Happy Mother's Day 2014

Mother's Day, though commercialized, is still meaningful.  Without mothers, none of us would exist.  For birth, for life, for support and love on my life's journey, I am thankful for my mother.  

I am thankful for my own mother and grandmothers, and thankful for those mothers, to whom I am able to be mother and a grandmother.

I'm sending a special Happy Mother's Day wish to Melanie and Melissa, to Julie, Jeannette and Pascale...each one a great mother to our grandchildren.

Happy Mother's Day to each of you with love.

Love is in The Air

The ring necked pheasant male is trilling and squawking from his vantage point, looking for love in the yard.  When he spots a female, he squawks and fluffs his feathers to attract her attention. 

"Hey, look at me.  Ain't I fine?  Choose me, choose me."

Love is in the air.  Or is it just nature and need?

Whatever it is, it's loud and colourful and urgent. 

 

Photos and words are copyright carol Steel.

The Company of Cats

The Company of Cats

I love cats, not just a single cat, buts cats.   I can’t imagine my life without cats.  But, not everyone understands this.

When someone comes to our door, the cats all come running, tails straight up, offering greetings, rubs and chirps and meows.   The visitor looks and asks, “How many cats do you have?”  They think, “Are you nuts?”  I think, “Can’t you count?”

I defend my choice to have cats because I love having cats.  And it’s no one’s business but my own, the number of cats living here.  We look after them, feed them nutritious food and take them to the Vet for shots and check-ups.  We brush them daily and trim their claws as needed.  We keep their water and their litter clean.  Yes, the cats create work, as does any pet, but our cats are worth it.  Our kitties are well looked after and in turn look after us.

When I am ill (and I’ve had months of that), they comfort me—lie down beside me or on top of me to rest and purr me well.   It is impossible to nap too much for them.  They are solicitous when I am upset; enquiring in chirpy voices about what is bothering me.   When I am happy and full of energy, they are willing to play until I am tired again.  How can I not love my cats?

When I am writing, they congregate in the room with me, on the bed, on the window ledge, on a bookcase or at my feet.  When I am stuck with a piece, they respond with a chirp or a purr, a questioning look or an encouraging gaze.  They keep me company and don’t disturb my work...well not too much.  There are times when they want to sit on the writing desk and put their paws out to capture my hand for a pat or a rub.  There are times when they know I should take a break and they sit on my paper or jump off the desk with my pen.

I asked a cat-breeder and friend, “How do I know if I’ve turned into a crazy cat lady?”  She chuckled.  “When there are more cats than people in the household.”   It’s too late.  We crossed that line three years ago.

Edward Gorey, a renowned artist and writer, loved cats too.  He contended “between 4 or 5 didn’t seem to make any difference,” though 6 were too many, “disproportionately more, than five.”   We are not at 6, nor even at 5.  Like his cats, ours don’t go outdoors, ever.  But indoor cats don’t lose their wildness, “they retain all their jungly qualities no matter what.”

Isn’t that what makes cats so fascinating?  The unpredictable balance between affection and wildness.  I think it is.  And cats so obviously see the world in a healthy way.  They know how to measure the times for rest and play and serious work.  Cats bring a fresh perspective to everything.

How many cats do we have?  Well, we love the company of cats.  I believe there is always room for one more. 

As long as we stop before six, of course.

NOTE:            To learn more about Edward Gorey, please click here.  The photos are copyright @Carol Steel and are of Oliver and Nicholas, two of our very fine cats.

Happy Valentine's Day 2013

 

Happy Valentine's Day!

On this day of losing heads and bursting hearts, remember this...

"What goes unexplored / unknown, manifests as fate." 
(To paraphrase Carl Jung.)

Part of loving yourself is knowing yourself.  Really knowing who you are requires recognizing your internal conflicts, your unexplored talents, your unhealed traumas, your negative as well as your positive life experiences; requires recognizing your own wounds and seeking healing.

The parts of you that go unexplored, that remain unknown will come up again and again as life experiences until you deal with them, bring them to light, acknowledge them and let them fly away.

Part of loving yourself is knowing yourself, all parts of yourself, the piercing beak and razor claws as well as the rosy feathers. 

