Lost (Madeleine Horton)

August 15, 2023 ~ Madeleine Horton ~ 1 Comment

As a young man, my grandfather Walter Freidrich Karl Ernest (anglicized from the original Ernst) spent much of his life in Africa, from about 1895-1910. His apparent facility learning languages led to employment as an interpreter with the native labourers building the railway in British East Africa. He was also a keen amateur photographer.

My Aunt Dorothy, my mother’s older sister, seventeen years her senior, had many albums of his photos, which she dramatically called the Safari Books. On an early visit to Canada, she brought one. It cemented my fascination with this branch of my family which seemed then so much more exotic and interesting than my farming grandparents who lived down the road, a mere half mile from my family. All this was, of course, before words like colonialist and settler had taken on the negative connotations they have today. Interestingly though, in the early eighties my Aunt Dorothy said she would not be offering the Safari Books to Africa House in London. She was aware, with the many newly independent nations in Africa, photos taken by a dead white man from England might not be welcome.

When I made my first trip to England, my aunt offered to let me choose an album. It was the nicest gift she could give me. I felt honoured that I was being entrusted with a piece of family history.

So for a long time now, I have felt an ongoing sense of guilt. Somehow I have lost my Safari Book.

I did not lose it during my travels. Nor on the way home. For many years, it was in the same place on my bookshelf in my den. Periodically I took it out, always amazed at the enduring quality of the sepia photographs. Others in my family enjoyed seeing it. I remember only once taking it to my school to show an art teacher who had travelled to Africa. I remain sure I brought it home and remember packing it up to clear the room when the den ceiling needed major renovation. I have turned out every box and scoured all the places where I squirrel away papers. I have looked under beds and taken apart closets. All to no avail. I regret bitterly that I did not have the foresight to scan the photos.

For myself, I seem to remember the photos clearly, their sepia tones ever bold. Though, as time goes on, I wonder how many I have already forgotten. The pages seem to flip before my eyes ~ two views of the forbidding Zambesi River flowing into impenetrable jungle ~ a small building, dwarfed by the jungle behind it, seemingly set on stilts, captioned in my grandfather’s flowing cursive “Hotel, Umtali” ~ a very tall man in a flowing white robe in front of an arched and carved doorway framed by the two huge elephant tusks he holds. The building a mosque, the man perhaps a Somali or Ethiopian from his features ~ a panorama of the port at Mombasa, the end point of the railway ~ several photos of the railway being constructed in British East Africa. Men dwarfed by the giant jungle trees on the slopes behind them. Wielding pickaxes behind the trains in front of them. Perhaps clearing land for a small settlement ~ my favourite, a Black youth standing on the front of a locomotive. (I’m not sure why. I never asked myself if he was posed.) He isn’t smiling. He just looks like a young boy who has scrambled to a cool position to get his photo taken ~ a portrait of a priest, presumed Anglican or Catholic, formal, unsmiling. (One wonders about this context too.) ~ a room titled someone’s office. The desk, a table really, covered with a fancy linen cloth, draping to the floor. A coal oil lamp. an inkwell and fountain pen in a stand. Papers. On the wall, several animal skins. Zebra, leopard, some kind of antelope, horns ~

I wish I could see it once more. Though I feel differently now about pinning the skins of animals to walls for decor. I still have the feeling of the room. It feels stuffed and stolid. As if the walls could be wood panelled with a fireplace. Perhaps an attempt to conjure up faraway home. But is it not simply a hut?

~ a group of men dressed in suits. The background now unclear. But I remember the caption “The Ananias Club” and then a strange quote about wood and water which I can no longer remember but never did understand ~

I have discovered what may be the origins of “Ananias Club.” It is apparently an expression, used as a euphemism by Teddy Roosevelt, for the word “Liar.” In my imagination, it is ironic or perhaps ironically accurate. A Club where men got together and told of their exploits in those lands. I recognize the short man with the trim moustache, my grandfather.

~ finally, three grave markers: simple slabs of stone etched with names and the stark details. One died of malaria, one was killed by natives, one was killed by a lion ~

Are their gravestones too now lost?

I confess I have shed tears over the loss of that album. I am not sure why its loss has bothered me so much. The world it showed is itself lost and most would say good riddance.

