Photo by Pixabay on

As the plate hits the floor it shatters, broken. You pick up the pieces and put them in a paper bag acknowledging that someday you will glue them back together. Pieces of ceramic that have pieces once broken also, another time.

Through the window a rocks thrown, broken glass, slivers of reflection on the wood floor staring back up at the ceiling. It was an accident, yet it is still broken. You sweep the pieces into a paper bag and decide what to do next.

It was the doll your great grandma gave you, it stares back at you on a shelf, a piece of it’s face missing, broken. You can’t remember when it happened, it wasn’t your fault yet you cried anyways. The piece of ceramic was put into a paper bag and you can still find it in the drawer next to your bed. Someday you will try and repair it.

You reminisce about those times, the broken ones. The pieces of your life once lived and now lay in a paper bag inside a box full of memories. The parts of stories that you said you would never tell yet your mind won’t let you forget. Made of steel, you would tell yourself, I can’t break. Broke, broken, are the only two words left in your repertoire. Maybe you could take out the paper bags and lay the pieces out and make a menagerie of images. If the pieces don’t fit the story can’t be told, it will always stay broken.

One special bag lays deep inside, so deep you can’t remember where you put it. It contains the two pieces of your heart, torn apart so long ago, broken, shattered, unrepairable. You thought many times of looking for it because maybe now you could glue it back together yet it hasn’t happened. Heartless, broken, unrepairable it remains locked away.

You have left notes though. Notes and messages, directions of sorts for a little girl to find. Like the china doll that sits on the shelf she may be noticed and through the loving kindness of another she may be lifted off the shelf placed in the softness of a smile and repaired. Given a second chance to be held, embraced and seen, not on a shelf but in the arms of someone unbroken.

It’s Halloween

Photo by Pixabay on

And once again it’s Halloween. All Hallows, the night of Witches and Goblins. So…. who would I be if I didn’t write about it, tell you a scary story and bewilder you with my nonsense.

Black Cats, Witches and ghosts, yet give me a scary story an old movie and I’m in. As children we would sit by the fire and listen to grandma, the grandma who came from the old country. The old lady who tells the young ones about gypsies and wooden dolls, garlic and the undead. Churches which held coffins underground filled with the undead, corpses which arose on the night we now call Halloween.

Chrystal balls filled the dining room table, tarot cards inside the drawer beside the couch. Stones that you received instead of cookies to keep one safe form those mystical gargoyles that watched over you from the steeple of the churches in the neighbourhood. I knew garlic to be for safety, hung from the rafters or on the door when someone was sick. We learned that the intuition was everything and normal thinking was to be used only in school. I learned about astrology before I could talk and the value of making sure I had extra stones in my pocket on the 13th of every month.

My mom used to tell me all the time she feared those 13 days. It didn’t matter if it came on a Wednesday. No appointments, few visitors and if we were out of milk, it didn’t matter. Nothing happened for her. It haunted her, her entire life and to not bring this to a somber end she died on the 13th day at 11:50. She almost made it. Yet she had always known it would be her time and I have now made 13 my lucky number in her honour.

So tonight when the tricksters are done and the children are home tired from a long journey of candy discovery. Their voices soothed by hot chocolate and a warm fire I will gather them round. I will offer them silence as I gather blankets to hold them close and pillows to rest their heads. They will all call out to me for stories, promise me the world for just one scare before bed, giggle as they shriver in suspense. I will bring them in, raise them up in terror of stories my great grandma told me and them hold them tight until they sleep. I do it in love, for in the end they laugh and say “Oh grandma, what nonsense and we know it’s not real.”

I believe in the ghosts of All Hallows, the ghosts that haunt our present selves. I believe it enriches our otherwise humdrum lives. I will tell the stories of my heritage until my mouth no longer speaks and my eyes cannot light up with joy. I am that person who gives the grandkids stones for their journey, I have a Chrystal ball somewhere in the house and does tarot cards. I am a Storyteller, a gypsy at heart as I follow in the footsteps of the generations before me.

Happy Halloween everyone.

One Size

Photo by Pixabay on

Does one size fit all? When it comes to people can we say this? If we can are we saying we are all the same when it comes to thinking, doing, becoming?

Is it assumed that our neighbours should think, believe, act, the same way as the whole does? That they should think the same way, understand it the same way you do? What about the people in your house? Our parents, our partner, our children do they count as being the same or different. Can we acknowledge them as different mind, having other thoughts than you do? Have we raised individuals or clones one generation to the next?

Why would we want one size to fit all. We come from diversity, as much as commonality. To honour another for their difference is being able to say you too are a unique being on this planet. To be able to think, create and be as you choose instead of following a concept that doesn’t fit, is that truth?