Know yourself as you really are and love yourself, all of yourself.

Happy Valentine's Day!

Photo is copyright Carol Steel.

A Good Question

 

A Good Question

Enduring an encounter with serious illness and the possibility of death tested all my significant relationships.

Who was there for me through the months of illness?  Who suffered with me?  Who was really affected by the possibility that I might not return to health?

To whom did I really matter?

Answers were not easy to find, for people had different ways of showing they cared.

I acknowledged how difficult it was for friends and family.  I appreciated that they did what they could.  There were many who backed off and I was hurt and disappointed.  Some relationships I valued didn’t turn out to be the way I thought they were.  It wasn’t that people did not care; it was more likely they just didn’t know what to do or say. 

People helped and supported the best they could; sometimes they didn’t know how to do this.  Perhaps they thought ignoring what happened and trying to move on was best for everyone.

My own expectations were sources of disappointment.  When I felt tired, vulnerable and scared, the withdrawal of others from me did not help me.  It was as though I had contracted a shameful, contagious disease.  It hurt and yet I understood.

Thankfully, there were many who stayed in contact through cards, notes, emails and phone calls, dropped off meals, sent small gifts or flowers, made short but loving visits, listened and found ways to show that I mattered to them.

For them I was grateful.

Significant relationships were not all constant.  Many changed.

To whom did I really matter?

A good question.  A greater lesson. 

Daisies Grow

Daisies Grow


As a child, I chanted,
"He loves me, he loves me not,"
yet wondered
what the dropping petals
had to do
with love.

I pluck a daisy still,
but no more wonder
what it means
or if...
I am
my Love's love.

For his love choruses
its own ripe song,
round all the circles
of my daisy chain.
As each white petal falls,
"He loves me, yes,
he loves me,
yes."


And fields
once rough and raw,
now full
of daisies grow.
On bright breeze,
the pale and golden songs caress,
"He loves me, yes,
he loves me,
yes." 

Photos are mine.

Graduation Day 2012

Yes, there are more photos of my grand-daughter.  This is her high school graduation in a class of 419, the largest class to graduate from Halifax West High School.

We felt the excitement and the tension in the building. 

The High School did an excellent job of organizing the cermony. 

In 2.5 hours, it was complete.

The graduates turned and waved to family.

 

Nervous, waiting to go up on stage.

The graduate is pleased with herself.

And we're pleased for her too.

 

What's in The Sink?

What’s in The Sink?

We love our cats, two Birman Cats and one Maine Coon Cat.  And they love us…so much so that they want to be wherever we are.  That’s not always convenient. 

They can’t come outside with us, because Birmans are scaredy cats and don’t run when they are frightened; they hunker down and make themselves small…not good, if something is chasing them.  The Maine Coon would chase something, even if...it was after him, but that’s not the point.  We don’t want them outside being exposed to ickiness that would require a visit to the Vet.  We don’t want them eating birds and bugs and other critters that are not good for them.  And, we love the birds too.  So the cats can’t go outside.

They can’t go to the basement, a dark and dusty place where all things off-season are stored, where cans of paint and oil lurk waiting to be spilled on furry coats, where harmful tools hang, lean and sit. 

Our cats are house cats.  They live within the confines of the main and the second floors.  They roam freely in those areas, their limited castle.

We find them in odd places.  They curl up and sleep by the back door, just inside the door so we can’t get in or out without moving them.  They climb the top of the cupboards and sleep in baskets that used to be market baskets, but are now cat baskets.  We find them on top of the dressers, under the comforters on the bed, inside any box or bag that’s been left unattended.  They’ll sleep in footwear belonging to guests or make themselves cozy in an open purse or suitcase.  They love to be near books, nestled in the bookcases or sleeping on top.  They're fond of trying to sleep on whatever I am reading, reaching paws around the edges to pull the book or paper down, to create a flat surface on which to rest.

They plant themselves on the chairs and couches in the living room, if we are there, or on either side of Gary on the sofa, if we are upstairs.  When I write or sit at the computer for long periods of time, they curl up on top of my feet on the floor, in order to be ready to go with me if I move.

