Just me waiting for the dawn

It is dark outside
Christmas lights no longer shine
Household still sleeping.

Looking back over the year

My dear friend is sad

This year was so difficult

A folly to hope?

This past Christmas

Daughter visiting
There is a mess on the floor
Rearranged bookshelves! 

One step forward, two steps back

Last year, we miraculously had a Christmas with family and friends. This year, we are back to doing it on the fly again. You could say it's cancelled if you want to look at it pessimistically. Or, you can say we are doing it on 'low flame' if you are looking for a silver lining. Covid continues to find its way into our lives.

 
In those early months of the pandemic, winter of 2020, we hoped it would all be over by spring. I remember reading an article where some specialists said it would likely influence our lives for the next 5-6 years. At that time, I thought this impossible and despaired at such a grave prognosis. Now, I hope they were right and next year, the 5th year, we will have Christmas just as we want. 

Now the snow is melting

Tree branches soaked
An army of waterdrops
Such tiny mirrors.

A question of perspective

Two girls, two parents

The man wears dainty, bright bling

The wife's more subdued. 

Nostalgia

First snow has come

Crunching underneath my boots
Christmas can come now.

Thank you, to friends who travel afar

Japanese teapot

Steam rising from curved belly

Gift from a dear friend.

Why do dreams feel so real?

Terrible nightmare
Getting caught with my pants down

I'm so mortified.

The morning sky

Dawn colours the clouds

Outside my hotel window

Birds slowly fly by.

Business trip to Copenhagen

Will I remember the joy of spending time in hotel lobbies, waiting for colleagues to come down? Now that I am soon to retire, these experiences of going on business trips will no longer happen. I often go down to the lobby an hour early to drink a cup of tea and observe the going-ons.

In the world of business, folks feel very important, their movements in groups so purposeful. Late nights in the bar, they drink to wind down and get closer. Wanting these days to be special. Yet, come morning, three types of persons gather to face a further day together.

The ones who drank too much and said too much, Strangely, they feel no remorse. Long ago, they convinced themselves life was too short to look back with any regrets for their behaviour. Not even one day.

Then there are those who are woozy with a hangover-like state, something they haven't experienced since the last time they were on a business trip. They look contrite. Hoping the others do not think less of them, though they do of themselves.

The last are the Stranglers, those who returned to their rooms before "the fun started", having spoken an undefined, whispered excuse. They have absolutely no wish to connect over drinks with colleagues outside of office hours. They don't consider themselves anti-social, but whatever is happening at the bar is of no interest to them. They know they are considered different and are unhappy about not being a part of the blend. Still, they are happy in themselves.

Sitting in the lobby, I watch them flow out of the elevators. They are drawn to the nucleus of the first joiner, but after cursory greetings, they move back into ever-equidistant circles. The whiff of drunken joviality from the evening before dissipates quickly into the space between the hotel's sterile walls. It is business as usual.

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

First morning of my last business trip

Opening my eyes

Sunrise over the harbour

I'll take my shower.

Danes and their butter - the last straw

I am having stomach problems. I'm not supposed to eat seeds, but being in Copenhagen makes this impossible! Chai, flax, regular sesame, black sesame, pumpkin, sunflower, and alfalfa seeds- you name it- are in every dish or snack I eat. I am reduced to eating the hotel's sourdough bread with their delicious Danish butter. Thankfully, there are no seeds.

Whenever I see butter, I think of Mons, Bent's brother, both who came on the trans-Atlantic crossing with Dave, my father, and me. 

We were taking four months to sail the boat from Scotland over to Grenada. Each stage of the trip, Dave would invite a few friends to come along. He and I were the only constants.

The crossing over from Gran Canary was going to be the longest and so, Dave only wanted a small crew. He would be captain, and a good friend of his, Bent, would be his backup. Bent, who is Danish-Canadia, asks Dave if he can bring his brother, Mons, along. He paints a good picture of how easy going and fun it would be to have Mons along.

This all sounds good to me. Especially having Bent along because besides being an airplane pilot, Bent is a competitive 470s racer and has taken part in regattas around the world. The only problem with Bent is he can only go below deck to lie down and sleep. He gets seasick if he stands up, for instance, to cook or sits at the table to eat. So, no sous chef for Bent.