On a personal level, I never met that grandfather, who was over sixty when my mother was born. But I do remember my formidable Aunt Dorothy who still had some memories of her early childhood in Africa and how her stories nourished my imagination. She entrusted me with the album which had endured so long and travelled so far.

And I lost it.

Letter to Writer’s Block (Marian Bron)

August 7, 2023 ~ Marian Bron ~ Leave a comment

Dear Writer’s Block,

Social conventions dictate a polite opening sentence. I’d ask how you are but I don’t care. You are still here, have been for quite a long time in fact, so I know how you are. Persistent, annoying, ever-present, relentless.

It’s time we parted ways. I need the sense of accomplishment that comes with finishing a story, a chapter or even a well-written paragraph. I need to lose myself in a fictional creation, another life that isn’t mine. I need the escape.

You see the sameness of life is getting to me and you are to blame. I miss those productive two hours surrounded by books, sitting at my old secretary desk. The one I spent a summer refinishing in my teens. A desk that connects me to my youth and more stories.

To be fair, writer’s block, you aren’t completely to blame. My insecurities are part of the problem. In capital letters they scream, “YOU SUCK! YOU’RE NOT A REAL WRITER!” But I write, therefore I am. So there. I may not have the ten-thousand hours or whatever is needed to perfect a skill, however I am getting there.

Let me throw myself into a good story. Let me create. Let me cry and giggle as I write. Don’t block me with your presence. Scram, get lost, let me be.

I am a storyteller. I come from storytellers. It’s in my genes. It’s who I am.

I’d ask you to go bug someone else but I don’t wish you on anyone. Disappear, vanish. Don’t take the high road, just get lost!

Wait on second thought, I know where you can go. There’s a guy named Donald down in the U.S. that I’d like you to visit.

I’m not closing with a friendly sign off, simply,

From

Marian

A Canadian Moment of Meditation (Madeleine Horton)

July 25, 2023 ~ Madeleine Horton ~ 1 Comment

Across the street Teagan comes out of his house. Plaid hat, snow pants, large gloves, swimming in his coat. The lawn is covered with snow. The boulevard is banked high with huge chunks of snow after yesterday’s storm. Teagan begins to carry chunks of snow to the lawn. He is choosy. Sometimes walking further down the street to find the perfect chunks. He is building, not a snowman, a snow fort. Some of the chunks are so large he struggles to carry them, until one overcomes him, and he falls. Face down in the snow he lies for long seconds until he rises, snow covered, shakes himself, and trudges over to a smooth piece of snowy lawn. He lies down and makes a snow angel. Refreshed, he arises and goes back to finding the next perfect chunk. Refreshed, I turn from my window to do an adult task.

Maybe in Another Life (Diane Chartrand)

July 4, 2023 ~ Diane Chartrand ~ 1 Comment

As I was drifting off a thought came about. Maybe in a different life. A world appeared with a young high school girl. She was popular and smiled all the time. As I looked closer I could see that girl was me.

I was taken through her time in high school and then to university where she became a teacher. She, that girl, was me. What a wonderful happy life was happening right before my eyes.

The other me was happy, accomplished, and had so many friends. Somehow my dream cycle was now doing a comparison of the current me and the different life me. What was it trying to get me to see?

My time went back to watching a life of joy, fulfillment, and moving forward. There was love, marriage, and a couple of children now growing up in a happy environment. I felt good there and hoped that maybe that could be my life now.

How can I swap that one for the one I am in now. I did ask but no one answered any of my questions. I now knew that we could have and experience a different life but only in our dreams. The life we have is the one we have, or maybe, just maybe I can do something to make changes and fulfill myself with what I saw and experienced in that different life.

Abruptly, I jumped up in bed shaking. I took a drink of water and calmed myself now being able to remember what just happened and where it took me. The rest of the day my head kept telling me, “Do it, do it, you can do it.”

Grief is…..(Muriel Allingham)

July 4, 2023 ~ Muriel Allingham ~ 2 Comments

The thing with feathers is grief, it

rises on lofty currents, before

gliding through tomorrow’s womb.

It is a thing of mathematical characteristics, it

can be mapped and charted;

the whole equalling the sum of parts, its

diagram; a view of sacred geometry.

