On this glorious Thanksgiving weekend...no, this isn't California!
This is so beyond glorious! Where has the real Vancouver gone? I’m not sure I can remember a dryer, sunnier autumn.On this Thanksgiving weekend I gave thanks to late blooming summer flowers that refuse to quit. The bees are having a bonanza in the annuals. I took a long walk at the beach and sat in the allotment gardens to take all this in. Remembering that it’s almost mid-October...wow!
The grass has gone dormant in August and really helps give that golden fall feeling, but so do the maple trees and the weaker, angled light in the park.Autumn really is here.
Shhh though, don’t tell us Vancouverites. Let us have one more lazy long weekend walking in the sun, one more play in the sand and one more beach volleyball game before we have to don the parkas and tuques and brave the real Vancouver autumn weather
Of sunshine, rum and dandelion chains. Memories come.
Some days there is a golden light that happens in the evenings. It comes thru the trees, from the west into my house. The thoughts of Prague are just on the edge of my mind then, except this west coast light is too blue to be convincing enough. It’s too blue because it is reflected by millions of viridian trees and the cold Pacific instead of millions of gilded statues and warmed cobblestones. Memories of my childhood are coloured gold and warmed by those stones.Until that black day, all I can remember is sunshine. Until that black day there were mostly two of us...my cousin and I...the two of us playing with dolls, running thru the fields below the cabin, climbing into the hay stacks getting supper itchy, bringing baby pheasants home for babi to have to pen with the chickens and, after a stern warning not to do that again, dumping grandpa’s matches out on the nearest table to use the matchboxes for May beetles. Great, big, giant May beetles. When we lost interest he just let the beetles go and put his matches back.One spring I chained a dandelion chain around the whole cabin. One autumn I hid under babi’s heavy feather quilt because there was a huge storm and babi said feather quilts protected children from storms. One summer I toppled off the swing that grandpa built for me and broke my left humerus just below my shoulder. Boy was I annoyed...no swimming that summer. One summer I got a blue swimsuit with a thin red and white stripe down the sides and a world globe piggy bank for my birthday. My mom had been to Italy on holiday and brought these treasures for me.Babi kept a small treasure box for me full of single earrings, broken necklaces, pins, bits of shiny ribbon, gold brocade, gloves, silk flowers. She called them “tzingerdlatka” roughly translated as sparkly-shineys. I couldn’t get enough of this toy. Grandpa would to pay me a few small coins for handfuls of linden, St John’s wort and mullein blossoms for his tea. I felt so rich. Grandpa would sharpen my coloured pencils with his pocket knife till they had the sharpest point possible. I loved the sharpness of those pencils. Aunt Vera washed her face with the morning dew to stay beautiful. I knew that’s what did it. She also used to let me muck about with her oil paints. I thought I was such a great artist to use those oils.Each year, just before Christmas Eve some carp were bought and stored live in the bath tub. We children loved to look in and poke at the fish even though we knew we shouldn’t. Then the carp would be turned into Christmas supper and we got to play with the “spirits” of the fish, (actually the swim bladders, but just fine as balloons). The door to the living room would be closed all day until after supper. Then there was a knock on the front door and St Nicholas would be there with the devil beside him to ask us if we were good. Somehow we always were because then the living room door was opened to the most spectacular tree lit up with real candles, with presents, chocolates and oranges underneath and I always got a tiny spoon of fragrant Czech rum in my tea as a treat.There was no TV, only nature and culture and folklore. It was Bohemia in the truest way imaginable. It lasted eight glorious years.Written in response to Jane Ann’s backstory blog challenge
And then the universe took a sigh of relief...Mood and Happy...It's a conspiracy!
First it was the Photo Friday challenge asking for mood and then came the Wordpress weekly photo challenge asking for happy.What's a girl to do?So here you are: My “stooopid cats” as my children some people in my family like to call them.
Really it’s not my fault. (Actually it is, but it sounds better blaming the kids.)I started off with one of these Staffordshire cats – I think the one on the left – because it made me happy to look at it.Then I found another and I was perfectly happy with these two on the floor by the fire place for about 20 years.Then last year K called form a vintage shop to tell me of another one. I said “no”...it ended up here anyway. Then C’s boyfriend Bryson decided he’s going to find all the big white cats he can and now there are five.They come and go depending on my mood and if I need a change in the house, but overall they make me happy. And it makes me laugh to see my kids, (who are responsible for these stupid cats in the first place, remember?), shake their heads at this little bit of fun kitsch in my exquisitely stylish life...ehm.
And there's no harm in that. :)
Of pipe tobacco and pepermints. Memories come.