It’s hard to be anywhere in the house without them piling on or coming near.  Yesterday when I had a shower, I forgot to shut the bathroom door tight.  When I finished my shower, Ollie was sitting on the edge of the sink watching.  As you can see, he hardly fits on the sink ledge.  And, the other two?  They were in the bathroom doorway, waiting to see what was happening next.

We love our cats.  And they love us.  That means togetherness, even in the bathroom.

And yes, I cleaned the sink, just like I’m constantly cleaning every place they can reach.  It’s a small price to pay for love and affection; though it would be great if there was less fur with all that love.

But then love isn’t always tidy and neat, is it?  It’s just love; love messy and wonderful…and often furry.


If you click on the words in red, you'll go to another site with additional information.  The photo is mine.

Baby Boy

Hold this baby close.  Smell his baby skin, fresh and new.  Touch his hair of gold and silk.  Watch his dark eyes widen, not yet focused and his pink mouth search, not quite smiling.  See milky tongue and tiny nose, a dimple in his right cheek like his big brother.  Touch his long fingers and toes, caress his translucent skin.  Hold this baby heartbeat to heartbeat. 

And love him.  Love him the way only a Grammy can love.

Home Again

Home Again

We sat on our swing seat in the side yard and talked.  I’ve been away for a week, visiting family and a new grandchild.  My husband stayed at home, caught a cold and flu.  While I was laughing and enjoying my grandsons, daughter and son-in-law, he was home sneezing, coughing with headache and sore muscles.

He is getting better so we sat outside yesterday and soaked up sunshine, the breeze and each other’s company.  We breathed the warm air, heard birdsong and chipmunk chatter, noticed the smell of grass, the shades of green and rose on the apple tree leaves, watched towels flapping on the line, saw falcons soaring high in search of a meal and heard leaves turning inside-out warning of rain to come.

We sipped wine, rocked slowly and noted the calm and green of our yard.  We avoided discussing all the work that needed care, chatted only about what we had each done over the week we’d been apart.   We talked.  We caught up.

I shared stories of being away, of a neighbour using a leaf blower to clean his deck four times a day, of another sharing his bagpipe lessons with the whole block, of geese crossing the main road to get from the harbour to the duck pond, of walks with family and of the pleasure of grandchildren.   He shared stories of driving new Canadians to the Legislature in Fredericton, of driving students to Safe Grad, of taking my mother on errands, of mowing lawns, then of becoming ill and of spending days and nights sweating and coughing…energy-less.

I told him about two hundred-foot Black Oaks and waking to nothing but sky and leaves outside the windows.  He told me about staring at the ceiling waiting for the next coughing attack.

We both shared stories of sudden rainstorms on sunny days—rain plummeting, bouncing up again from the ground, and of wind-driven rain in slanting sheets, then as sudden, sunshine glittering in the drops, and the light, the light fresh-washed and glowing.

We talked about missing each other.  We talked about love and about how much we need each other.  We talked about how we are grateful for each other.

We snuggled on the swing seat in our side yard and talked, happy to be home together again.

Photos are mine.

Morning Haze

Light.
Morning's
sleepy kiss
burns through this haze,
calls to life...bloom and leaf and love and you.

Photo is mine.

Easter and Springtime

Easter and Springtime

Mud heaves back blankets
of worn snow, stretches,
then belly-belches
the tang of dog turds.

Then Spring rises, pulls on
a fresh shirt
of buds and blue sky,
yawns, and sends the sap
swelling, hearts searching.

Rituals of love:
Trill or squawk
          Look at me
pheasants chase
          Hey, choose me
mallards hiss
          She is mine
starlings wear
their very best
mating feathers
          Hey, baby,
          ain't I fine?

The fuse ignites
creating life.
From Love's promise,
dead forests green.

And we feel it too,
this rising Easter,
fresh hope in our veins.

Photo is mine.

Starlings

Here are shots of starlings sporting their mating plumage.  The single bird photos are the female. 

It's the time of year for love so there's preening and courting, in our yard.

Photos and words are mine.

Christmas Eve and Boxing Day Evening

On Christmas Eve and on Boxing Day evening, we were treated to wonderful meals.  And to time well passed with much loved family.