And grief is the thing of words,

stripping each phrase for export, able to

fight the theatrical battle against language, and

be the bedfellow of poetry.

Grief is the thing bearing leaves; like

the mighty oak, its

season stilled by December’s cull, and

spring’s breath of birth travels a predictable course.

Grief is the thing of romance, the

songs of unrequited love, of

beauty through curtains of lace, it

holds its masters in temptation, and

wilts even the most tormented heart.

Grief knows ill-fated companionship, as

the wretched beast that

cooks the books, and

storms the castle—it

sits in evening light, and

turns the sheets to ice.

But it is the thing I live with,

it carves its notes upon my soul,

it writes my chapters, and

wrestles me home—grief is

the thing with feathers, so

airy, so faint, so eternal.

Cross-Fit (Muriel Allingham)

July 4, 2023 ~ Muriel Allingham ~ Leave a comment

Be savage not average, it

glared from the white board, in

bold red marker!

Yes! And

while succumbing to the pain

of torturous lunges, those

words clamped my attention.

I want that!

I want my idea of a revenge body, where

I emerge from mist with a glinting cross bow, as

fletchings quiver over my shoulder, I am

ripped—pumped, the form of Artemis!

Sore today, and

probably sore tomorrow, another

quote weakly scribbled in blue;

my thighs burn in the brutal

tearing and shredding of muscle, all for

an image of perfectly timed vengeance,

oh, but how sweet it will be

that moment when the

universe aligns, and

in that view, it is the makings of glory

an offering of hope to unrelenting torture.

But search me, and try me

know my thoughts as they morph,

from bones of imagination, with

each primitive motion—strength grows, and

power no longer hungers to rage against a ghost.

Less do I squeeze an image of vengeance into

a final pull or push of weight;

the apparitions of a life ago remain, but

the power of Artemis is in me;

I am savage not average.

Prompt Writing Christmas Lunch – December 8 2022

December 13, 2022 ~ Catherine Campbell ~ Leave a comment

Prompts included:

Gratitude (Mary Ann Colihan)

Letter to Santa… (Catherine Campbell)

Letter to Santa (Cathy Sartor)

“The Cover-Up and How I Learned the Hard Truth About Santa” (Catherine Richards)

Letter to Santa – December 8 (Diane Chartrand)

How Christmas Has Changed over the last decades! (Marian Bron)

Christmas Letter (Muriel Allingham)

Gratitude (Mary Ann Colihan)

Writers, solitary by nature, may have gotten off lighter in the pandemic. We were quick to ZOOM and share work online. But I regret that in-person classes, the ones that forged the Wordwrights, may be gone forever.

It is impossible to replace human contact. For this literary group, road trips to Hillsdale for pie and a gander at the vista of Lake Erie from the old and now lavishly refurbished homestead, were postponed with Alison in regular lockdown. Libraries removed furniture and did not want anyone lingering, let alone talking about books and writing in quiet corners. Covid made our existence all high tech when we yearned for more high touch.

So today, we are grateful beyond measure to Catherine for gathering us, once again at Christmas, in this beautiful space. A private club where we are free to be ourselves, together – a luxury to meet as colleagues and friends. Over the many years we have been together, the Wordwrights are about much more than writing. I am grateful that Catherine also provides leadership for technology and task mastering. But there is a secret sauce here. Recently, with members passing on and punching out to deal with family matters, new members were welcomed into this tradition of shared writing and support. This may be the single most important thing you do to get words on paper. I am thankful for each one of you in my life and hope these new writing sessions will yield more prize winners.

Letter to Santa… (Catherine Campbell)

I don’t remember writing a letter to Santa. I believed in Santa – sort of. I mean we moved every year so maybe a letter making sure he knew where to find me would have been an excellent strategy. But I don’t remember…

If I were to write a letter to Santa today it would have to start with apologies. This year the tree is not up and nor was it the last two years. I couldn’t get psyched to pretend we were welcoming the “joy” of Christmas when everything was locked down and no visits, gifts were delivered online to distant recipients. Phone calls seemed alienating. Reluctant to hang up but nothing really to say.