 
It's no problem. He and Dave make an excellent team navigating the boat in the right direction. They are using sextants and compass settings, and hell, it's no big deal if they lose a day or two of readings. There's nothing to hit in front of us anyway.

(Note: It is the end of the 1980s, and we are trying out one of the first GPS systems. Reception is sporadic, but Dave is excited because it has a fantastic accuracy of ± one sea mile. How crazy is that? (I really wish he could see smartphones and google maps now.))

So that leaves Mons as co-chef. I have done all the provisioning, so every storage space or cubby hole is filled to the brim with fresh food, canned and boxed produce, and French wines. The meal plan is stuck to the refrigerator with a magnet.

Weeks ago, Dave assured me that he had "the talk" with Bent about Mons having to cook during the trip. Good, tasty meals are second to good navigation on a long journey. Actually, a bit of sloppy navigation can be tolerated. Bad-to-meh food, never. So, I am anxious to know how good a cook Mons is.

I sent Dave a list of instructions about our meals to pass on to them:

• We'll have vegetarian meals unless we catch fish.
• If we catch fish, we eat it fresh and stretch it (e.g. fish chowder) until all of its loveliness is gone.
• I (the main chef) and Mons (the co-chef) will work together. We will alternate days cooking breakfast. Whoever cooks cleans. I will cook all the dinners. Mons will help chop up vegetables, if needed, and do all the cleaning up.
• Everyone is responsible for making their lunches. You can use anything in the refrigerator to make your lunch. 
• If you want to take anything from the storage cupboards or freezer, ask me first. This prevents anyone from eating a necessary component of tomorrow's dinner.
• Only one bottle of wine is served at dinner. No matter how many of us are drinking or how great the conversation is... one bottle per evening.
• Anyone wanting to drink fancy coffee must bring enough for everyone. Otherwise, normal filter coffee bought at the local grocery store is served.

All the crews members who came on and off the boat, as we sailed down from Scotland to Gran Canary adhered to these rules, and everyone seemed to enjoy the food.

Bent and Mons arrive on the morning we are due to leave on the trans-Atlantic crossing. After bringing their luggage to the forward cabin, Mons comes back to the main cabin with his arms filled with, I kid you not, 15 kgs of vacuum-packed smoked hams, meat slices, and various cuts of venison.

 
I'm momentarily speechless. "Did you not get the note about how I am responsible for provisioning the boat and planning all the meals?" 

"Oh, I thought it would be nice to bring something special. I love meat. Don't you? Where should I put all this?" he asks naively.

 
I mentally review all the storage spaces packed to the rim with delectables. "You can stash the meat in your luggage storage space or under your pillow, for all I care," I answer back, annoyed. Mons and I have obviously gotten off on the wrong foot.

Once we leave the harbour and share the excitement of being on our way, I calm down, so I suggest he and I sit down and look at the meal plan to better understand what he's to cook. "I can't cook", he says. He seems stunned that I would ask. "Can't cook! You can't cook at all?" I'm beginning to panic. "Didn't Bent tell you that you are supposed to cook?" He looks back at me blankly.

"Are you at least an experienced sailor?" He continues to look puzzled. "I have sailed a little, but never on a boat this size and never on the ocean." Without realizing it,  a "Then why are you here?" slips out of my mouth. He puts on a puppy-dog expression and says, "I'm going through a messy divorce. Bent thought the trip would help me get my mind off things." Men!

On my way down to the aft cabin, my cabin, I pass Dave. "Did you know Mons cannot cook?" Dave looks up from the chart. "He can't cook at all?" I respond with, "Nada." There's a very pregnant silence weighing between us. "Wow" is all Dave gives me in the way of an apology. Obviously, he didn't have "the talk" with Bent.

Furious, it takes all my control not to slam the door to my cabin. I put on some calming music and open the aft porthole. My fury begins to stretch in different directions. One finger points at Dave, who never gets phased and seemingly instantly has gone over to Plan B - let Lia do all the cooking. Then there is Bent, a long-term buddy of Dave's. In his oversimplistic life, how could he invite his brother, who is obviously a Depp or idiot? But the middle finger of my wrath points directly at Mons.

 
He'll be total ballast on this stretch of the journey. One I've been so looking forward to. I tried to look at the situation from another perspective. Under what circumstances would I be willing to cater to everyone's needs and do all of the cooking, without carrying any resentment?

I think long and hard. I take a power nap. I put on some Kieth Garret. Then it comes to me in one fell swoop.

