Author: leaving traces

Venetian blinds.

Blind Americans up budgets for “Venetian”.

Do they know that Venetian is Italian for sinking tourist town?

Do they know Venetian is Italian for cheap plastic factory-made – barely built to last the trip in the truck with the tape on the top to the purchasers doorstep.

Do they know about Haagen Daas?

French bull dogs and all of the other foreign and exotic and exquisite lies we sell to them at a mark up.

Rexall was out of deodorant today.

Perspective – climate change – hot in Canada “for once”.

Perspective – Canadians care about not-stinking and/or not perspiring.

Perspective – this would never happen in France. Deodorant has been collecting dust on shelves since the 1960’s.

Travel – touring the best of other cultures. Disney fuckation. Donald Duck the fuck face – haha… nice.

Your brain melts in the sun like an ice cream cone over Jimmy’s fingers.

Did Jimmy ever grow up? Not many kid-grown-adult Jimmy’s.

There are a lot of big opinions with no where to go – except out on social media, in comments sections…

ugh… don’t drag me into the chaos and idiocy – pivot towards healing, authenticity, light.

Sweat on skin is felt but doesn’t drip. This is me, in this moment – the warm, damp feeling of a natural aliveness – produced only as a subtle sensation – not enough to force movement.

Sigh or whinny – low pitched horses.

High peaks of mountains in the Swiss Alps – sturdy peaks of whipped cream, meringue and other baking delights.

To roar with tears in ones eyes.

Lions, lioness – lion-ness.

Sturdy, swift – salted fur crunchy from sweat, Subsaharan sun and blood from the day’s meal.

Sureness.

Sure of self.

Self-assuredness. Self-assuredness.

Sweetgrass.

Warm sage breaths from dirt hills. Crisp arbutus leaves crunch underfoot.

Lay the blanket, and wait.

In the shade. Shade of the tree. Unknowingly toss a nectarine pit on top of a bunny hidden in plain sight.

In the straw grasses, combined with blackberry brambles.

I like the size and length of both my legs and feet – power calves as my dad used to call them – he probably still calls them that, “Right, Dad?” – (looks up) “Ya.” haha

My sister has my dad’s ashes – we found a cookie jar in his place when he passed – and thought he would get a kick out of being cremated and “stored” in a cookie jar… the thing is though… that he was a pretty big dude… 6’3″ at his prime, before he started shrinking and about 250 lbs… so let’s just say we couldn’t fit all of the cookies in the cookie jar… and we were also cheap – like him – so he’s half-cookie half-cardboard box stowaway…lol!

Sorry Dad!

I used to really believe in the energy or essence (I guess) of his soul or spirit being so tied to the ashes… but I don’t necessarily think like that anymore… with the energy work I’ve done and the intuitives I’ve seen – I know he’s pretty attached to me and can be called in when I really need him – or he’ll come through my writing in a clunky divine masculine form to hold steady when the trauma drama whirls its way through the females still living on Earth.

My sister and I don’t really talk anymore…

Raised by a river. Or a field of strawberries.

Raised by the sun, wind, moon and stars.

Raised by wolves.

Raised by broken people with no communication skills and a low EQ.

Raised by ourselves.

The Nature/Nurture phenomenon.

Raspberries rearing children.

Raised by religion.

Rivers of baptisms.

Do staunch christians need so much to belong or be ‘right’ that they lose sight of common sense.

My cousin has pretty much ex-communicated our side of the family.

She converted to christianity for herself or for her relationship – to ‘save herself’ from a troubled childhood, criminal adolescence and living in H.A. housing – “Hell’s Angels” she has to tell me.

My mom told me on the phone today that the relationship is essentially dead – not receiving a response to an email asking questions about why the big cut.

Her kids – my nieces and nephew – are the ones who really miss out – no goofy aunties dancing around the kitchen with them, building forts, taking them out for too many treats before bedtime.

My mom did some google research and saw the “anti-vax” and pro “freedom convoy” posts on her twitter. I had already joked that she, her husband and kids would be waving flags on the side of the road when the truckers drove through.

Patterns are jumping off their surfaces. Woven mats, a recycled leather scrap ‘poof’. A ‘straw’ hat from London Drugs. The artistry of synthetic materials. Small tight weaves, larger, looser stitches.