I did take a picture with my favourite snow bear sitting on the piano – I wore my Campbell tartan kilt – floor length. I took a picture with Kohl admiring that same bear but, in the sunroom, not the top of the piano. Kohl’s place is under the piano. No playing of Christmas carols on the piano. Not the year before either. My fingers stumbled over the notes on the couple I tried to play today.

So back to writing a letter – worth a try.

Dear Santa:

I was actually close to you, maybe one of your first stops. Goose Bay, Labrador. You did well by my sister and I that year – 1960, I think. A beautiful doll for each of us and handmade cradles. But we figured it out. Our father had hidden in the basement making the cradles and had brought the dolls back from a trip to “civilization”. All the hokey stuff on TV about your progress across the world was just that – hokey.

Like many families ours scattered. Personal visits became rarer. The holiday lost its importance. Guilt about forgetting to phone my mother on Xmas. She didn’t call me either, but I found out she had been quite sick. Three weeks later she was dead in a car crash.

I wish you were real, Santa, and that you could gift me a do-over.

I am being a little misleading. I say that fat, jolly man in red is not real, but Saint Nicholas was real. We viewed his coffin in a church in a small village in Turkey. Who would believe that Nick originated in Turkey. Connecting that saint to the Christmas hype over the centuries requires real imagination.

Maybe that is my problem. Christmas is not “joy” but belief in fairy tales and ceremony and pageantry. And most important wanting and needing to share the magic with others.

Perhaps a sign, Santa, to restore that magic.

Letter to Santa (Cathy Sartor)

Sunday, December 25^th, 2022 @ 2:45 am

Dear Cathy,

Thank you for your Holiday Greetings and for the delicious carrot cake and thermos of fresh coffee. I trust the coffee and your delightful snack will fortify me onward during this long, cold night on my mission to fulfill most Christmas wishes.

About your Christmas Wish…I understand the possible need but I fear my inability to grant it. Most Christmas Wishes are tangible and my elves are readily able to make them possible. Granting traditional wishes like a toy truck for a little boy or a doll to fill hours of enjoyable play time for a little girl is my job. Granting an intangible wish for a grandmother is a challenge beyond my pay grade.

In Santa’s workshop, the elves labour tirelessly all year to produce gifts for me to deliver. Over time, I have enjoyed many experiences and requests for wishes. Your wish requires the wisdom and insight that only Father Christmas can muster and provide. Delivery requires no searching or wrapping but instead it demands a lifetime of expertise and a loving heart.

Cathy, your Christmas Wish for “Inspiration” is impossible to wrap and deliver. I am aware that retirement, relocation, a pandemic and the unthinkable world events since February following knee replacement surgery and recovery have caused the world to seem out of balance. As with Alice in Oz, you are feeling confused and frettful not knowing which way is up or how to find down.

Rather than remainng stuck while enduring this period of uncertainty, imagine life differently. This should be a period of remaining strong, of taking stock and of preparing to move on. Buck up buttercup. Define your hopes and dreams. Decide your priorities and preferences. Stay focused and keep busy. Hold joy and gratitude in your heart. Trust that your “Christmas Wish” will be granted. In due time, you will be inspired and ready to move on.

My job is done. Now it is your job to do the work in your search of “inspiration”.

Our sincere wishes for an inspired future!

Santa and his buddy Father Christmas

“The Cover-Up and How I Learned the Hard Truth About Santa” (Catherine Richards)

It was Christmas morning, me and my bowl cut hair style were wide awake. We had a rule in our house that you couldn’t open or touch anything under the tree until Mom and Dad had had their first cup of coffee. So, my brother and I would wait.

We would get up and look at the tree and the stockings while our little bodies teemed with excitement. When Ian got a bit older, he would make the first pot of coffee which was likely terrible. Ian was almost four years older than me so he was wiser, more accomplished in life and could spell his whole name, so he was in charge of coffee. Ian would also turn on the outside Christmas lights, a signal to the neighbours that we were up. A competition between the two houses to see who was awake first.

On Christmas morning when I was 7, I couldn’t help but notice that some of the presents from Santa were wrapped in the same paper as presents from Mom and Dad. A curious kid who was always encouraged to ask questions – I asked: why is the wrapping paper the same? Mom quickly answered something along the lines of isn’t that special that the wrapping paper we picked is the same as Santa! Must mean you were extra good this year! This seemed like a reasonable answer as I had been very good that year.