I go up to the cockpit where the three men are sitting. "Hey, guys, since it looks like I will have to do all of the cooking, I'd like to set some new rules. I will do all of the cooking- breakfast and dinner- and Mons will do the clean-up." I continue, "Breakfast will be at eight in the morning, and dinner will be at six o'clock."

They all nod their heads. I smile. "Normally, we each do three watches during every 24-hour period. This includes a night watch. I will do two watches, not three. The first will be from 4 a.m. to 6 a.m., and the second from 8 p.m. to 10 p.m. You can work out the other watches among yourselves." There are more nods.

"And lastly, you have to make your own coffee. I do not want to feel like I am your waitress on this trip." Satisfied that they understood the message. I go below to make dinner.

So, what does this have to do with Danes and their butter?

Well, once I have negotiated the conditions above, I think everything will be okay. I will see every sunrise, be in bed at 10 o'clock, and have plenty of time to cook without anyone getting in my way. Sounds sweet.

As the days passed, we get into the rhythm of things. That is until ten days into the crossing. I open the freezer to take out a package of butter since none is left in the refrigerator. No matter how deep I dig, I can't find any.

I am sure I bought four packages- one per week for those who want butter on their sandwiches or omelettes for lunch. We don't need more because I always cook with oil.

I look over at the guys. "Has anyone seen the butter?" Mons looks up from his book, "I ate what I could find. Do you have any more?" Flabbergasted, I asked, "You ate the butter in the refrigerator and the three packages from the freezer? Without telling me? You ate four packages of butter in ten days?" He looks chagrined and tries to make light of the matter. "You know the Danes; we believe you should put so much butter on your bread your toothmarks show when you take a bite!"

Without a word, I turn and head back to the aft cabin. I know it isn't such a big deal. The guys can use mayonnaise and mustard on their sandwiches. Then again, I know the incident with the butter is the last straw. Mons is officially dead meat to me, just like the 15 kgs stashed in the forward cabin.

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

In search of the lost summer

Leaves drop in silence
Winter boots stomp upon them
Time sweeps them away.

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

A whiff of fighting spirit

It is that time of year that I dread the most. November. 

I have taken out from the back of our closet some fairy lights and surrounded the bronze Buddha head, shells, and two glass candle holders on the windowsill with them. Giui comments that it is a bit early for Christmas. 

It really doesn't matter; any tactic to starve off the winter blues is fine with me.

Sommer Wehmut / Summer Melancholy

Leaves drop in silence 
Winter boots stomp upon them 
Time sweeps all away.

Why not?

It started as a bet. My boss dared me to dye my hair bright red, like Leeloo in the movie "The 5th Element". One of my heroes. She, more than Bruce Willis' character, draws me back over and over again to see the movie. 

Of course, I cannot be Leeloo, the beautiful young alien who just arrived on Earth. That isn't my intent. My main concern is that if I do the dare, I do not want to be the brunt of a public joke. To do such a radical act could be a breach of contract with myself. For decades, all I have ever wanted was to be me inside and out. 

Yet, over the last few years, when I have travelled to the east coast of the States, Dubai, and Singapore, I have seen many women stemming the tides of time: older women trying to look younger. All of the plastic surgery, hair extensions, facial peelings, botox, hair dyes, and make-up seem, in my eyes, to etch away the life experience engravings from their faces. I question why they spend so much money and effort to slow down the inevitable. 30-year-olds try to look in their 20s, 40- year-olds 30, 50-year-olds 40, etc. Doesn't all that stretching, taping, and tucking masquerade the beauty of who they are evolving into? What does that feel like?

So, as an experiment, I take the dare. The transformation is an enjoyable experience. Two hours of creating a "before and after." My young hairdresser has the same hair tone. She has worn it for four years now. She says it has become who she is when she looks in the mirror. It has become a part of her identity.

 
It has been fun to see the reactions from colleagues and friends. They understand it is a lark. But, it is the loving looks in the eyes of my family that make this experiment worth the discomfort of being an older Leeloo for a few weeks. 

Even now, only a week into this transformation, I have learnt a valuable lesson. Looking in the mirror at who I am today, I do not want to see who I wanted to be back then or never was. Instead, I want to see who I am today, naked and vulnerable, being one day closer to becoming old. It is a gift... time to age.