Moments of calm when my eyes would blink and I believe I could feel some kind of synapse sparking on or off or flickering between the right and left sides of my brain. The sharp and rugged landscape of my left hand, drawn by my right hand. It has me thinking of empathy, tolerance and acceptance. I heard a scholar say we need more empathy for those who aren’t like us – and less of “Oh! How awful – I have kids and they have kids – therefore now and only now can I understand/empathize with what they are going through.” Tolerance is on a sliding scale – like how I tolerate the smoke smell from my neighbours filtering/no intruding into our open door and windows.

I guess tolerating it means that I make some modifications to my environment rather than yelling or swearing or glaring around at them.

Acceptance – I tried to explain to a friend once that acceptance is an all or nothing game – you are either accepting of something or you are not. Whereas tolerance can be mild, mediocre, or severe.

So…the pandemic – government, control, division – family falling away…

How to capture the movement of a river through a stone. Like a holographic playing card as you shift it in your hand. Looking into Labradorite might reveal secrets and insights on time travel – for gazing into this rock you gaze through time.

Nebulas and cosmic stardust – Nasa has been photographing and sharing some incredible imagery of galaxies beyond galaxies that we as humans don’t believe we’ve ever been able to see before.

Launching an Elon Musk popsicle into space to be obliterated and fall back down to Earth as space trash transformed to confetti and sparkles.

Hmm… I’m curious about writing as though weeding a garden – it’s been shared with me that in major vibrational shifts there will be old patterns of grief and insecurities that well up to try to keep you in your old patterns – so the shift is hard, but oh so worth it.

So if my psyche is a garden and the plants are bearing fruit, their leaves basking in the sun – absorbing healing generative energy… then what are my weeds – the weeds in a physical garden usually take root within the roots and shoots of the healthy, prosperous plant – trying to drink it’s water, breathe it’s air, absorb it’s nutrients – essentially suffocate the thriving plant so that the weed can thrive – I don’t believe my psychic weeds are that big as I’ve done some big, hard work – however, I definitely have some smaller weeds popping their heads up, spreading their seeds in the back corners and crevices of my cosmic garden.

So first, awareness – see the weed – name the weed – hmm… mother wound… the burden carried since childhood to make her happy – Bye Bitch! You big thistle type prickle – sturdy son-of-a-B… that one will take some deliberate triangulation – vinegar-water sprayed daily as a ritualistic cleansing until the bows droop and head hangs before ripping up – I mean gently axing at the roots with my spade.

She will learn, she says.

Under the boot, she says.

The other weeds are things attached to worth, connection, attachment, rejection and abandonment.

Show myself more love, he says.

You’re an amazing person, he says.

You’ve overcome so much childhood trauma, he says.

You are like your grandmother, he says – you inherited her strength and her temper.

She wish she could have spent more time with you, he says.

Go to the water to connect to source and Creator, he says.

Season reason people-pleasin’.

Not for a lifetime though – as I have some awareness of that now.

Still notice my tendency toward over-giving, followed by some prickly resentment and/or grief of abandonment and rejection.

Lifetime. My friend Jenny. You’ve heard of her – our moms were pregnant at the same time so we were “wombmates” – and still are.

She lives in Washington and we rarely talk – but when we do it is love.

She is raising a beautiful boy with big blue eyes, a million questions and fashionable clothes – he is his mamma’s boy.

Reason – is this something us humans can answer in our lifetimes – maybe… maybe every seven or eight years you notice some big moods, followed by big shifts – followed by “hmm… ahhh… or ah ha!”

Thanking traumatic events doesn’t feel right to me though – or even thanking or befriending your enemies – it gives them too much credit – I did notice looking at old photos of these toxic people now that they look grey and ill and like Lizard People is the only way I can describe them.