Are we that afraid to stand up and be counted? Are we that self centred that we want everything to be like we are? Are we that wounded that the bandage will never come off. I definitely do not want to wear a size that doesn’t fit. Yet we are told one size fits all.

So I ask does one size fit all?


Photo by Gabriela Palai on

Rain. Fall weather brings rain especially to the Island. When I first moved here the locals told me, laughingly, if your not part duck then maybe you won’t like it here. I’m still here and I’m still getting used to the raining, grey weather the coast has this time of year.

Rain brings with it thoughts of past acquaintances, hot cups of coffee and laughter. It also brings with it the sadness of summer gone. Rain washes away the dirt and grime of dusty days and begins to nourish once more the trees and plants parched from the summer sun. Rain brings joy to children overly dressed in rain suits and gum boots, running through large puddles without a care in the world. Yet sometimes rain enhances the sorrow we keep inside. The days on end when we look out our windows and see only the darkness and cloud filled skies. It reminds us of all, of what we have been through and maybe there’s more to come. It fills our days with inside activities and non conversations because rain makes us silent.

I decided to walk in the rain, to embrace this sadness that the raindrops make me feel. I want the cold rain to quench my thirst for happiness and to wash away my troubled mind. I walk through those puddles that would make a child laugh and see my reflection. I look deeply into the my wobbly face and find my eyes, a somber yearning for happier days. I almost stopped there and froze as the wind whipped me around yet I decided to keep moving. I walked for a long while thinking yet not absorbing my thoughts. There was one moment of clearing with the wind stopping and the rain slowing down. I took off my rain cap and looked around and saw no one else. Made me wonder what others do when it rains?.

Rain has been given a job, it cries the tears you cannot, it opens the soul so when the sun comes out it can reach deep inside to heal. Maybe just maybe, if we believe more in ourselves we can find happiness on raining days. We can be like children without cares and love the falling of leaves and embrace the cloudy day as much as we love summer.

I arrive home soaked and cold yet happy inside that I decided to get out of myself and find freedom in the rain. I believe I will become a duck more often.


Photo by Aleksandar Pasaric on

Standing in the rain, I am cleansed. Letting the raindrops fall in-between the space I’m in, is healing. Yet I ask myself why do I choose to stand in the rain.

My thoughts today took me to this thought, this wondering. Yet it has nothing to do with the rain. I did see how the plants and trees enveloped the rain and it soothed them. They drink from this water, a life giving food. I look at the pavement in front of my place and understand the cleansing it gets for free. Did I need to put on my raincoat and too stand in the rain and feel cleansed? Freeing me from what I am feeling today. Should I face the rain head up and let it wash away my pain, my fear and my doubts? Do I need the rain.

What makes us feel needed? Why do we depend on it? When I feel need do I only need myself?

I think I will stand in front of my window and watch the beauty of the rain. To be attached by just watching and not being in it. If I do this maybe I can find out that all I need is me.

Sun Flower (Me back to my childhood)

Sun flower me back in time. Back to the days of simple. If there is really such a place.

Childhood lazy me down, where I feel connected and held. Afternoons spent drawing pictures of dragons and angels using the clouds as my crayons.

Giggles of laughter, roll me down the hills of grass behind my home making time stop forever until the sun goes down.

Wind drift me away where I can fly through the air, sitting on pillows of softness. Is there a genie to make my wishes come true?

Feet run away with me. To a place where I can dig in with my toes, through acres of sand and waves of joy that believe in me .

Sun flower raise your head to the heart of the sun and shine.

The Stories We Tell

Photo by Pixabay on

The stories we tell, the tales we wind, as we search for a truth to reveal. Where do our stories come from? Are they real, in a matter of fact way? Do we have reason to be true or hold secrets deep beneath the surface of our conscious mind.

We all have secrets, untold stories of revelry. Where we are the true heroes and everyone one else the villain. Stories of doubt, submission and misery. We are not the undo cause of our forlorn for we are the heroes. We are the character that befriends the unfriendly and becomes king. We are also the slave, slaves to the mind where our stories grow and bloom for anyone that will hear.

Is the truth worth revealing? A simple yet factual truth that is meant to bring forth joy, once it’s revealed. Is it better hidden, built upon small indifferent lies or mere tales too sweeten the pot for another ears to hear. Does it make you look brave? Maybe unaware to the villain until you are saved by a hero.

Does life get better with the stories we tell or can the truth prevail? Worthy of an audience we tell one true rendering in hopes of being saved. There really is no judge or jury only the predicament we placed ourselves in the bearer of the story.

Shall we stand today and voice our consciousness into submission. Tell a simple few shareholders a truth about ourselves never before spoken. There is no reason to reason the why this story began but to only give it an ending so a new story can begin.