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

A symptom of old age

Full moon shines brightly
In the middle of the night
I get up to pee.

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

Winter solstice approaching

Outside our living room

Window darkness prevails.

The clock ticks away the dawn

That won’t shine or shimmer

Except on the dusty pages

Of a farmer’s almanac. 

Made a big mistake

Look... cooking lessons
Delightfully delicious.
My fridge is empty!

Simple joys

A new lemon press

Steel and muscle together

A vitamin shock.

Photo by CA Creative on Unsplash

Waiting for Giui to get his takeout coffee

Sing angels from high 
Back resting on the church wall

Drinking in the sun.

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

Weirdly and tenderly happy for small wins

Daughter came in last
In a race she ran alone
Could not be more proud.

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

Trying to stay calm

A daddy longlegs
Slipping on a flat surface
Uggh, lands at my feet.

Hibernation instinct

All of a sudden
Morning is darkness and tea
I am here again.

After all that training

I'm back from Izmir
Nature girl is in a race
We cheer her onward.

The glow of anticipation

Ümran's going home
Smiles and good food of Izmir
Suitcases are full.

Photo by T. Selin Erkan on Unsplash

A quiet realisation

I wake in the dark
Now need to turn on the lights
Summer disappears.

Saturday morning in Toronto

Joggers passing by
Red canoe on top of car
Mashed avo toast. 

Encounter

We round a corner of the street on a family joke. I'm smiling a big 'life is wonderful' smile, and I nearly collide with a man wearing a dark grey suit and black starring eyes. I connect to his eyes and fall into a pit of fear and hatred. His gaze whips my head to the side, severing our connection.

A microsecond later, my daughter cries in disgust; the man spit on her and my back in passing. We stop and assess the situation. Trying to come to terms with what just happened. I regret that eye contact. 

A policeman comes towards us, and another civilian comes up from behind, in the direction the man who spit on us was walking. The guy shouts to the policeman, "He pulled out two knives. He just reached into his bag and took out these two motherfuxxing knives!" The policeman asks, "Was he dressed in grey?" The guy confirms this. The policeman says they have everything in control. So the guy escorts us for some time up the road as we continue our way, mumbling the whole time, "two motherfuxxing knives."

I am not quite sure what to think. An hour later, and still numb.

(Written during our trip to Montreal in August.)

The beginning of the end of summer

Street cleaner swooshing
At four this morning
Mixing with birdsong. 

Early morning in Ste. Lucie

Sun over treetops
Floors creak while getting my tea
Sipping and smiling.

In the middle of nature

Ann's place in nature
Squirrels eating clothes on clothesline
Damm nasty creatures.

(Written during our trip to Montreal in August.)

Home away from home

Ann and David's place up in Ste. Lucie is the most remarkable place. A wooden structure built with logs. It took five years for the logs to settle into their rock foundation. Gold winters and hot summers temper the wood. The wood fibres shrink and expand in slow motion. The massive structure shifts in micro-movements until all the pieces merge together as one. Home.

I feel about this house like I did about Pat and Dave's place. A sanctuary that exists within nature. A place where there was an ever-changing sea landscape and seasong rolling off the reefs and pounding off the cliffside. The bright yellow chairs in the pool area, with their seats made of slung canvas, supported our backs so perfectly. The children swam, and we would read, glancing up occasionally to witness their looklook antics.

There were the sunsets on the terrace. The swimming under the stars before going to bed. All accompanied by bats flying and the serenade of tree frogs. 

At Ann's, it is less wild, but there is a sense of embracing wilderness. I can hear the sound of the wind dancing with the trees. There is birdsong in the early morning, but later on, there will be less song and more fluttering and scavaging for their young chicks. 

David makes creaks with the stairs as he comes down to let Lucie out. Then he goes up to change for his run through the woods. Once he leaves, there is nothing left but the stillness of the family sleeping and the swaying of the greens outside the open windows. There it is... a sigh from Lucie dreaming as she sleeps next to me. 

(Written during our trip to Montreal in August.)

When adults are not in sight

Close my eyes and wish

Childhood laughter, much glee
Lightness of being.

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

Visiting my family in the past

Family visits
Tired from all the listening
Living room drama.

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

Shouting from the rooftop

I am Spartacus. Audacious. Wild. Brutal.
I am Mother Nature. Wild. Wonderous. Bountiful.
I am Destiny. Wonderous. Mysterious. Unrelenting.
I am Me. Mysterious. Wonderous. Wild.

