* Palermo, Sicily, 1968

The old tower clock in the square was striking 6:00 am as I awoke.  Dawn crept through the wooden shutters allowing lines to form on the chair by my window.  I arose and dressed in the clothes I had laid out the night before.  A pair of long black stockings, a long black dress, a black shawl for my shoulders, a smaller black shawl for my head, and finally a pair of fine black leather shoes.

I picked up my black umbrella. Slipping quietly down the narrow stone stairs I stood in the doorway.  A gentle misty rain was falling.  The cobblestones, old plaster walls and balconies appeared magical in the wetness and early morning light.  I stepped into the street.

The heavy humid air filled my lungs as I took a deep, deliberate breath, hoping to inhale the oldness, the history, the energy left from centuries of existence.  As my feet touched the cobble stones I could feel the memories of this place.  A small shiver ran up my spine.

The city was coming to life as I strolled the narrow streets.  Brilliant colours of fruit and flowers appeared in market stalls in stark contrast to the beautiful muted backdrops of the streets and buildings.  Two small boys, eager to get a head start on life, darted in front of me pursuing their soccer ball.  Vendors were busy stocking their stalls to display the daily wares.

No one paid me any mind.  Visually, in my blackness, I had become ordinary.  I could now be the observer, instead of the observed.

The streets became narrower, and as the city around me awoke, it began to stretch and move.  I could hear the sounds of footsteps, lively chatter and laughter.  Nearby a church bell rang, and donkeys with baskets loaded on their backs climbed the hill ahead of me.  Above me, a women hung her washing out to dry on her ornate balcony.  Twittering song birds in their cages appeared as their owners hung them on the outside walls for the day.  The smell of fresh baked bread, Italian coffee, fresh fruit and goats cheese permiated the air.  A man peddled past me - his baskets loaded with ripe tomatoes.

As the day wore on, old men sat at tables in the street and gossiped over bread, cheese, olives and red wine.  Women, sitting in a row facing the wall, busied their hands with traditional needle work, and chatted about the local goings on.

I stopped still.  I closed my eyes.  I breathed deeply.  I became one with the essence of my surroundings and quietly imprinted the scene in my heart for future reference.

As I crested the hill, the mist began to lift and the sun peaked through.  My umbrella became my walking stick.  Before me lay the Tyrrhenian Sea -- the bluest blue I had ever seen.  My heart raced.  My step quickened.

The fishing boats had left for the day.  The bay was quiet.  As I neared the small beach, the rhythm of the waves tugged at my soul.  In my blackness I was invisible - the sea and I could have our privacy.  We would spend a wonderful day together.  I was home!

The Windowsill Boys

The windowsills at 134 Park Road, London NW4 were always empty - void of any ornamentation, plants, or in fact curtains.  Why?  That would mean someone would be obliged to clean, water or wash!  We had no time for such trivialities - we were after all - women of the world!  Women living in one of the largest, most exciting cities on the planet.  At our beck'n'call lay an abundance of great theatre, great art, great food, and great parties.  Consequently, our windowsills remained empty.  We had our priorities right!

One afternoon, while humming a tune from the new musical Hair and baking 'bickies' in our tiny kitchen - the sound of muffled laughter drifted through the air.  At first I thought it was emanating from next door - but of course the 'lady with the broom' lived there, so that was impossible.  I listened more closely, and stuck my head around the corner into the lounge.  To my dismay, our usually empty sill was packed with small boys.  Heads filled the open window at all levels, while elbows, hands, knees or bottoms balanced them on the sill and kept the lot from tumbling into the house.

They became still as I approached.

"What are you doing?", I inquired.

"We smelled something lovely, Mrs." replied their spokesman.

"Did you now ... and by the way, it's Miss".

"Sorry, Miss", one of them piped up.

The rest is history.  Every once in awhile, when they 'smelled something lovely, Miss', our windowsill was full of small laughing boys, in their shorts and wellies, a little muddy from playing their own brand of soccer in the park.  We didn't have to clean, water or wash them.  All we had to do was enjoy them ... and share our 'bickies' of course.

The boys in this photo evoke the essence of my windowsill boys from so long ago.

It brought a smile to my face to remember them.                 (found in a 2001 journal)

* The Piper

While I lived in London - it was rumoured that when the Queen spent holidays at Balmoral - she was awakened every morning at 9:00 AM by a piper who stood beneath her window.

I can myself think of a no more magical way to be awakened.  Therefore - when I win the lottery, a piper is on my list!                                                                                    (found in a 2001 journal)

* A moment in time ...

