives is this lone image of a distant relative. A proud soldier in the Canadian Scottish Regiment of WWI. 

Looking into his eyes, the only thing I see is resolve. I would like to know how it found its way there. Why was  he on his way to fighting a war so very far away for those he does not know? What type of stories did he hear to make him willing to leave his life behind? What made him choose possible death over the persuit of a long legacy?

When did we stop believing in personal scarifice for "the good of mankind"?

Looking at this photo I have two thoughts. One is if either of my children made this choice to fight in a war far away, it would break my heart. Secondly, I wish I knew this relative's name.

(This post is part of my "Growing Up & Growing Old" project.)

My day today

Back pain runs right down
Sitting on a heating pad
One more sigh escapes.

I asked some friends...

What do you no longer do that you did when you were young ?

• Catch fireflies. (I do not even remember how to.)
• Play “how far can you spit“ from our balcony.

• Play football with my brother.

• I was trying to teach Emmalyn how to do a cartwheel, and yeah, it ended up being big on theory, as I can’t actually do one anymore.

• Reading under the blanket with a flashlight.

• Sleepovers at a friend's houses with all my best buddies.

(This post is part of my "Growing Up & Growing Old" project.)

Constant disturbances

My daily struggle
Is my brain whirling around
Open plan office.

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

Just like that he's there

 

Just like that, he's there
Standing next to his tent with
A war buddy in tow.

My grandfater fought in WWI. He was a motercycle carrier delivering messages on the Front. Or that is what we were told. He never once mentioned this period in his life. 

That is why I was surpised to come upon this photo of him standing in a field of mud in his uniform pants and boots. He looks as if he has just played a game of football with his buddy. It is perhaps hard to see, but there are a field of tents in the background.

(This post is part of my "Growing Up & Growing Old" project.)

Soul daddy

My brother, with beard
Silver and sleek, a soul daddy,
Grace in growing old.

(This post is part of my "Growing Up & Growing Old" project.)

Steam swirling

 

Steam swirling above
Tea cup resting in my hand
I am missing you.  

The poems of Isobel Dixon

Isobel's poems speak

Brightly and beautifully

Into this new day.

Attending the the breath of experience

In praise of those friendships that crisscross

The undulating surfaces of generations or cultures
Attending the breath of our humble experiences
Whether whirling storms or quiet laxity
Whether acts of grand gestures or tender mercies
They are the heroes of my long life and I 
Sing their praises. Blessed is true friendship. 

(This poem was inspired by Krista Tipetts and Jen Bailey's recent conversation on inter-generational friendships.)

(This post is part of my "Growing Up & Growing Old" project.)

Constant stream of thoughts

 

Around in circles

Light and colours find their way

Breathing in and out.

I send my gaze

(for Kay)

I walk along this dusty summer track
On the outskirts of the city. In green.
I send my gaze across the ocean
Into La Sagesse Bay, where we meet
For fresh fish sandwich and a salad
With pink homemade salad dressing.

When the lunch rush is over and many
Have left for home, we wander down
The beach to the place where the river
Runs into the sea. A sandy estuary where
Our thoughts and words filter through
The souls of our bare feet and escape
Out into the tides of long long friendship.

Photo by Alex Wigan on Unsplash

(This post is part of my "Growing Up & Growing Old" project.)

Tender stories

As some of you know, I am a convert to Korean dramas and romances. The hours I have spent watching them has been like sipping a healing tonic that smoothed the strife of the last 20 months.

Recently, I watched a gem of a series called Move to Heaven. I have rarely seen any play, movie, or television series that handles a countries taboo topics with such tenderness.

As far as I have learnt from other series, homosexuals, adopted or foster children, and those living with physical or mental challenges are still very much ostracized in Korean society. One can argue that this is the case in all societies. Yet, it seems much more the case in Korea. That is why Move to Heaven is remarkable exploration of human kindness.  

Childhood friends

Rain falls softly down

My heart misses you dearly

Old friends far away.

Photo by Ali Abdul Rahman on Unsplash

Daily ritual

Each morning I start
With a piece of poetry
A tidbit of love.

Photo by Laura Chouette on Unsplash

(This post is part of my "Growing Up & Growing Old" project.)

Reverse psychology

Yesterday, was our monthly meet up to discuss our Year of Theme activities and processes. In my case, my year's theme is Freedom. It has been an interesting journey so far. The goal of making Freedom a daily focus has been surprisingly enjoyable and effortless. 

One thing that I would like to grow is a daily mediation practice. This is something that I have done for most of my adult life, but with longer pauses inbetween. There were times when it was a natural part of my day, but that has not been the case for the last 20 months of the pandemic. 

When I asked my friend, Karen, "How have your tastes changed as you have grown older?" she answered such:

 
"Probably a major way my tastes have changed has to do with meditation practice.  My mind became so sensitized that I am no longer interested in many of the books I used to read and movies I used to watch.  It’s surprising to discover how many books and movies are flippant about their characters or about life in general, or they are violent in a way that is meant to be entertaining (what is entertaining about seeing someone in pain?), or they are just no longer interesting because they don’t engage with the larger questions about life and its meaning and purpose."

This has left me with the idea of not indulging in my daily practice of watching YouTube videos for the next few months. Perhaps letting this behind will work reversely and help me back on the cushion.

Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash 

(This post is part of my "Growing Up & Growing Old" project.)

Confession

My desk is messy
My mind is less so, I hope
Only Bach can help.

Photo by Jr Korpa on Unsplash

(This post is part of my "Growing Up & Growing Old" project.)

Another morning ritual

Fine blue and white stripes
My eyes open to the day
Electric toothbrush.

(This post is part of my "Growing Up & Growing Old" project.)  

Changing back to the old

The stores are open
The line ups of masked people

Slowly disapear.  

(This post is part of my "Growing Up & Growing Old" project.)

Second jab

It's raining outside. I feel quite flat and matt this morning. I am getting my second jab. It feels as though this is something momentous. Odviously, only for me. Maybe also for family and friends that I can now meet up with. 

(This post is part of my "Growing Up & Growing Old" project.)

One of our homeless

She wanders through the streets
The midnight shift until dawn
Barefoot and breathing fire, she
Stomps the wilderness of her fury

Down down beneath the ground.
She laughs out loud and her
Ancestors echo back her
Childhood escapades from the
Storefront windows. She glimpses
The shadow of her moving self
And shouts at her to take care
There are monsters out there.

The morning light finally comes

And she slips away quietly from

Our streets. We know not where.

Life flying by

Each day comes quickly
I wake, eat, sneeze, go to bed
All the while dreaming.

My parents’ philosophy

 

Me: If you were to sum up your parents' philosophy for raising children, what would it be?

A.: Creativity, love and freedom. They gave me the entire mandate to decide for myself – balancing on the edge of irresponsibility.

M.: Happiness is overrated (and puts a lot of pressure on the individual). Instead, look for joy in your life. Enjoy the moment.

K.: Not sure if my mother had a philosophy! Generously, I think she followed the philosophy of the times. This was, she was expected to have kids, as well as stay at home and raise us. All the while being a good wife to her husband’s career.

I think my father didn’t have a philosophy of being a parent, but he had one about how he wanted to live his life. Which was to be a good person, kind, loving and a good person for his kids, and grandkids to model after.

(This post is part of my "Growing Up & Growing Old" project.)

The joys of summer

I walk down the streets
Roses glimmer everywhere
A feast for my nose!

Photo by Sara Budhwani on Unsplash