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

It hasn't hit me yet

So, I am officially retired. Unofficially, I will continue working for a few years more. To have some fun. To continue earning money. To continue learning. 

I will quit quickly if I stop having fun. Promise to myself. There is too much to explore to waste on work that does not bring joy and satisfaction. Let's see how life develops. Long and slow is my deepest desire. 

Staying connected to friends and family. Helping others through coaching. As long as the work stays interesting, it means that the person taking the coaching is truly able to do the work. At the moment, those who I am coaching are either doing career coaching or financial literacy coaching. Topics that are dear to my heart. 

My greatest desire I have though is to explore and become an artist not only through action but as a fact. This is the scary part. This is also fire, earth, water and air unleashed.

Photo by Tom Podmore on Unsplash

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

August buzzing and botherings

The army of wasps
Are now everywhere around
Anxieties rules.

June in Chios, Greece

Caroline, my writing buddy this week, and I wrote something to the prompt "swimming".  Here is Caroline's. This below is mine...

She steals away from the busy conference room filled with the cacophony of business folks hammering away at the day's agenda. Rushing upstairs to her hotel room, she strips away her business attire and rushes into her old black bathing suit. She wraps a big white hotel towel around her body and slips into her bright yellow flip-flops.

Down the staircase and out the back door, she walks through the alleys until she finds the footpath that runs along the rocky coast. To her left, the brilliant blues of the Meditteranean Sea are calling her. 

Another 10 minutes and she arrives at a small beach. It has little sand, mainly rocks and pebbles. Which makes it a beach for the locals rather than tourists. A few half-naked bodies are changing back into their clothes before returning to work or their homes. A few heads are bobbing on top of the water far in the distance.

Awkwardly, she slides, slips, and stumbles into the warm water. She rushes forward and dives into the deep, dark, delicious salty water.

She comes up for air, and a wave slaps her sharply on her face. Then another a few seconds later. "Where have you been?" the waves say. "I've so so missed you", she responds and dives down deeply again.

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

It's far away

Written by my writing buddy, Caroline. This week's prompt was "swimming". 

It had been an exhausting but inspiring day and the sea was beckoning. A hazy sky could not dampen the warmth of the summer.

 
Walk into the water, frigid, bracing. Just a short swim to get the body tingling again.
The pier at the opposite end of the bay, always a nice touch to the beaches here.
 
Swimming, a little nugget of a thought: Swim to the pier.
 
“It’s far.”
“Yes, it’s far, but you can take your time. The water is shallow. If you get tired, you can walk.”
 
Swim. Landmarks pass by. Slowly. The pier doesn’t seem to be getting any closer. Feeling tired.
 
“Take your time.”
Written by my writing buddy, Caroline. This week's prompt was "swimming".
The pier is just there. No. Again, it seems to have stopped coming closer. Frozen moment in time.
 
“It’s okay, almost there.”
 
Made it. Stand and look around. The other side of the bay, far away.
 
“You could swim back.”
“But it’s far.”
“Yes, it’s far, but you can take your time. The water is shallow. If you get tired, you can walk.”
 
Slow return.
 
Leave the water. Electrified body. Burst of laughter as a seagull tries to steal her sandal.

Photo by Georg Arthur Pflueger on Unsplash

Story waiting to be told

Genre: true story

Place and time: suburb of Berlin, last week

Tina, who lives alone in a large house with her cat, receives a telephone call from her neighbour. The neighbour wants to know if Tina knows her cat rides the city buses daily.

The cat gets on the bus with other passengers and then rides the bus for a while and starts meowing really loudly when it wants to be let off. Apparently, the bus drivers know her cat well and allow her on and off their buses regularly.

Childhood summers

Sharp cries of seagulls
Echoing across the skies
Running quickly home.

The grandfather clock

(part 1)

She wipes down the kitchen counter until it shines. It's a point of pride that her kitchen is spotless. She takes the orange sponge to clean the counters whenever she enters the kitchen. Even if she's just getting a glass of water. Even if the counters are already clean. She glances over her shoulder on the way out, and her heart briefly smiles.

As she passes the entrance area, she notices the mess. Her daughter has kicked her shoes off, and thrown her coat down, making it impossible for someone to open the front door. This makes her mad. 