She rode long past sunset, allowing her sure footed steed to find the way.  The blackness cloaked her in safety and from the back of her horse, she pondered life.

* My Children Came Today ....

My children came to me today.  Well, not my children really.  I look at them as God's children loaned to me on a part time basis.  They are my "step children", my spiritual family.

How gorgeous they are.  Two little girls, six years, and eight years.  Already so much has happened to them on their journey.  They have come to me open - even though they are fragile and wounded.  I come to them with openness,  compassion, respect, fear and prayers that we will love each other.

So close are they.  So close and yet so far away.  The youngest child wears her heart on her sleeve - gregarious, every thought in her head pours forth without censor.  She cries, she laughs with the same gusto.  Gives life her all with nothing held back.  Loving, dramatic, a dreamer, a creator, smart, artistic and scattered.  It's all there, and she's only six.

The older child - more reserved, more guarded, very aware.  She's the mother.  She has taken on the responsibility to make sure, whatever that requires, the two of them are always OK, always .... no matter what!  She is already feeling the weight of the world at this tender age.  She's an old soul; wise, caring, loving and responsible beyond her years.

We sit together.  My arms around them.  I tell them I am there for them.  I want to be a close friend.  I will never attempt to take the place of their wonderful mom.  I hope that we can make a 'different kind of a family'.  I tell them it will be close, loving and fun.  We will always be able to talk, anytime, about anything.  I tell them talking is very very important.

They look at me with big wide beautiful blue eyes - questioning, wondering, and willing to give it their best shot.  I feel so blessed and privileged.  In my heart, I already know it's going to be OK.

* Residue from an old love ...

I'm going to be sick -  explode - implode - fly to bits - vomit - turn inside out - spill my guts. - dry heave - eject my innards - emit - expel - gag - heave - hurl - puke - regurgitate - retch - ruminate - spew - spit up - throw up!!!  Who knows!!! I FEEL SICK.  I want to run - to where - AWAY?  That's a laugh.  Where the hell is away - away is the same as here - I'LL still be there!  I'll still be exploding, imploding, flying to bits or vomiting.  It hurts tooooo much!!!!  I HATE IT!!!  The chemistry is still there.  What the flying fuck do I do with that????  Stuff it down???  Bury it????  Place it in the denial box???  Kill it???  Chop it to pieces and place it in the freezer????  OH BELIEVE ME ... I would if I could.  I simply don't know how!!!!!!!!!! 

The answer for future generations may be an 'affairs of the heart' organ. Over a life time this part of our body would absorb all the hurt, pain and heart break.  As the pain became to great to bear, and if all the therapy in the world was unsuccessful, a simple operation to remove the organ would be the answer to everything.  Oh that it were so easy!!! The way it is, we would have to have our heart removed.  Not viable!

* The Garden

The garden shared its secrets freely.  The flowers soothed her with their fragrance.  The trees gave her their strength.  Birds bestowed their music upon her.  Beautiful butterflys danced for her.  She sipped her tea.  The soft air caressed her skin.  She breathed deeply.  She was awed by the wonder of it all.  It was just what she needed.  Peace and quiet.

* After the Storm

After the storm, only one egg remained.  When it hatched, her parents loved her so much she was never allowed to fly.  And so, she grew old and died alone in the nest her parents built to protect her.

* Hollow

December, 2005

empty
hollow
the hollowness of a melon
seeds ripped from her core
continuing to claw
to gut
until every seed is obliterated
into the flesh
until only skin remains
until she is a perfect hollow inside
perfect
hollow
empty
cave like
massive
expanding into
the nothingness
becoming one with the fog
the night
of the full moon

Growing
crawling
creeping
suddenly
expanding into the
allness
the collected consciousness
to again know lonely
but not be lonely
finding a way again
to seeds
seeds of like mind
who wish to grow
to become
to be
to know
exactly who they are
and to understand
the fullness of
light will come
the fullness
the allness
the everything
the perfection
the connectedness of a
loving God, Goddess, all that is!!

* oh woe is the soul

sometime 2005?

Oh woe is the soul
that knows not
where it goeth.
Whose love has
been abandoned
and left to decay
in the winter
of it’s years
and change
reaches  out
from dark
and dank corners.
Never to know
in the winter’s cold
if the warm fires of love and comfort
will again be
there
in ways which
are different
from days
of old.

I am here for
you my dear and
generous soul -
Alone you
are not.
Live your days
of winter
in comfort and
love.
I shall not
leave your side.
Give me your
hand that
you may feel a gentle touch
once again
before the
embers darken.