I’d like to be grateful to all of the supports and love and compassion and validation from those around me who stood in my corner to work through those traumatic times – from the crystals and stones – to the rivers and creeks – to dampened cedar bows, to my partner, my kid, my kid, my kid (ok – missing my kid) – to Osoyoos and Whistler – this home – my therapists – the coffee shops – strangers’ kindness – to the aesthetician who said I have the face of an angel – to Erin – the intuitive for shedding light and holding the space in her home like a warm hug – to my acupuncture treatments, massage therapy, reiki – to New Earth Mystery School and this group, to Janelle and the writers – to witches in books and in real life – to powerful bitches on social media – to bare bellied mama bears – to lacrosse coaches and lacrosse moms, to my mom – sort of, sometimes, in small doses – in moderation – cue metaphor of sugar to poison…

to the birds, butterflies and blue skies – to new friends, acquaintances and places –

to rainstorms and my dog – to all of these things that helped put Humpty Dumpty back together again – even to the dirty dishes in the sink and grimy floors coated in dog fur – those chores were things I could do, even in the darkest times – and say – ‘Hey – I’m here. Completing a small task – with my hands and making a difference.’

Butterfly jetpack. K-Pop princesses. Princess Mononoki (or close) -unicorns and fluff and floaty figments of imagination – strawberry vanilla swirls cooling down, through and around – neon lights not casting shadows – a bug has joined me on my page – it looks like it might have been the smallest dinosaur – it has pinchers on it’s face and looks bitey.

However, I blew on it and it armadillo’d – but not enough for my powerful windpipes.

Heart-shaped hands. My hands are so boney and palms so large that I couldn’t form a suction – I guess no small creature is safe underwater cupped in my hands.

Cupped hands – an offering. Nick Offerman. Parks & Rec. Pawnee. Haha… good people in polyester pant suits.

Consistency for creativity – yes – I definitely need to do this – similar to D – I have been drawn to clusters of leaves – I drew a very quick leaf the other day and it was fun. I feel like the less time you spend on trying to accurately draw a leaf – the more leafy it looks.

leaf lettuce – red and green – sharp, crisp salads in summer – salads in wraps – fresh bites of tastiness…okay, where is the story…

My partner talks about his Naanii’s raspberry garden a lot…so I bought a raspberry plant last year – it has grown up about two-feet tall and has just started producing berries – I LOVE raspberries – we live in a townhouse and I check on my plant a few times a day to make sure my neighbours don’t sneak them through the gap in the “privacy glass” separating our balconies.

It’s kind of funny – his name is Oscar and he’s always scowling around and smoking weed – so smells like trash, and her name is Joy and I always hear her giggling – plus she has jumpy curly hair that looks like it gets up to good mischief.

Oh mischief – at what age did I stop getting up to mischief – like REAL, GOOD, ADRENALINE-pumping mischief.

Hmm… in Toronto we would hop the fence and break into outdoor pools after midnight for a quick cool down… or did I ever even do that? We talked about doing that a lot and I had swarms of circles of acquaintances and their friends who would tell the mischievous stories of those nights… shit! Did I just hear those stories so often that I inserted myself as a mischief bystander – cutting my leg on the fence… rolling an ankle and playing it cool as to not ruin the fun… dipping and splashing and cooling off… hearing a security guard or rent-a-cop and making a quick dash for the towel, flip flops and swiftly clambering onto our bikes.

Riding bikes passed corrugated backyard fences. I wonder if their heads sit high enough on their bikes to see the splotchy grass and goose-necked roses.

Yellow and white heads weighed heavily down by their bulky beauty. Or maybe they are too tired of staring at the sun all day and needed to bow down to the Earth – taking a break from Sun worshipping to face dirt.

Steel fences and secret rose gardens.

Cyclists don’t wear helmets on dirt roads.

What was the first one again? Oh ya – an urban streetscape facing a back alley or intersection – there was a guy who entered the bottom of the frame with an ice cream or cell phone.

Don’t shoot. My mistake. I’m not sure why my writing is leading me here – but it is recalling current gun violence and hatred and deep, entrenched, and purposefully actioned systemic racism.

A man was shot 60 times by police for a traffic stop – excuse me, a Black man was shot 60 times by police for a traffic stop –

and the other day as I doom-scrolled through Instagram I saw a white woman dancing on her street mocking two cop cars as they left – don’t quote me on this but it was something to do with a cardboard sign she painted about her clit. Her neighbour had called the cops on her, but they could “do nothing” because of “free speech” or something.

She is free-ish in the States because she is white. However – the state has her uterus… or they try…