Every day, all day, her daughter and her husband treat their home as if there is an invisible army of servants to pick up after them. Someone who follows them around, bringing everything they throw into the corner or leave behind back to where they belong. Cleaning the bathroom mirrors spattered with toothpaste. Scrubbing the toilets. Changing the sheets. Washing their clothes. Cooking their meals. Always. Always. Over and over. Endlessly.

They treat their home like it is nothing to treasure. Her home. 
She goes over to the grandfather clock. Takes out the brass keg from the bottom right corner and slowly, delicately winds the spring clog. Another 24 hours.

Time to start making dinner. She stands outside her daughter's bedroom door and tells her she must empty out the dishwasher. She smiles; quality time with a teenager.

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

Late afternoon in suburbia

She lives in fear of her mother's x-ray visions of her being. It is uncanny how often her mother comes into her room when she is, at that very moment, contemplating sneaking out to visit her friends. She so wants to go out with them and hang around the shopping mall, flirting with the boys. Or when she reads a "silly romance" (her mother's words) instead of doing her homework.

When she is with her mom in a room, her mom always gives her accusatory looks as if she knows what she is thinking. Not only knows them, but it is as if they are being televised directly, loudly into her mother's brain.

 
Her mom's "stop lazing around" reprimands sting. Those words can incinerate any rebellious, free-loving, adventurous thoughts like a lit match to a dry Christmas tree. She craves the power to shield her being with an impenetrable barrier to all her mom's criticisms and maligning commentary. She wants to unleash the jungle of yearnings and musing growing wild in her heart.

 
From outside her door, her mom yells for her to come and empty the dishwasher. Sighing slumped-shouldered, she leaves her gets off her bed.

(part 2)

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

Off again

Off again, but this time around with my team to participate in a four-day workshop. Everyone is facilitating their own mini-workshop. 

Lots of time to explore all the changes that have happened, those that are rendering our day-to-day business a tad difficult, and what we can do in the next while to cope better and feel rejuvenated and not drained.

We are truly blessed to be up north with the long long summer days and sunsets that take hours to unfold.

Photo by Philipp on Unsplash

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

Walking buddies

We have walking buddies that populate our daily walks. Since we go for walks nearly always at the same time and usually take one of three routes, these people have become a part of our walks.

In particular, two older men take their small dogs out for their walk, holding them in their arms like babies.

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

Being here, but not

I am back home now,
My wanderlust still alive
Hmmm, where to go next? 

Last hurrah!

My dear colleague and I are off to Chios to give a two-day workshop. It is the last global event that I will facilitate for the company and my career. Over 40 years of working in various fields of industry and in a diverse number of jobs. This trip is going to be the last hurrah.

I will continue to work eight days a month but will no longer be involved in the day-to-day. Instead, I can focus on project work. What a luxury to be able to do this. May my health and spirits continue to shine. 

  

Photo by Vasiliki Mastropetrou on Unsplash

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

Wednesday writing gals

There are five of us in this writing coven
We wandered the earth to meet online:
One from Slovakia, now living in Denmark
One once in Denmark, now living in Switzerland
One from Lithuania, now living in Norway
One from the States, now living in Germany
One from "wherever", now living in Germany

We meet every Wednesday morning,

When we can, and let our imaginations wander

We write stories that we so delight in and 

Share our pasts and our love of writing

And laughter, and occasionally... tears

Pure delight, deep curiosity, and above all, 

We are always filled with joy by the end. 

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

Back from weeks of travel

 

Finally, summer
Now back from Copenhagen
Changing to sandals.

Photo by Nina Steffens on Unsplash

Upcycling

 A few months ago, we did some sorting out in our apartment. We gathered nearly three full moving cartons of books, DVDs and CDs. Usually, I would have brought these things to our local Oxfam.

Since we were dorting throughout the weekend when stores were closed,  I decided to see whether there was any space in the community book closet down the street from where we live. I went there with one bag full and was delighted to see there was enough space, but not a lot. Enough though, to put in what was in my bag. 

The next day I passed by the book closet, I noticed again, there was quite a bit of empty space. I came back with two bags of books this time. These also disappeared over night. Then I stepped it up a bit, and put some of the DVDs and CDs there. They also disappeared. 

