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Home is where we lay our hearts.

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I am finding it hard to understand that my year of not existing in the real world has changed with the end of the cancer treatments and that my husband is home with me, that I no longer have to live in a hospice in the city, that it is late spring and that summer is almost here, that this year I can swim in the lake, that after a twenty year hiatus, I can actually ride a bike, mind you I am a bit wobbly, but practice, practice.

Oh and that I have friends, more friends than I ever imagined was possible. They have all made this journey one I will never forget or regret. The support of family has made me humble. I can only hope someday to be as forgiving.

Also, I am brimming with new ideas for sculpture, and the stomping ground will be this place and the old river bed. Life is exciting right now.

Oh it is so nice to be able to call this place home, I never thought it would be.

five years

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I received a nice notice from Word Press, apparently I have been blogging for five years.

They didn’t actually give me a star, I have missed the mark to post every Monday, but life overtakes our best efforts.

I did get the magnetic poem on the dishwasher.

Here dwell the true magicians,

Nature is our servant,

Man is our pupil.

We change, we conquer, we create.

Written by Anna Letitia Barbauld

An amazing woman who lived in England, in the eighteenth century.

Burial Caves

Burial Caves

She was not just a writer and a poet, she was a political activist. Unfortunately, like so many  she fell out of the history books. Why is that? After her lack of support for the Napoleon Wars in 1812, when hey we were at war here too, she lost her support and never published again. She founded a school for women that taught more than the domestic arts, was opposed to slavery and wrote critical reviews of other books.

I found her quote in a book given to me by a friend, Quotes of Women, but clearly they had a whole lot more to contribute then a mere quote can tell.

For that I do have to thank Wikipedia, and the Internet, what else has made the world  so accessible to us?

Smile again!

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Mona Lisa times two

Mona Lisa times two

I really love this photo.

Does anyone know what if feels like to have people close to you say,  smile; it will make you feel better?

Today was a beautiful day, but did I smile? Probably not. But, I do laugh more then most, I figure that is enough.


I am the Dance

004 (3)I have carried this poem with me since I was eighteen.

It was written by a woman, her name is Karonicktatie. She was a west coast poet from the First Nation’s culture. I found it in an obscure paper on local events in Vancouver. I wish I knew more about her.

I am the dance


I am the dance


I am hand in hand

eyes closed

voice soaring

I am the wind

the dance

the heartbeat

the drum

I am hand in hand

I am touching


hand in hand

I am touching


eyes closed

voices soaring

eyes open

hand in hand

I am raised above

eyes open

voice leaving

and gaining

the power circle

that will find

me raised above

the dance

I am

I am the step

Moccasin’d whisper

Your smile

comes to me


the smoke

weaving light

and dark and


The water drawn

by full moon

rub the ashes

on face and


Hand in hand

your smiles

come to me


the dance

I am


I am the dance


I am the lifetime

eyes closed

the wind.


The photograph is the tornado that rose to the sky a few years ago, the view from our lane way. It was an amazing experience, to see the world change so quickly.

A poem by William Stafford

A friend sent me this. I am not sure I have the right to blog it without the author’s permission.

He was born January 17, 1914 and died August 28, 1993.


A Ritual To Read To Each Other

If you don’t know the kind of person I am
and I don’t know the kind of person you are
a pattern that others made may prevail in the world
and following the wrong god home we may miss our star.

For there is many a small betrayal in the mind,
a shrug that lets the fragile sequence break
sending with shouts the horrible errors of childhood
storming out to play through the broken dyke.

And as elephants parade holding each elephant’s tail,
but if one wanders the circus won’t find the park,
I call it cruel and maybe the root of all cruelty
to know what occurs but not recognize the fact.

And so I appeal to a voice, to something shadowy,
a remote important region in all who talk:
though we could fool each other, we should consider–
lest the parade of our mutual life get lost in the dark.

For it is important that awake people be awake,
or a breaking line may discourage them back to sleep;
the signals we give–yes or no, or maybe–
should be clear: the darkness around us is deep.

William Stafford


He said in an interview, “I keep following this sort of hidden river of my life, you know, whatever the topic or impulse which comes, I follow it along trustingly. And I don’t have any sense of its coming to a kind of crescendo, or of its petering out either. It is just going steadily along.”

watching birds

New Beginnings

“Found tongues in trees, books in running brooks,

Sermons in stones, and good in everything.”


In my Grandmother’s house when the world turned over so did she. Not a dirty dish, sock, or carpet, all was swept clean for the New Year.

She had a four-inch scar on her forehead. There must have been three cars in the Swedish community of Moira, Minnesota in 1921. She was getting a ride with a neighbour to the bus station. Two of those three cars collided on a country road. There were no seat belts then, so she hit the windshield. She was on her way to Detroit, to stay with Esther, her older sister, to work in the Big Houses. She was fourteen.

Grandmother did get there eventually, and in the Big Houses (her term) the stuffing for the Christmas goose, the mistress said “had to be made with a silver fork”.

Once again, the world has turned over, in our fabricated clock. My house didn’t. But then, for me the winter solstice is the day for the world to change its face.

I dreamt of mice last night. Grandma, through the depression used to feed the ones in her house. I miss ours.

For the first time, we are putting out seed for the birds. In our old place I never needed to, we had enough to feed them, with plenty of weeds and plants growing in the gardens and fields.

That is the thing about a New Year, do we have regrets or new beginnings.

Lila Knitting

Lila Knitting




I mentioned Alice’s Adventures Underground a few blogs ago. One of my favorite books that still is missing after our move. (Along with numerous other things).

Well, didn’t I get an email from the British Library? No, really, I did and here is the link to view the real thing on-line.


That book and Beatrix Potter’s book, The Tale of Tom Kitten were Christopher’s reading material after his stroke, out loud to improve his diction, pronunciation, pace and articulation. A long journey.

The movie on Beatrix is still an all-time favorite, I thought they got the animation of her characters just right.

I didn’t grow up with her, my sister did though. I grew up with Heidi, Huck Finn, Grimm’s and Aesop. She got Dr. Seuss. Her favorite, which I still almost know by heart (as I was her reader, being five years older), was Green Eggs and Ham.

I tried hard to get her interested in The Cat and the Hat (my favorite) but no she would pout and point as only young children can do with authority, so Green Eggs and Ham it was Sam I am.

It is the little things that make a life.