Wednesday, December 8, 2010

I'll be home for Christmas

I’ve always read, heard, or watched films about people going home for the holidays. But this is my first being the one ‘going home’. I’m sitting on a plane, flying from New Orleans to Philadelphia, and then connecting to Halifax. Home. It’s dark in the cabin, we’re approaching supper time. The sun is setting on the horizon which we are leaving behind, casting oranges and red, purple shadows upon the clouds. It’s a little surreal for me, going home for Christmas. It feels very grown-up like. I have a life in the USA now.

Cherishing memories is what I do best. Perhaps it makes me appear dorky. Call me what you will. I love Christmas. I love my family and my friends and my cat. I love Christmas carols, Christmas lights, Christmas spirit, I love wrapping gifts in front of our fireplace while listening to Christmas carols, my cat watching me and playing with the random bits of wrapping paper. I love baking festive cookies with my mom, watching all the classic Christmas movies, and that feeling I whenever I pass by a house that is brightly lit. I love watching the snow flakes fall, glittering on the ground, shimmering sideways as they pass by the window. I love going for walks in the snow, how it crunches underneath my boots. I love Christmas Eve, it’s peaceful anticipation of the day to come. All these reasons and a million more for why I can't wait to be home.

My musical soundtrack for the plane ride is a méli-mélo of who I am: eclectic. Bing Crosby, Bobby Helms, and Tony Bennett sing me Christmas songs. Alanis is telling me what she really wants. And Arlibido talking about jiggling Jell-o.

(Do not Flush while sitting on toilet) – I’ve always been (probably too) amused by this saying. What would happen?

I am home now. It feels wonderful. It baffles me how strong the element of familiarity can be. I look forward to the upcoming weeks. And I will no doubt keep ya'll informed.

Love always,


Sunday, September 5, 2010

I feel you water

Water is Life.

Perhaps a phrase heard one too many times. Maybe too obvious to ring true anymore.
But, possibly one that holds so much beauty in its grasp, that it deserves reconsideration. Hear me out.

I sit on a black, metal bench, a few feet away from the Girard Park pond. Unconscious glances suddenly revealed to me the magnetic force of water. Literally, water has long been linked to the moon, the latter exercising a strong magnetic pull which creates the tide. Mi'kmaq legends explain the tides as a massive whale in the water, which I'll gladly accept as well.

The pond is encircled by people. People of all ages. Families. Couples (one Mexican couple making out in the gazebo. Right in front of me).

In today's world, people...families rarely get together to just Be. But here, families are just strolling, enjoying each other's company. They are being.

Dogs frolick. The ducks, travelling in groups like troubadours, quacking for food, or like vagabonds, swim in the water, feeding, cleaning themselves.

Children happily throw them bread, a lifesource. Two girls, two sweet twins, their faces chocolate-colored, their dressed of a soft yellow which ties in the back in a big ol' bow, hair piled up high, throw bread, believing this is a first for the ducks. Excitement. Compassion.
There is a unifying force here at play.

We are all connected here, in 'l'Acadie Tropicale'. 1755 tore families apart. The sea quickly then became a dreadful enemy, a symbol of despair, of the ripping apart. But it then became the way of life, and also for many similar cases for the Acadians exiled to Southern Louisiana.

how many thousands of organisms life in the water before my naked eyes? (Boggles the mind. It should, because the inter-connectedness of those creatures are as instrumental to our equilibrium as any other element.)

A teenage girl feeds McDonald's fries to the ducks. I suppose everything deserves a treat now and then. And high cholesterol.

Three ducks speed past me, wings flapping the top layers of the pond ferociously-happily. The pre-speedboats. Environmentally-friendly.

We may think we control our World, nature. Our egos tell us we are the Kings of this 21st Century concrete-jungle.

But the ducks, the pond, show us otherwise. As the trees surrounding it (and in it), drinking Mother Nature's gift, let us reflect on the delicate drop. The meaning of the water. The clouds that circle all around us all. Nothing really seperates us. Look at the ducks next time, as a child does.
Remind yourself how they need water to Be.
And we do too.

Monday, August 9, 2010

i'm a romantic.
Not a cinderella-romantic. Although I love Disney.
i'm a Wordsworth romantic: (example) "For I have learned to look on nature, not as in the hour of thoughtless youth, but hearing oftentimes the still, sad music of humanity"

Lately, things in my life have seemingly shifted but on the surface have stayed the same. Like a leaf in the wind.

Love. Life. Living Life. Loving Life. Living to Love. The last one fits most clearly.