I began to suspect that it wasn't the avid readers in our neighbourhood who were taking the stuff but perhaps someone who was selling them to supplement their income. It cheered me to think of this new upcycling scheme. Since that time, I have brought a bag or two more of stuff and placed it there. 

Today as my partner and I were walking through the pedestrian zone, we passed a houseless person sitting at "their" corner. Instead of an empty cup placed next to the sign asking for money, they had set up an area where they could display a selection of books, DVDs and CDs beside their empty cup. And voila, they were our stuff. The sign now says, "Please pay whatever you want!" I was so chuffed that I could help someone without having to go to Oxfam.

What I wonder is if they are getting more money selling stuff to passer-byes than they were before. I hope so.

Strange occurrences

Last weekend...

I am staying in a lovely hotel in London. I go down early every morning at 7 am to drink ginger and lemon tea and work on my Talkshow Rivals project. Then around 10 am, my colleague comes down, and we eat breakfast together. 

Yesterday's early morning work session was accompanied by an American couple eating breakfast and then getting into a furious fight. They thought they were whispering, but I could hear everything they said. Ultimately, their argument ended in a declaration of divorce and the wife stamping out of the room, and the red-faced husband loitering a time in the restaurant, presumably to give his wife enough time to pack her bags. Since I was the only one in the restaurant with them, I felt like a witness to a crime. Really weird experience. 

This morning, there was a British couple right behind where I was sitting, obviously very much in lust with each other. They spent a good hour or more finding everything the other person says hysterically, giddily funny. They giggled and laughed their way through a large breakfast meal. I wanted to turn to them and say, "Get a hotel room" to them, but hey, that is precisely what they were doing. I had forgotten the lightheadedness they were experiencing at the first flush of passion. At my age, I just find it highly irritating.

Can't wait to see what strange occurrence happens tomorrow morning.  

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

Back from London

(from my travel diary)

Work has gotten busy again. Amongst other things, I am travelling quite a bit. I'll still try to write a post or two.

Spring has come, and I am happy. The greens are healing salves to my soul. 

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

The stubbornness of youth

Cold morning today

Teenagers still wear T-shirts

Since spring has started. 

Lost in space

I am lost in space
Possessed with ideas
Fever to create.

Yarn

She held the multi-hued strand in her hand. It was so beautiful. The combination of colors swirled around each other, seamlessly blending, intertwined in a pulsating rainbow.

Though it pained her, she took the strand and tenderly, lovingly began unravelling it. She wanted to contemplate its essence one last time. Once slim and nimble, her fingers no longer had much strength or coordination. But the yarn’s warmth soothed her inflamed joints. Slowly and painstakingly, she teased out the individual filaments. Each glowed reassuringly as she arranged them side by side in front of her.

She had spun this yarn herself. Every vibrant thread contained her life’s energy, which was now gently ebbing away. As she regarded her life’s story, the single elements joined and stretched, forming a path. She smiled with relief, filled with joy at her final journey.

(My friend, Caroline, wrote this piece during our writers' workshop a while ago. I asked her if I could post it because it reminded me so much of Karen.)

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

Losing the precious flow of deep work

Artistic broadband
Explodes, erasing all thoughts
The moment I sneeze.

Silly thought while emptying dishwasher

Cleaning out a drawer
Big spoon spoons a little spoon
It made a baby?

Glad to be safe at home

Black clouds like bullies
Birds fly low in the sky
The next storm rolls near.

Only one up early this morning

Dawn slides back along
The invisible steal line
Daylight savings time.

It snowed last night

Field of crocuses
Spots of purple and orange 
Shine through white blanket.

Promise to myself

Time to think slowly
Stop all distracting actions
River of thoughts flows.

Wonder when it happened. It took time. And there were never any nefarious intentions, for sure. Yet, somewhere in the last years, I have stopped spending quiet time with myself. Instead, I always need to be doing some sort of action or having conversations... chugging away all day long. 

I never just gaze off into the distance and get lost in my thoughts. Nor am I comfortable with that squeamish sensation of boredom. Even going for a walk seems a waste of time unless I listen to a podcast or audiobook. Crazy. Maybe Julien is right. I should stop watching K-dramas for a while. Turn off the moving pictures, and close down the screens.

I could move slower and have sustained moments of no activity. Take time to listen to music. Really listen to the music instead of using it to fill in the background of the movie that is my day-to-day life.

Promise to self: acquire a daily practice of letting the river of thoughts flow.

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