The following Christmas we were opening presents, and to my surprise, there were some price tags on some gifts. I asked: why are there price tags on these gifts from Santa? Mom quickly answered that sometimes Santa asks the Elves to pick up items at local shops because there are so many children around the world, and he can’t always make all the presents. It seemed a reasonable answer and it really didn’t make sense for Santa to make all the presents when they were already available elsewhere.

The next year we were opening presents, and Mom jumped up and said Santa forgot something! I thought this was extremely weird as she raced into another room and came back with two presents, one for Ian and one for me. As we were opening them, I asked: why did Santa forget these and why were they in the other room? Mom quickly answered that sometimes Santa gets startled when putting everything under the tree and drops presents in places they shouldn’t be. Again, this was a reasonable answer and something my primitive brain could imagine.

But my suspicion was increasing and the following year I asked: Mom, is Santa real? Mom quickly answered: “well I believe in Santa because there are presents under that tree that I didn’t put there”. I bought that answer too. And went on my merry way with the full belief that Santa was real, and my mom wouldn’t lie to me.

I was at least 10 years old when I learned the hard truth. I was at a new school, and it was the period when the class would go to the library. We were sitting in “the pit”, the carpeted story reading area. As I looked down at the beige-grey carpet, perfect for hiding the residue that comes off the sticky and dirty hands of children, a classmate made some passing comment about Santa not being real. I couldn’t believe it and kept staring at the carpet. All the other kids started to nod their heads and shared how they couldn’t believe kids our age still believed in Santa and that they had known for years. I was in shock. On the way home from school, I asked my brother. As you know he was wiser, in high school now and could do complex math problems so he would tell me the truth. He replied: “Yeah I’ve known for a while, but Mom asked me not to tell you to not ruin Christmas for you”. I couldn’t believe that for years my family, possibly my friends, had all been in on the cover-up. It all started to make sense – the identical wrapping paper, the price tags, “Santa forgetting” and obviously there would be presents under that tree that my mom hadn’t put there.

I don’t recall what happened next, if I told my parents or not. I don’t recall if I was upset for longer than an hour or a day, but I don’t carry any resentment towards them for the cover-up or how I found out (officially and very very late). I’m only thankful. My Mom believed in continuing with the magic for years and that is precious to me. She and my Dad would have been exhausted at Christmas time. They both were working, getting me and my brother to school, participating in seasonal activities and having to do the never-ending task of feeding us daily so no wonder on Christmas morning after a marathon evening of wrapping presents there would be price tags. As a thank you, and now that I can spell my whole name, I will make their first cup of coffee on Christmas morning.

Letter to Santa – December 8 (Diane Chartrand)

Dear Santa,

I know it’s been a long time since you’ve heard from me. The last several years have been hard, but I got through them. I usually don’t write and ask for things, but I need your help this year.

I have a special request that I hope you can help with. A special person in my life needs a unique gift this year. I don’t know if you can take care of it, but I’m still going to ask.

My youngest granddaughter is due to have her fourth son in March of the new year. I don’t think she’s ready for so much responsibility yet. She gave birth to her third son only a year ago. So far, she has found a way to manage day by day most times, but the stress of being alone to take care of everything must be difficult.

My ask, if you think it could be possible, is to have her husband home more to help out. I know being in the service fighting for your country is commendable, but he’s always gone. Each time he returns, it takes the family a long time to adjust then he leaves again.

I’m putting this request in your hands and praying that you can find a way to grant it, if only for a short time, until the older children can help Mom with the younger ones.

Worried Grandma, Diane

How Christmas Has Changed over the last decades! (Marian Bron)

I blame love. Possibly hormones. The change started when the cousins and my brother started pairing up more almost forty years ago. Never mind that it left me as the odd wheel out, it was bigger than that.

On their own I had no problem with the individuals they paired off, they were friends from our own social circle, but why couldn’t things be left as they were? The Christmas shopping expeditions of our tweens where we set off on foot and met downtown Strathroy and spent the afternoon together or the trips to the town fair where my oldest cousin lied and said she was under twelve to get in free like the rest of us, gone forever.