* carved of ice

It was a slow
excruciating death,
painful in every way,
emotionally
physically
spiritually.
Relentless pain
possessed  her
in the night,
creeping in from places unknown,
to devour
to destroy
to obliterate.
With the rising
of the sun
came hope,
acknowledging the emptiness,
but daring to feel
that perhaps -
maybe -
in the future ......
Yet, even as hope filled her,
the blood dripped
silently
painlessly -
a hemmorhage
deep inside
her heart
eating away little by little,
killing slowly and without mercy
until,
almost unnoticeably,
even though she fought every
step of the way,
wanting to hang on,
not wanting to give up -
she finally allowed it to depart -
slipping slowly away -
out of her grasp,
until death was a reality
and her love for him
lay in a
coffin carved of ice
shaped to fit her heart.
She buried it today.

* beautiful

Carefully, she chipped away
the ice,
making precise measurements
and checking for fit.
Slowly the burial box
emerged.
Beautiful,
sparkling,
safe.
The perfect shape
for its' contents.
She was especially precise
with the lid,
making the collar
smooth with a perfect seal.
When she finished
she admired
her work.
Yes, she thought
it was beautiful,
befitting the noble love
they had shared.
Smooth,
clear,
solid,
honest.
She carefully lifted
up the broken pieces
of her heart
and placed them
like a jig saw puzzle
to form the
shape of the original.
It had been 2 years
and still no healing.
Still the pain.
Happy Valentines Day.

* a heartbeat away ....

And suddenly, there he was - my emotional equivalent of the crash of '29.

* That all consuming kind of love

It was that all consuming kind of love.  The kind that sucks you in no matter how hard you fight to keep bits of yourself from falling off.  The kind that soaks you in other realms so beautiful you have no idea where you have been. But in the end - no matter what - it chews you up and spits you out, wrings every last ounce of strength from your earthly body and leaves you withering on some lonely street corner in some unknown part of the Universe.

Even if he doesn't leave you, even if you get through and work through all the nasty bits and all the incredible bits, you end up grieving, your heart shattered like crushed ice in bitters, as you leave him for heaven, or he leaves you for hell.

* Dear Mom and Dad

July 4, 1993
Fort Liard,
Northwest Territories, Canada

Dear Mom and Dad,

News from the north this week:

1.  Someone lost their false teeth outside the store.  They are now hanging on the bulletin board for all to see with a sign which reads:  "ARE THESE YOURS?"

2.  The Sears Catalogue for fall and winter has arrived.  Great excitement.

3.  A herd of 50 buffalo moved in up the hill.  They spend evenings on the runway at the airport.  We have to 'buzz' them in order to land.

4.  A buffalo named "Rambo" lives in Nahani Butte.  Every few weeks he comes into town and causes havoc - breaks windows, kills a couple of dogs, chases a few locals.  Some of the natives got together and decided to shoot Rambo.  The entire town had a buffalo feast.  A few weeks later, Rambo returned and caused more chaos.  So far, the community has enjoyed three buffalo feasts and they still haven't shot the right buffalo.

5.  We spoke with some French tourists who are spending five months going across Canada to Inuvik then down the coast of the Americas and up again.  Final destination:  Rio/Brazil.  Sounds like a good time to me!

6.  We spoke to some German tourists who had been traveling for three years in a huge, custom built Mercedes truck.  Fully loaded and equiped with everything you might need to surive.  Amazing.

7.  Another couple from Germany were driving up the Liard highway.  They hit a pot hole, flipped the car and ended up in the ditch.  The top of their car was flattened,  the front windshield complete toast.  They drove out of the ditch - stopped in Liard for gas, and are now headed to Ft. Simpson, an 800 km. journey.

8.  I still haven't caught a fish!

9.  The clothing party I had was a great success.  Sold $1,100.00 in clothing which awarded me $110.00 of free product and another 5 items at half price.

10. An intoxicated native was stabbed in a fight.  They took him to the nursing station.  The nurses took a look at him and sent him home.  He died the next day.  HUGE scandle!

11. Howard has begun a new project.  He is building a gas station down town.  Currently, our gas is 5 km away, and because of that, many tourists do not make it into town.  When this gas station is complete, the old one will be closed.  More tourists for us.

12. Howard is bringing a soft ice cream and flurry machine to the store.  The whole town is elated.

13. We flew into Ft. Nelson for the day last weekend.  I was so excited,  even the worst of merchandise was beginning to look good.  We enjoyed lunch and dinner out and got a huge grocery order.