The other day I walked thru Victoria Park at dusk. There were lots of people in the park. The beautiful autumn weather is holding and everyone wants to get the best of the west coast before it succumbs to its alternate name of “wet coast”.I stood in the middle of the park and watched some children throwing sticks into the horse chestnuts to dislodge big, fat conkers. I popped a Tic Tac into my mouth and suddenly I thought my grandfather was with me. I turned around and saw a man sitting on the park bench smoking a pipe. He blew the sweet smell in my direction. The smoke reminds me of this Starbucks capuccino rig.My grandfather was always old. Babi, (Czech for grandma) said that he went to war and he returned with shock white hair. Babi said his right ear was shot off by the Nazis. Babi said he was the best at making mayonnaise because he could drop oil into the emollition drop by drop and stir it gently with a wooden spoon for 30 minutes. Babi said a lot of things. Grandpa never said much, but he had a thin scar where his right ear should have been and his mayonnaise never broke.I wear his family crest on my finger and read his journals. His journals are hard to read. He wrote in Czech, English, Russian, French, Italian and German. Mostly German. He wrote in small script, in runny ink, in his own code, but mostly I can manage to figure out what he wrote. He called me Renny, (with a very soft, Czech R), and it’s a thrill to read his account of my childhood. Mostly I made him laugh.When I was little we lived in Prague while he and babi lived in Terezin. Weekends and summers were spent at our family cottage on a hill side above the river Elbe. When I was little I used to hang on around grandpa’s neck while he swam across the river with me. When I was little I used to garden with him, sleep out on the terrace with him, hike to the castle ruins with him and pick wild mushrooms in the autumn to roast them for lunch on hot rocks around the camp fire. I remember at the end of each hike he would put a drop of brown oil on his tongue, which I later found out was cannabidiol to treat his arthritis. He always stressed how important holistic medicine was. After our outings he would make the best open faced sandwiches with rye bread, mustard, salami, diced onions and hot, melting chanterelles.He had an exceedingly long name. He was called Karl but his full titled name was: Ritter Karl Emilian Von Alemann. He was a gentle, studious, intelligent man, a lord, a knight, a general in the Austrian army, but mostly he was my grandfather who taught me the botanical name of each flower in his garden as naturally as one would say dan-de-lion to a child.He’s been gone for a million years. Babi was heartbroken when he died and kept his ashes in her china cupboard between her crucifix and her sherry glasses for the rest of her life. When she died I took them both back to Vyšehrad and interned them in the family crypt. They rest in the soft pink light of Prague.Mom said he never smoked a pipe. Beats me why I remember him smelling of pipe tobacco and peppermints. Mom said it was probably camphor from his arthritis rub. Doesn’t matter really.His photograph hangs in my studio. It’s taken from his left side.
What's mine? Ha...what a question for the Wordpress weekly photo challenge to ask just now!
Yup too much naval gazing lately.That’s what happens in the studio, door shut, silence, just the whisper of my paintbrush on the canvas. I thought this Wordpress weekly photo challenge was a bit right on the spot for right now. Evaluating what is “mine” in this past September month of loss, was something that, if you’re me, is a slightly dangerous thing to be doing.I offer this: a shot from my studio.
If I take it philosophically I can truly say there are very few things that I consider as mine. Definitely not possession or people. The greatest treasure I “own” is my talent. My ability to put paint to canvas, my ability to put words down on paper, my ability to recognise a light quality and grab the camera...and most importantly, these are the things which please me, soothe me, bring me joy and peace. This is mine. Mine uniquely and, since I can create art out of sand, pebbles, bits of found wire and twigs and find it fulfilling, cameras, canvases, paints, paper, all could be gone and I still would have my talent and that would be enough to make me happy. (Although you might be stuck listening to me recite!) :0My friend Jane Ann Mc Lachlan has issued an interesting challenge; to reflect on my past over the month of Oct. Twenty five posts in 31 days. I’m thinking that maybe I can’t do it but I’ll give it a try for now and include this poem as a reflection:Wandering in the wood the ghost of my thoughts delivers letters to the trees.The trees reply by shaking their heads and sighing above the constant music of their branches.On the ground the needles whisper beneath invisible feet.In cracks and crevices the mushrooms clear their throats and declare on the merits of loss.The ghost flits sadly away and is lost to view among brambles and clumps of dead bracken which crackle softly by its passing.The trees drop the letters on the soil to be carried by excited beetles snickering at the sentimental words.Till squirrels pounce and grab the letters for themselves and dart away.Ok, it’s as good as it’s going to get right now.Edit: My friend Sara very gently informed me that it's navel not naval unless there's an ocean in my belly button...lol...I'm such a numpty!Thank you Sara :)
Some terrible things in my life have resulted in some black poetry...please forgive me while I try to work it out
Brenda, at the Sunday Whirl sent along this week's words.While I know they can be tumbled in any way, my mind is black and all I can write is black.You see my dear friends, there’s been too much lately. Too much pressure, too much heartache, too much jet-lag and now, if you can believe it, my precious mini, my birthday present, a labour of love and restoration over these last 3 years, has been stolen in the most horrible, underhanded, threat-of-violence way.Please forgive me while I get my black mood out in my little public forum.In the end, I know that my family and the people I love are healthy and love each other and that I’m a lucky girl to have wonderful friends who love and support me. And I know those are the most important things in the world.