Christmas Eve, we spent a few hours over bowls of chilli, Christmas baking, wine and conversation.  It is one of the few times a year when most of my family is together in one place, as my sister and her husband open their home every Christmas Eve.

We share a glass or two of wine, reminisce about the year past, get to know newcomers to the family, share laughter over stories of past Christmases, and talk about what we have in common as a family.  It is a time for feeling good about where we come from and who we are.  For cherishing family and the love that hold us together.

On Boxing Day, we went to visit my husband’s son, daughter-in-law and two grandchildren.  We spent a few hours over hot turkey sandwiches (everyone’s favourite post Christmas meal), Christmas desserts and Caesars or gingerbread tea.  We had time to be with our grandchildren, as they played with the games they had opened the day before. 

We sat and talked in front of their beautiful tree, shared our lives and where we are right now.  We ate and enjoyed the decadence of gravy and cheese on everything, while discussing the need for restraint after Christmas, laughing about the dichotomy between the conversation and the meal. 

We had a great time just sitting and talking with no agenda and no place, we had to be, nor anything, we had to do.  Such luxury after so much busyness.  And such a delight to be with a son and daughter-in-law we love.

I took my camera on both occasions.  On Christmas Eve, I captured photos, soon stopped as I was interfering with comfort levels of people trying to visit.  On Boxing Day, I didn’t even get the camera out, as it seemed quieter and more pleasant not to impose my need for photos on others.

Sometimes, it is better just to BE with others and to listen, share laughter and talk without interjecting photo taking. 

Thank you for Christmas Eve.  Thank you for Boxing Day evening.  We enjoyed your company and the time with each of you.

Christmas Ornaments

Over the years of celebrating Christmas, the tree decorations change.  Some special ones remain the same; much loved and each attached to a significant memory or story.  I have an affinity for sparkly decorations.  This long shiny one was given to me

by a dear friend years ago.

This handmade hobby horse was a creation from one of my sisters.

This gold sparkled blown-glass heart

is the sole survivor of a set,

 I bought for myself the first Christmas I was alone. 

I cherish the memories that accompany this delicate heart.

This glass snowman with an evergreen tree hat reminds me

of the one who gave it

and of the love we share.

This whimsical glass ball overflowing with red feathers

 was created by one of my daughters while she waited in airports,

on her journey home one Christmas.

My Christmas tree is trimmed with memories of significant times

in my life and the significant people in my life,

who light my way.

Happy Birthday Baby

Today is my first baby’s birthday.

More than a day of intense labour (as first labours often are) produced a lovely dark haired child with penetrating blue eyes.

A new woman in the world.  A tiny pink mouth in a miniature of her father’s round face.

She would grow to be frugal, make careful decisions, and have boundless capacity for love and sudden laughter.

A mixture of caution, adventure and loyalty, sneaking home stray kittens in her jacket, excelling at school and university, especially in the Sciences.

A woman of strong will and inner strength, quick movements and quicker temper, wise counsel and generous emotions.

She is all this:  Motorcycle driver, baker of cookies, handy-woman, organizer, maker of lists, promoter of fresh air and clean water, working Mom, fierce and loving mother of two, scientist, wife.

And more:  Dark haired, blue-eyed baby, now a woman with tattoos, wicked wit like her Dad’s, fit and slender, healthy and strong, more beautiful than she knows herself to be.

Happy Birthday to you!

As you walk your own path,

as you dream your own dreams,

as you live the life you choose,

may your living be blessed.

I love you my child.

Spending Time With the One You Love

Do we actually spend time?  Or does time pass and we spend our lives “doing stuff”?  Stop a second, how do you pass your time?  What are you doing?

At this season of the year, there can be more chores to do and to get done, than time allows.  I wonder if getting stuff done, completing the dread “To Do” list, working at a job, doing volunteer work, watching TV or working on the computer completely shuts out any time available to “simply pay attention” to the one you love.

I wonder how much time and energy people spend each week in really listening, actually making eye contact, really touching, hugging or holding, truly giving attention to the one they love.  In balancing the one life, we each have to live.