14. Today, Judy and I drove to the border. We had a lot of fun digging wild flowers for our gardens, eating wild strawberries and sitting by the river.  I found a wonderful heart shaped rock.  Naturally, I brought it home with me.

15. I built a very cute bird feeder last week.  All materials were foraged from the forest.  Tree bark, stripped diamond willow, moss and some gorgeous dried fungus.  Had fun.

16. Had company for dinner friday night.  Today we are going with a bunch of people to the muskeg river for a picnic.

Well, I think that's about all the news from North of 60 this week.  We're enjoying our boat and for the most part the weather has been gorgeous here.  The bugs are awesome.  I have great respect for people who grow such wonderful gardens here.  Love, Donna

* The Creative Spirit

December 8, 2008

There is a growth stage to creativity.  A nurturing stage when you must allow yourself to simply 'be'.  Allow your creative juices to bubble up from the depths of your soul.  A time of frustration, when it's possible to detach yourself from the frustration and allow the creative project and process to grow from within.

I feel so sad at the moment.  A deep deep sadness, not unlike great loss - an emptiness.  Is this what happens before the fullness of the actual creation process?  Emptiness - then fullness?  Like the growth of a child inside our bellies???  Then finally - Ah Ha moments! It all comes together and we give birth to something beautiful - something exciting that fills us with joy.  Something we want to share which may bring a smile or a reaction from others.  Is this what it's all about?  The hollowness -- the deep soul sadness? Then little by little, piece by piece, a gift, a blessing is bestowed on us?  A sigh of relief.  A sudden knowing we haven't lost it forever?  We have found it again and in fact it has always been there?  It was simply a logistics glitch.  We have been given the correct most explicit directions, as though we were looking at a GPS.  And finally, out it pops -- our creation, our gift to ourselves and others?

Please God, Goddess, All there is, please make it so.  I simply cannot bear the emptiness another moment.  Show me where to next place my foot upon this earth.  With gratitude, Donna

* Magnolia Blossom

                                            She comes alone
                                            out of still cold nights,
                                            no leaves to comfort
                                            or give warmth.
                                            Unfolding
                                            little by little
                                            each day
                                            more beautiful
                                            than the day before,
                                            trusting God
                                            for sun and rain
                                            to bring her to her glory.
                                            Needing only to share
                                            her beauty,
                                            to be the best
                                            she can be,
                                            to invoke a word,
                                            coax a smile,
                                            invite a
                                            touch in wonder;
                                            heralding the spring,
                                            new beginnings
                                            and beauty in God's garden.
                    
                                                                                     
                                                  

* Fragments of a Woman

I have been downsizing over these past few years.  Serious downsizing. First, my parents estate, then my 63 years of collected paraphernalia. I've organized huge garage sales, carted truckloads to auctions, given away, got rid of, let go, left behind, and down right abandoned.  It's been cathartic. I feel lighter.  I feel ready to take huge leaps forward.  I'm coming unstuck, unglued. (There are those who think I have always been a little 'unstuck' and 'unglued'.)  It feels good.

I have always written.  I have never kept track of or organized my writing.  During the process of downsizing two of my own houses and a huge storage locker, I have happened upon my writings, my ramblings about life.  Some of it is silly, some sad, some angry.  Much of it seems to be on the darker side, however, that's historically when I spill my feelings out in pen and ink.  It's somewhere to put the grief, the sadness, the anger.  It's concrete.  When I see it there, on a piece of paper, in my own handwriting, somehow I can let it go.  It no longer roams the recesses of my mind, nor does it stay in the pit of my stomach and my solar plexus.

What follows in these posts are my writings from found scraps of paper, journals, notes from day timers, poetry and rhymes from a period in my life when I was in contact with a spiritual guide, and automatic writing which began and never finished.  The pieces are in no particular order, no particular time in my life. Having never been concerned with dating much,  I can only guess when they may have been written.  I will post them as they 'fall out of the pile' so to speak.  I believe these posts are more to chronicle my writings for me.  It's somewhere to keep them, somewhere to put them out of the way, but visible.  I hope some of you will enjoy them and relate to them.  I hope some of them will help you heal.  Piece by piece the writings are snippets, pieces, morsels, tidbits, blips, and one liners.  All my writings together form a collection of who I am.  I like to think of them as "Fragments of a Woman".

I'm so pleased you are joining me on this journey.  Please leave me your comments. Should you wish to leave me your email address, I will be more than happy to contact you.  blessings, Donna