Christmases together with the two families and occasionally cousins from Holland, a whole other story there, was laid back, festive, fun. It was family. But with pairings came logistical problems. Christmas Eve no longer suited everyone, and it became the Saturday before or, if there were conflicts, squeezed in Tuesday after a completed work day. Christmas Eve with the extended family no longer happened.

After marriage came babies. So many babies. The two families became too large and separated. However even with our own family unit Christmas Eve gatherings was still a problem. It was my sister-in-law’s parent’s anniversary. As far as I’m concerned only selfish people get married on big holidays but that’s beside the point. Christmas Eve, the only holiday we actually celebrated as a family, was no longer ours.

As time has passed my own little odd family out has paired off too. Christmas is further complicated once again. It was time for me to become selfish. I didn’t care what anyone else did but I was spending Christmas Eve with my parents whether or not my brothers and kids could make it. Both sets of parents, the husband’s and mine, are in their eighties, I need this while I can.

And for the last two Christmases it has worked. Both sets are basically under the same roof now so it’s just a matter of meeting in one apartment. Now we sit, eat gebakjes and other assorted tasty treats, and visit. There are no gifts exchanged because we’ve all outgrown that. None of us need more stuff.

As for the cousins? My aunt and Uncle are five units down from my parents. A knock on the door and an exchange of Merry Christmases works. Christmas Day whoever is free can come for dinner at our place. Simple.

Christmas Letter (Muriel Allingham)

Today, I’m reminded of the last Christmas lunch we shared, and would have to say that probably no one could have predicted the bizarre route our lives would take in early 2020. For me, looking back on our gathering that December, in this exact room, enjoying great food and company, I was blissfully unaware that I was soon to be drop kicked through the goal posts of life. And while the world wrestled with Covid, my life took on another challenge that made the fear of infection almost something to look forward to.

That which does not kill us………..makes us want to kill ourselves, and often times during the following months, I contemplated on long sleepless nights, a particularly heinous form of hari-kari, leaving me gorgeously pale in a black lace negligee; of course, never to be found until my rotting corpse ruined the whole Juliet effect.

And I had to accept that after twenty some odd years of a life partnership, mine crumbled in moments. An unpredictable and misfortunate betrayal that left me more vulnerable and wounded than if I had been dismembered.

Faced with property management alone, aging and grieving dogs, loss and failure, I had to put away my bicycle, my hikes, writing and my life of ease. I was left to pay our home equity loan and my income diminished by two thirds, but my expenses expanded.

Would some future movie scene portray me emerging from the mist, in combat gear, dishevelled, and dirty, but victorious? Certainly!

I did some epic shit—I know that now. Chain sawing and retaining all limbs, caring for the dogs, the property, and the house. I sold it all, disposing of Blair’s existence into landfills and goodwills. I relocated into a highrise (a story unto itself). I fought and won a legal battle, said a sorrowful goodbye to my beloved Jasper, who for all his quirks and disobedience was the most amazing creature that ever wore poodle attire.

Presently, Zola and I live in Blackfriar’s Estate, where a variety of eccentric residents entertain and delight us. And, we enjoy the presence of ghosts that slip up and down stairs and around corners unexpectedly. What could be finer? Except for the two chihuahuas that wear pearl necklaces and indulge in vodka in the afternoon, or the dashounds that bark incessantly. Or the parrot named Joey that likes to imitate the back up alarm on a garbage truck—first thing in the morning. “Joey, shut the fuck up,” I hear from my open bedroom window.

It takes three years to heal; five years to heal, and I’ve also been told ten years to heal, as though time is infinite. I don’t think I will ever heal, not completely. When I drive country roads from my past, I feel strangely detached, but also shaken by the familiarity of a bridge I have crossed hundreds of times, and I can still anticipate that bump in the road. I know those beautiful country homes that changed season by season; artistry of nature and decor. Often the sky over the horizon brings brutal nostalgic beauty. Was that the same cloud formation that would drift slowly by, as we ventured on our Sunday tours of the countryside? The driving rain—the same as when we drove to the airport. I will be haunted forever, but that is something I must come to love and cherish.