dazed, incense, ambivalence, empties, holy, scurriesbreathing, fear, flaps, prayers, water, tenderness (Couldn't manage "flaps")The trees are dazed.They stand at the bottom of the garden weeping tears of blood. Their soft maple incense, their whispery, windy tenderness is silenced; their branches hung with tattered lace.The tears drain into the ground and mix with water causing the ground’s sorrow to rise in a billowing cloud of mist in which the breathing of the drowning sun is stilled and silenced.So are my prayers.Black birds fly to me carrying invisible messages of violence and fear. I wonder who you are who sent them and what they have to say.The cold of this evening of tattered branches and black birds holds me in its ambivalence and prevents me from stretching my hands to you.There is no tenderness in my hands.My words dissolve in the mist along with the last of the light.But whether you hear them or not, my words will creep into your mind and tend your memory of me till I am there to balance it on the tip of my finger and send it spinning into space.A pale star in orbit round your head.Empties your inhibitions, entices with what you hold holy, and scurries over your skin like a featherweight finger or the tip of a tongue. Then silently draws a knife from its velvet sheath and plunges it into your heart.
A little bit of random beautiful round here
Everyone is pretty sick of me having cameras out close to hand in every room. (Hazards of living with a photographer)I can’t help it; so many beautiful images/vignettes/light quality to capture.Just look at the morning light reaching a bunch of garden flowers on the living room side table.The last of the summer roses I think. Wouldn’t you want to preserve that image to look at it in the dead doldrums of winter?
Then there’s our little baby Isla. That peaceful sleeping cherub stage is only going to last another couple of months I think.Here she is in all her sweet pinkness in the middle of my bed.
I specifically mixed a deep lacquer red and painted the front door hallway that colour. I love the play of sunlight there, especially when it reflects off the crystal door knobs.
And finally, C decided to wear this beautiful vintage pearl collar as a necklace. Isn’t it just breathtaking against her skin?
Honestly, who can blame me?
Funny story...well, not the part about the dead goose
Yesterday, as I sat on the beach, a “no dog” area of the beach, a small b/w French bulldog ran up to the log I was sitting next to and peed on the end. I looked around to see the owner and saw a blond “Real housewife of West Van” looking woman, with four inch heels and nails probably just as long. She gave me a scowl and went back to her texting.How can women text with nails that long? She was trying to push the correct button with the pad of her finger while trying to curve her acrylic nails out of the way somehow. Ridiculous...just saying.Anyway, doggie ran off to my left and right at a very funky Canada goose carcass where he proceeded to make a complete pig of himself peeing on it, rolling in it and trying to drag it away by the neck.I watched for a while and looked back at the woman who was determined to completely ignore me, and her dog for that matter.I got up to go and walked to her and said, “Your dog is into a pretty funky goose carcass just there.”She said, “SH%#!!!”, and pushed passed me.“Gucci, Gucci, Sh%#!!!”She turned to me, “Where?”“Just there, between the logs to your left.”“Sh%#, Gucci, Gucci, no, bad dog!”At this point the doggie started to growl.Ok, I must admit to a slight smirk and a suppressed laugh.Last I saw she was trying to pick the doggie up while actually not touching it. Wonder how that went.Karma’s a bitch.Linked up to TALU
Where she goes on and on about beaches and children and red roses.
My birth certificate says I was born in Prague. Inland. Not beside the sea. Sometimes I think this must be a mistake.I feel my best at the sea. I do my best thinking at the sea.
This Friday I had lunch with all of my children. It’s very rare these days that I can get them all together apart from Christmas. Kerstin, Adam, Chloe and I drove downtown to met Jonathan on his lunch break.We walked to Gyoza King on Robson. It seemed like a good idea.At any rate, any one of the thousands of restaurants downtown would have been just fine. No one paid much attention to the food. Everyone was grateful to be together.I’ll tell you why.Sept 1st I got a 2am phone call from Kerstie. She was hysterical. Her father had just died.I can’t describe the feeling of helplessness that came over me trying to comfort my daughter across 5000 miles. The next phone call to Jonathan was even worse. Then a quick check on Chloe to see she was ok. Though not her father, her heart was breaking in sympathy, feeling the pain her brother and sister were feeling.But my children are strong, they are brave, they are resilient, they rallied. They organised that part of their family, the memorial, the funeral, and began closing down their father’s life step by step.Talking to them separately, seeing them separately something didn’t dawn on me.It wasn’t till lunch on Friday that I noticed that they both had that deer-caught-in-the-headlights haunted look in their beautiful brown eyes.
Today I went to the beach to think.I sat at the beach and did my usual thing...built a fantasy sand castle with the found objects around me.
Built and thought.I thought about my children, their father, how changed their life is, how changed their life is about to be.I thought about my feelings...you know...as their mother. I tried to come up with any way that I could take some of the pain from them. How can I protect them from it all? I can’t. They have to live thru the pain and come out the other end...eventually...in time.And, I walked on the beach.
As I walked I found red roses wrapped up in seaweed. Lying there on the rocks.I wondered who lost the roses in the sea and, I wondered why, except for the concern and love I feel for my children, I wondered why I don’t feel anything........Nothing at all.