Giving full attention doesn’t mean merely being in the house at the same time as your significant other, or being in the same room as one sews and one does dishes, or as one watches TV and one uses the computer, or as one does bookwork and the other reads, nor does it mean one sleeping in front of the TV while the other sleeps in bed.  Certainly those things are part of life, but they are not all of life.  It’s about balance in relationships.

Relationships flourish with mutual interest and attention, shared love, vibrant lovemaking, intimate conversation and paying attention to one other.  When all one’s time is given to doing, going, running errands, volunteering, working, and almost none is set aside for “attentively being with” the significant other in your life, two things begin to happen:

1.               The relationship suffers;

2.               The relationship dies.

This is something to ponder, especially at this season of the year, a season which traditionally is meant to be about hope and love.

Some questions:

How are you really “spending your time”?

Are you paying any attention to the one you love?

Is what you are doing getting you what you want in life?

If not, what needs to change?

Best Part of This Day

One afternoon this week, I attended a wedding shower for the daughter of a dear friend.  Most of the women are much older than the bride-to-be.  We were all close friends of her mother; her mother, who when she knew she was dying, years ago, asked all of us to continue to stay connected with her children.

Now her daughter, a young woman, talented, beautiful, wise and warm as was her mother, is getting married this Saturday. We gathered to share laughter, love, stories, dreams, tea and sandwiches, to give her gifts and our blessings as she enters this new covenant in her life.

Some of the blessings came in the form of advice.  One woman in our group told a gentle story about how, at a particularly trying time in her marriage, her husband asked her to tell him about the best part of her day.  She told him.  They shared with each other the best parts of their day.  It helped them then. She says that they have been holding that ritual every day since.  It still helps.

My curiosity piqued; so I tried it.

Each evening since the shower, I’ve shared what has been the “best part of the day” with my husband and he, with me.  It is amazing what focusing on a positive moment in the day can bring.

Talking about the best parts of our days eases tension, gives perspective, feels good and tempers frustrations.

It blesses the day that has gone and renews hope for the one to come, all the while offering a few moments of tranquility and appreciation to our lives.

Of all the advice and blessings we offered at the wedding shower, I believe that this simple story was the best.

Try it!

What has been the best part of this day for you?

Friends and Blooms

Yesterday, I talked with a friend I haven't seen for a while.  She told me that she loves my blog entries.  She says she looks forward to them, musing to herself, "Gosh, I wonder if there's a new one today."

I felt humbled and delighted that something I write makes another person happy at the start of her day.

Yesterday, the crab apple tree in our yard finally burst open its buds and flowered fully.  A dramatic splash of delicate dark rose against the backdrop of green; fragrant visual delight.

Yesterday, I had the opportunity to sit on the porch and have easy conversation and a glass of wine with someone I dearly love.

For friends and flowers and love, I feel thankful!

It was a good day!

Love in Springtime

The two of them sat huddled together on the curb in front of our house, for over an hour.  Two slender awkward adolescents, a girl with caramel-coloured hair and a boy, more fair.

The day was chilly with drizzling spring rain.  The cement curb must have been hard and cold and damp.  They seemed not to notice, so absorbed in their conversation and shared soda.

They didn’t touch just sat hugging themselves against the weather.  Shoulders hunched around their ears, shivering in the wet.

He chain-smoked, inhaling and exhaling in short bursts—perhaps trying to impress her or calm his nerves.  They talked and talked and laughed, self-consciously drawing patterns in the dirt on the street with random twigs.

I looked out at them occasionally, as I sat writing at my kitchen table.  Wondering to myself, “What are they doing out there in this cold rain?”

Suddenly, I was flooded with memories of you in high school: tall, good-looking, a cigarette dangling dangerously, older than I and so mysterious.

I remember quiet glances and sudden shared laughter.  Self-consciousness.  Heart thudding with excitement and wonder.  The fragrance of after-shave mixed with bitter smoke.

We too were shy, oblivious to the weather, standing at the bus stop scuffing at the wet, spring snow with the toes of our shoes.  Not touching, too bashful and innocent to know what to do.

Young and naïve and new to love. 

I remember you bent down and tenderly kissed the huge wet snowflakes from my eyelashes.