I have learned how to be alone. I can handle anything, and my motto has become ‘what’s the next logical step?’ A mantra that unravels the complexities of yet the latest disaster. I look forward to my future, to adventure and am quite happy in my solitude—mostly content and free. I am fortunate that I have wonderful, and not so wonderful friends (the latter makes it all so interesting). At the end of my life, I can say with certainty that I did not take the easy road. I did not back down. But more importantly, I did what was right.

Sometimes it feels as though my heart is stuck between zipper teeth, tugging and pulling will only result in more seizures and pain, so I am resigned to live with my damaged heart, because I know my soul is one of brilliance and light.

This Christmas, we are once again together. We are all different people after three years of isolation, separation, and tragedy. And I could say something cliché about living in the moment, caring for those we love, or getting hit by the proverbial bus—wait, my mother did get hit by a bus, so I’ll leave that one out. We are lucky, even when we are not. We are walking each other home. It is all we are doing—we have no claim to anything, I have learned that well. Anything can happen and it likely will.

So, here’s a suggestion for the new year; let’s all take out our damaged hearts, our pieced together with duct tape, shoe laces and packaging twined hearts. Take them out, put them on the table and let everyone admire them. We are all heroic to be standing in this difficult world.

Let everything happen to us, the beauty, the magic, the horror and let’s keep standing against it to let it fall around us, like rain.

Dark Night (Diane Chartrand)

June 11, 2021 ~ Diane Chartrand ~ 1 Comment

Needing a distraction, I rolled open a blind and looked out the window into the dark night. It was two in the morning, and all was quiet in the complex. I woke up with so many thoughts and worries going on in my head and couldn’t get them to stop.

Soon we will be coming out of a terrible situation, and where I go next haunts me. As I keep looking out the window, I realize it’s not what I see in front of me that is dark, but I am personally experiencing what is known as ‘Dark Night.’ It’s listed as an internal condition where you become lost to the world you once knew.

As my eyes adjust, I see in front of me my worries all lined up farther than the eye can see. The first one that approaches me is uncertainty. It reminds me of all the risks that are out in the world if I go out there. “Yes,” I say. “But, at some point, I’ll have to venture out and try to find the person I once was so many months ago.”

Uncertainty just shakes its head and walks away.

Next in line is ego. I am reminded about all the things done just to please him. I don’t want to be that person anymore who relies only on ego. I want to be someone who does things with a purpose in mind, not what I can gain only for myself.

“I’m done with you and your reckless ways,” I say.

Ego just laughs and reminds me that everyone always comes back because it’s the way of the world. He bellows out as he disappears, “All for one and more for me.”

I lean my hand on my chin. My mind is lost and empty. Where did I go? Where did my ability to plan my future go? Having spent so many months at home all alone has caused me to lose myself.

Joy stands in front of me with a happy face plastered on her chest. “I am your every day and night, so smile, “ she says.

“Sorry, Joy. You are no longer a part of me, and I have no idea how to get you back, so leave.”

Joy tries over and over to get me to smile, but nothing causes me to do that, and she leaves.

Several memories started to emerge from my past—the birth of my children, bad marriages, learning for new careers, and hundreds more. Unfortunately, none of them impressed me. All of those items from my life are so far behind me and no longer important.

The final thing in line said, “Hi. I’m your new path.” She handed me a blank page with New Path written at the top.

“So, what am I supposed to do with this?”

“Write on it anything you want to do from this moment on.”

“I don’t know what exactly I want to do going forward, but I am sure it is nothing that I have done so far.”

“Maybe start at the top with I want to and then just write what is in your soul.”

I backed away from the window and sat down with the paper in front of me. I kept telling myself, you can do this, just start. Then I took up a pen and wrote at the top as New Path instructed.

I want to…..

Looking to the Future (Diane Chartrand)

April 30, 2021 ~ Diane Chartrand ~ Leave a comment

Life has been so grim since March 2019, causing Brianna to stop dwelling on now and envision what is to come in her future.

She closes her eyes and lets her body relax, focusing on what she can see in her mind. The first thing that comes up is the downtown core with people walking around and talking to others they meet. No one has a mask on or standing far apart. They at times hug or kiss.

The next thing that comes up is Brianna sitting at her computer creating a video for her next book to be published. In the past, it was possible to go out and read portions of your book to a crowd of people or go to conventions to promote a new book.

She sees herself signing copies of her book in several local bookstores. The line is long and goes on forever all the way out the door, and someone said even down the street.

