Hanging Pictures.

What’s in a picture? What’s in the placement of where the picture is hung? What brings up the idea that the picture is to be placed somewhere, anywhere? What is it’s purpose?

The idea of pictures is personal. It’s a reflection of our thoughts placed upon a wall. Something to gaze upon as we ponder our understanding of why the picture is? What is it? Does it represent an image? The colours spread across canvas, etched by an author who has spoken to you. It may tell you a story, a story liken to your own. It may speak to you of history, or an illusion you feel drawn to. Who are you, you may say and why are you here.

As one gazes on the beauty we are drawn into its presence. We can be nurtured by the artists edition of something he also sees. Something near to his heart or embraced also by oddity. Why did they paint it. We are drawn to paintings as we are drawn to people. Their ideas, their perspectives and their views are like the colours spread across canvas. We may place them in direct sight, holding them in the light or find a hallway that needs dressing up. Sometimes we put them in the closet so no one can find them, maybe we are ashamed, not yet ready to face them yet. Pictures are our life. Each and every thought we have is drawn on an imaginary paper. Sometimes those thoughts can be seen in open view and sometimes we choose to take our worth into darkness, hiding our truths as we hide our art.

Art is an expression of self. Art is how you view your world. Drink it in, exhale it out. Think about what our world would be without it. Think about the void there would be if you were not the artist creating the picture you do? Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. See all things, all people, all life as an artistic view. Then take your eyes to it and draw with your mind a heart shape over the next one you see. Be it person, place or thing.

Love loves through you. Peace out.

Snow Day

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Snow days. No school, great, whose going to watch my kids. Snow days, awesome, how do I get to work. Snow days, yup, the buses aren’t running on all the roads, walking is out of the question. Snow days, snowy days not so much.

We all chant snow at Christmas time for what would it be without the white stuff. We think it’s cool on the west coast to have it snow yet do we really? Snow on the mountain for sure, snow if it’s your day off, bring it on, otherwise stay the heck away. Would we rather have rain? Sometimes unless the wind is howling and the storm drains aren’t plugged. Are we ever happy?

Today is a snow day. I woke up this morning too see it coming down, beautiful I said as I reached for the coffee. Ten minutes later it wasn’t so cool, annoyed I thought now how am I suppose to get out. I may be making it sound like feet yet here by the water, salt water, as it comes down it freezes, snows and freezes again. Caution signs everywhere and roads closed to stop those who can’t drive, not drive.

Snow days, it’s suppose to last a few days then rain is the forecast again for weeks to come. Snow day, whoo-ray, the kids are happy there’s a snow day, and they can bring out the dusty toboggan. Parents do the snow hustle as someone has to be the lucky one and call into work. Businesses close because of no traffic and me I will put on my boots dress warm grab my headphones and head out. Where will I go, hummm, no plan just a walk about, kick snow in the snow day and find place to have coffee. I will listen to the complaints, the drudgery, and the mayhem that comes from the breaking auto glass. I will then head home grab a few blankets and be a couch hog. I will choose to complain about the news and anything else until I decide to make supper. Snow food is there such a thing? Comfort at it’s finest. Call for pizza, not delivery they are snowed in.

Snow days, they are to embraced, snow days they are to be allowed because whose in charge? Mother Nature of course.


lest we forget
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Let’s Begin.

To Be starts the subject of the beginning of something we are thinking about. To Be in Being is an action of the Be, (what you may decide according to the information you are mentally receiving.) What comes next may be the action of doing or it may make its way into becoming the reality you are in. Follow me so far. I hope so because when I get into my head this way I’m not sure what may develop.

So now once we are becoming we are getting closer to the idea of the “what it is” and we may produce a sense of result around the Becoming. Our circle is just about complete, as we now begin again to Believe what we are thinking. “Is it real or is it True” may ring a bell in your head, a minuscule second discussion may occur over it or you may just activate a sense that may have you believing it right away. Yet maybe the believing isn’t the jumping off point of my conversation. Maybe I will take the view of two words developed into one and not really meaning too, Be-Leave. So we are or Be at some point in a moment in time, then we begin to believe we are becoming to a conclusion. The next obvious step is to believe we are right in reference to what the thought is then what? Do we stop at believing or do we question the belief and leave?