No matter what we tell people, no matter of what we try to convince ourselves, we want to love and be loved. And don't worry, it's not narcisistic to say so either.

A heartache can reak havoc on us more than we first believe. It's silent. Not concrete. Hard to explain the emotions we feel. It's like a ghost ship that has sunk but keeps haunting.
Sometimes we believe we're in the clear, we're ok. Usually that's the last hurdle to overcome, usually the hardest.

I think it's safe to say i'm ready. Ready for life again. i've had a great run in the last couple years. I've conquered fears. I moved to another country for Grad school. But I think it took coming back home, a reconnection with myself, to make me realize a few things; I pondered so many times: when will I not feel like a little girl anymore? I still feel that way, yet now their is a strong peace, that makes me feel like a warrior.
During an escapade on the Bay, nature was in line with my soul, thoughts pure; As the ocean lay before me, welcoming me, embracing my soul, I asked myself: Am I ready? Ready to love again? ...which is to say: am i ready to let go?


No one really wants to be alone.

It is possible to be with oneself. Meditation brings me there.

But dang it - I still want someone with whom I'll drink my coffee in the early morning light.

Tuesday, July 27, 2010

Little girl filling big shoes

Little girl steps into her momma's high heeled shoes. Wobbly, she looks in the mirror and tries ever so carefully to apply the red lipstick, like her momma does every morning.

I am pretty sure that my current waves of thoughts is being brought about by my upcoming birthday (yes, it's true; next week I turn 26). But it's a thought that's been reacurring for the last couple years.

Do you feel like an adult?

Strangely enough I feel embarassed to say that I don't, not quite. I often feel like the little girl in the shaky high heels, trying to act the part. But i'm going to be 26. Where is the finish line for 'youth'?

I'm a Grad student at a University in a different country then my home. I have a car. I do dishes. Cook. Clean, etc etc.

Introspection gets the best of me.

I suppose it's inevitable, that I should be nostalgic and such a few days before the next year of my life. Maybe i'll need to be the so-called 'settled' (aka: married and a house) in order to feel that adult-y feeling. We'll see. There's a quote I love, "Grandmothers are just 'antique' little girls." At the end of the day, perhaps the feeling I have is not one of being 'young or little', but maybe it is simply the feeling of my own unique being. Maybe it is the 'me' that will stick with me for the rest of my days.

It wouldn't be that bad...When I'm 85, looking in the mirror, how cute would it be to picture myself as a little blond-headed girl, wobbly in the high-heeled shoes..

What do you think?

Friday, July 23, 2010

Poem titles stress me out.

A longing deep inside me
And sways in the breeze of untrollable thoughts
A yearning
for the touch.
There's a look
We all know
A hooked
a comfort
even apart.

You are a mystery to me
The face with no distinction
But what I would give
To know who you are.

I will hold you someday.
I will try to take your breath away.

Your name will flow from my soul
As we meet, I know.

Friday, July 9, 2010

Mossy adventures through time

Blogs have never been my strong point; I forget to update them. This week, I was reading a blog (not mine), and I was suddenly filled with ideas, inspiration. That happens to me sometimes when I read. Not often. But it is the Why to ‘why’ I love to write. It’s how I release those ideas.

The blog was Jader Bomb's, and she wrote about finding colored glass buried in the wood. As though she had tapped a magic wand on my head (preferably a sparkly one), I was transported back in time (the art of writing, my friend, is indeed the ultimate time machine). I was placed square in my grandma’s backyard, in the woods, underneath the canopy of tall pines, the ground a soft blanket of pine needle and moss. It’s another world there. As a child, I would often go play in there… the summer rays would create a great ambiance and the smell of the pine made me feel alive. Sometimes I would find old bottles, often broken, half-buried in the ground (how safe this was). I was tremendously excited to find these! I would picture my grandparents, in the ‘old days’, drinking from these bottles. I imagined young men sneaking a few brew… It was moments like those that were the golden moments of my childhood. Jader Bomb’s colored glass brought me there again.

Cheers yall. I hope you find yourself in great spirits tonight. and everyday. :)

Sunday, June 6, 2010

a new unfinished poem

we are all vagabonds
strumming our own tunes listening to the waves as they
play the bongos and djembes of our rituals
strum humming along the seasons everchanging
cracks on the sidewalks as a little girl
have now become the cracks in the heart

-- -- --

Embark with me on a snowy cloud
that trails the frail

Enlightenment is just beyond
Cradled where the sun blankets the
Forest floor
The Spring is but a hot winter's caress
Nothing. Less,
Mother Nature
Hear my call
I won't ignore yours.