Tired from signing her name, she now looks further in the future to a vacation. Water lapping on the shore and a cool drink in her hand as she watches the surfers maneuver the waves. Yes, this is the future she wants.

Opening her eyes, Brianna now knows the direction she will be taking for the next couple of years. First, she will finish the two books already started and arrange with the local bookstores to have signing events and meet her fans.

Next, she will give herself that vacation she has always wanted to Hawaii, where she can sit on the beach with a special drink in her hand and watch everyone with joy. Then, she would visit the volcano and maybe all the other islands before going home.

Brianna can now see an ending to all that has depressed her over the past months. Once everyone is safe and unable to transmit the virus, she will be free to have a future. Unfortunately, she has gotten to the point that the only place she can experience a future is in her mind, but it will all become real one day.

Going again to work at the library, visiting family who are far away. That is the future she seeks, and she knows that it will all happen with a plan. Won’t It?

She knows that planning a future is the only way to get through the now and move forward. Pleasant thoughts, happy places are all there in the future, just to spend time with and breathe.

She knows taking precautions now will give everyone a future. Yes, it will probably be a different one than everyone imagined a year ago, but it will be a future.

Brianna knows in her heart that everything will get better and all her visions will happen. She just has to believe that in order to move on. She will put everything that has happened over the past year and just focus on her future plan.

As like Brianna, we all need to look to the future and plan what we want to do or accomplish when we get there. So everyone, pick up a notepad and start planning what you want to do in your future—Good Luck from Brianna.

Smoke, Fog and Haze (Diane Chartrand)

January 26, 2021 ~ Diane Chartrand ~ Leave a comment

As I look forward, all I see is thick smoke, heavy fog, and a glaring haze blocking my view. My life has been turned upside down over the past five months, and my sense of direction has disappeared.

Each night before going to bed, I plan what my next day will be like, but after getting up in the morning, the plan disappears. Instead, I seem to wander through an array of things blocking my intentions. It’s like my mind is just walking through a thick layer of smoke, and there appears to be no way out, so I just sit.

I need to find a way to clear my mind from the things that consume me and return to life. I set goals and break them. I set deadlines, and they seem to create a haze on my intentions, and I change them.

It is so uncomfortable not to be able to navigate just one day as planned. I believe that maybe the sorrow of what is taking place has a hold on me. It is like I am living in a fog that keeps rolling at me minute by minute.

I need to deal with the feelings creating the pause but have no way of knowing how to accomplish that feat. The thick smoke billows over my head, the heavy fog makes my eyes water, and the glaring haze is like a bright light telling me to stop.

I will try once more tomorrow to start small and try to progress from there. No looking at bank accounts or spreadsheets about budgets every morning and set that task to a specific date and time during the week.

No more watching television from the time I get up until bedtime. I am going to set a few simple goals.

Get dressed and go for a walk before breakfast to get the muscles moving.
Listen to stimulating music while eating breakfast.
Set up my computer for the day to write for at least two hours about anything.
Go out after lunch again and walk the two blocks to the main intersection.
Work on creative things like videos and animations for book releases.

I hope the above is not too difficult. By going out of the apartment, even though we are in lockdown with a stay at home order, the fresh air will help clear some of the fog or clouds or maybe at least the haze in the beginning.

Also, times need to be established for going to bed and getting up. Anyway, to try and dissolve the fog during the night in my dreams that wake me. They create extreme stress regarding what to do about this or that. I need to let go of things and let others involved takeover and be responsible.

Before five months ago happened, I would enjoy each day working on my writing and spending time outside or riding a bus just to be around other people. That life is gone, maybe for good. I had been so used to getting up at four in the morning and working until late in the evening for three full months.

That pattern became my routine, and life at home didn’t exist. Once when coming home for a few days, I forgot which key opened the building door. That, I think, is what created the heavy clouds, thick fog, and glaring haze in my day. Everything just kept repeating day after day and each day blended into the next until I had to stop.So, here I am now with no way to see how to go forward and reclaim at least a bit of my life from before. Maybe, that is not the answer. Just perhaps, I need to start from the beginning and leave the past behind. Just go forward and create a new normal that will make me happy and allow me to not be blocked by obstacles.