What do I mean by leave? Be-leave is to keeping going. Don’t stop at the assumption that when you believe it’s the end of the road. It is the beginning all over again. Believe or become the situation, the reality of ” is it true”, or possibly the idea that “not to be true” and once again you be at the beginning.

The road never ends, the truth never revealed, the one who speaks only speaks for themselves. When you come to the end of a road and believe you are there, think again. You may see a new road beginning to form and now you need to believe once again which road to take. Which decision to make on the basis of believing and you be-leave and go off once again in a new thought and a new direction.

I’m in my head. I’m in my heart and I believe it’s time to Be the space in-between, so I can become a believer that keeps on believing the road never ends.

Peace out and enjoy you and don’t forget to just Be once in awhile.

How Do We…..

Yes how do we, close one chapter and begin another?

A good book, relates too many chapters yet not always do those chapters define the book as a whole. When does it matter? Why does it matter? I think we know.

When lives make no sense any more. When the math doesn’t add up and the congestion on the road to happiness is missing, its time to either close the book or start a new chapter. No more bookmarks, or tabs to mark those pages that used to make sense for us. It may be time to either rewrite the book without suggestion of past events or to take out those chapters that do not pertain to a better future. How many times do we repeat the mistakes of our history? How many times do we use the language of the past to incorporate a better future? It didn’t work then so when will it work now. What we repeat will persist, what we acknowledge fades away.

Round holes, square pegs. Chapters that have no meaning although the author keeps repeating himself. No matter how many times we try it never works. There’s an advantage in discovery. The world is not a pancake, it’s a beautiful vision we have forgotten to see.

I think it’s time to take a breath before speaking, acknowledge that sometimes what we choose to say may not be the right thing to say and when we take that breath hold it in before releasing, we may change our minds. Difference means that there is a space between the thought. That the thought has no control over the action, yet liken to a chapter in a book not yet finished. The author may delete the chapter, change the hero or heroine before moving on to “The End.” Let’s do “Do Diligence” and find the right peg for the right puzzle so it fits. Let’s have faith that the author knows what he is revealing in his chapters so in the end you were happy you read the book.

No more repetition, the brain and the mind are wonderful things if we just give them a chance to show us the way.

Heart to heart, Peace Out.

Defending The Mirror

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I’ve come to the conclusion that I have been defending a mirror.

“Mirror, mirror on the wall who is the bravest of them all?”

“Not you.”

So and it begins. Defending the honour, dissolving the glass image of who I “think” I am. Am I today, tomorrow or yesterday? Thats the problem, where am I when I look into the mirror? Whom am I facing, is it me as I comb my hair and not like myself or is it someone who actually is in front of me? Is it always me and the other is just a disguise? Who am I fooling?

My mind tells me it’s truth, this is who you are. Disabled, unworthy and not having a clue as to how to defend your honour, which is your true self. “Your image is likely to be more negative that positive most of the time so why try?” Can I agree with this statement or have I finally matured into a realistic way of understanding my character and not the child trying to be an adult. We all have our discomforts and our disillusions. We have all made a pretty tight contract with something greater than who we are, and that is the mirror.

I tell myself every day that I love myself because that’s what all the books tell you yet I have go deeper and believe it. Believe that I m here to break the mirror into a thousand pieces and throw it into he ocean to become sand. Thats a hard one especially when some of us are more defensive that others. (Totality is not what we want we want to keep something yet this time we can’t.) We carry two halves to a whole person. Right brain left brain, right heart, left heart, male and female energy, heaven and hell. It’s in all of us all the time. We just have to NOT dictate the reality anymore.

If life is an illusion, a set of circumstances that we can change by just erasing the story and finding a better ending, I’m all in. Repairing the heart is not being a tyrant but a compassionate person that knows when to stand their ground and when to walk away into a better life.

Be brave, be real and get out that mirror and smash into into a billion pieces so it can never be put back together. Find another mirror in which you are beautiful inside first.

Peace out. It’s almost Thanksgiving, what are you thankful for? Be grateful for all the patterns and then make a new pattern that serves you in joy.


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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

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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

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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?


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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.


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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.