ESCAPING THE BAD AIR

Spent the weekend in Haliburton, Ontario - unfortunately for a funeral, but it was wonderful to see so many good friends; did my heart good.  And I got to breathe in the clear, fresh air as I was limping along on my morning walks.  The second day had gorgeous sun and snow (!!)  Bit of a shock to the system, but lovely to look at. Special thanks to Carolynn and Eric, Dave and Cheryl, and the Marquardt family.
 Here are some pics:

"Blue Skies, smilin' at me..."  - out the bedroom window in the morning

remember picnics?

Carolynn, Zoe, and Eric from the Haliburton Folk Society

Starting the looooong bus ride back - the lake at Haliburton

Happy me on the bus - had a good book about the McGarrigles

LA VIE EN ROSE

Catching up here; the last post happened few days ago, then from yesterday's trip to Haliburton, Ontario:

This morning i awoke, and saw a strange thing in a room adjoining the one where I slept.  Something white, partially obscured by the doorway, was flashing on and off, like the top of a police car, only more orangish than red.  There was nothing in that room that could do that, so I lay there, watching and waiting. It finally stopped, and then the light dawned on me.  Literally.  A window in that room, out of sight altogether, was letting in a lone, low ray of the south-east-rising sun, which found a pathway from its source, through a gap in the leafless trees on a ridge south of my house, and then, when the local morning commuter train went by, flickered a rosy strobe until the train passed.
Magic in the morning.  La vie en rose.  

Then, later, on my way to that same commuter train, I passed a sewer cover with some lettering that I read as "DANCER", as I walked by, until my subconscious let in the other word that had been below it - which was "sewer".  And then the little grey cells started to work, reasoning that what I had really seen was the word "DANGER" etched in the metal. Another 'coo-coo' perception of my mind, but I say thanks, and I'll keep my viewpoint.  It's rather fun.
May we all see a dancer rather than danger as we walk our days, and light alternating with movement as we awaken.

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FUNNY HOW LOVE BECOMES A COLD RAINY DAY

Those are words to a beautiful song I finally learned.  Thank God for music in my life to offset all the crap.
My life has been taken up lately by the focus on my 'jambe', la mia gamba, - the leg, the leg. - demanding so much energy - but it is getting better, very slowly. The cast has been cast aside.  I'm walkin'. Yes, indeed. And I'm talkin' - about me and me.  I'm hopin' that I'll come back to me.
That's what we always come back to, isn't it?- our little selves.  In spite of the wonderful friends I love, who help me through life, and help me through all the people who are not friends, we have to know how to be alone.  Speaking for myself, I have learned how to to trust myself, and keep on truckin'.  So I will be back.....
And for anyone out there who reads this - if you ever come across a short film about a day in the life of a bike, with the soundtrack of the Dead's "Truckin" - please let me know.  I made it a thousand years ago with some other students, and then lost track of it.  I'd love to find it again.

I've been doing some retro-reading in my quiet, healing moments - besides the books I was given by my dear book-publisher friend - I'm also going back into my own archives of stories and poems, or simply journal entries that I wrote over the years.I must say, a part of me loves to revisit those creations, and see the things I saw at another stage of my life.  One piece, however, written shortly after the death of someone I knew, really got to me.  At the time, I was so utterly saddened, - shocked, even as I wrote - at how very sad I was, especially since we had been separated already for a while.  The death affected me so much, so immediately and deeply, that I couldn't understand it.  When I read what I'd written back then, the rawness of the loss I had felt came back in full force so that a huge wave of grief swept over me, choking me.  I was taken aback - literally, - reliving that pain and once again, shocked by my feelings.

All in the plan of getting my writings organized.  I once had a dream about finding huge piles of diaries that my mother had written during her life, and I was so surprised, and delighted, to find this treasure trove of her.  In real life, in fact, my mother never wrote, nor spoke, anything about herself.  She kept her feelings and her thoughts - her self - quiet.  And unknown.  I've always missed having shared a real relationship with her.  And when I awoke, I knew that it was myself who had the mountains of words.
So....project one: leg;  two: music; three: languages; and four: (making a stable table) - my writing.

I'm glad I read that sad piece, to have my heart re-opened.  Glad I have kept it.

Here's a photo of myself and my cousin Michelle in old Montreal last weekend.  oo la la.

 

 

plus the inevitable selfie, and one with a weird effect that i liked:

 

SOMETHING WRONG WITH THIS JOINT!!

No, not the spliffy kind; and not the English kind either, that you make a stew with.  I mean one of the many miraculous spots on the human body, which enables us to move and bend, and generally get around. 
They ARE miraculous, especially when they heal themselves, but geeeeeez, it's taking soooooo looooong.  I walk along the street, having got pissed off with the brace/cast, and tossing it away, with the result that my knee joint feels like a sloppy bowl of pudding with rocks in it.
Really.
Not much stability, and certainly not a pleasant sensation.


But how can I complain? It's nothing in the grand scheme of things.
I just pretend I'm 11 or 12 months old again, and just learning to walk altogether, and give myself the parental praise and applause for the smallest successes.
And then sometimes I simply ignore everything and WALK ON, with purpose.

Eventually, all will be 'swingin' again:

PATIENCE, PATIENCE, PATIENCE

So I tell myself, as I go along the street at a snail's pace.  Oh, I know there are many people with much worse to contend with, but it's the adjustment, isn't it, that is difficult.  It's what one is used to.  And I'm getting pretty tired of giving myself pep talks.
But ever onward....
You can see how bored I'm am with being house-bound when I resort to creating more and more pictures of myself, and then a picture like this one, created for a friend, in which I quadruple myself.

Honestly, I promise, I'm going to get to my language studies real soon.  And the new tunes I want to learn, and, and, and.....

And I've started physiotherapy for the sluggish broken leg now, so we should be just speeding along in no time.
Meanwhile, I found this short clip from the summer - if you don't mind viewing it sideways...And I hope it's actually there.  One never knows.

 

Lullaby of Birdland, with Laurie Bower, trombone; John MacLeod, trumpet, Don Vickery, drums.