Hallowe'en postscript

Winspear stage and organ, October 2009


The Davis Concert Organ (the ultimate ax), October 2009


Ooooo, November 2009


Ahhhh, November 2009


The concert was grand. It really was., November 2009


Finally, the point, November 2009


Evil candy pusher, November 2009

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Scary season

A woman I work with spent the last week or so at home. She was too sick too work. Her sons were home too. Fever, vomiting, sprained intercostal muscles from too much coughing. Confirmed H1N1.

Friends we were to spend Hallowe'en with tomorrow just called to cancel. Sore throat, fever, the scent of bile in stale furnace air. Doctor says H1N1.

My boy is looking pale and is moving a lot slower than usual tonight. It could be Friday fatigue. Or maybe not. I don't want to think about it.

On the up side, we may not have to stand in line for 5+ hours to get immunized. All those people, the cold, bony fingers of the north wind tugging at our coats and hats. . . . I think it's safer to stay home. Lock the doors. Let the machine pick up the phone. Wrap ourselves in flannel cocoons. Drink warm apple cider. And watch anything but the news.

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Some scary photos from school yesterday:


It's not that funny, October 2009


Pale skin, thin light, October 2009


Patience, confidence, October 2009


Safe behind the mask, October 2009


Macaroni bones, October 2009


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Prairie Saturday nap

Sparkle, August 2009


Red stick, September 2009

Good day for doing nothing. Read, nap, eat, and listen to music. Here's a video of NQ Arbuckle from a fantastic album called XOK.



Now, about that nap.

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Buddha of the oil tanks

My distractions are powerful and sometimes invisible. Last night I woke up and found myself sitting in front of the T.V. with a weighty glass of scotch in my hand. The glass was moist on the outside from condensation and the whisky was still evaporating on my tongue. I tasted vanilla, honey, and something like humid forest. I remembered sitting down on the couch and wrapping myself in a fleece blanket after the boys had gone up to bed. The usual plan on Saturday night is to catch up on a week's worth of Tivo and get lost in some comedy, fantasy, and drama. But I didn't remember pouring myself the whisky. It just appeared.

How is it that I'm so blind to so many of my actions? Sometimes I feel like Pavlov's dog, salivating my way from one sleep to another. What AM I doing all day long when I've checked my awareness at the door? How much of this do I need and what could I let go of? (I don't think anyone could function as if every moment was a new one. Somehow that seems pathological.)

The only time I notice ME noticing the world (does that make sense?) is when I sit to meditate and occasionally when I suddenly "come to" during my waking day.

There's a theory that distractions are a way to avoid discomfort. If we don't distract ourselves with an endless list of pleasures, chores, and fantasies, then we will come face to face with our demons. (I'd rather keep those bad boys locked away in the cellar, thank you very much.) But I listened to a wise man this morning. He convincingly argued that if we let go of our distractions (one at-a-time, as they arise), what we will find isn't demons and tortures, but instead happiness. When we stop distracting ourselves ALL THE TIME, we can pay attention to the hindrances we all share. The hindrances we use to cover up our crystal clear, perfect minds. Happiness is the absence of hindrances.

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Below are photos of junk oil tanks from an evening stroll in Eldorado last month. These kinds of things are ubiquitous on the Alberta landscape. In fact, they are so common that I don't pay attention to them. (There's the connection between the photos and the text! Isn't metaphor grand?) I never wondered where the old ones went until I stumbled on these ones slowly rusting at the edge of a hay field.

We still haven't sold our home in Lohwinkel, so I continue my multi-hour commutes and days away from my family. I'm more content with this long transition than I was in September. There's really no rush now that school's started. In fact, I might even be better to wait. Better for the boys anyway.


The eyes of the beast, September 2009


Orange on orange, September 2009


The handle of a very large mug, September 2009


Up, September 2009


Me inside, September 2009


Me in between, September 2009


Find the dragofly, September 2009


Black residue, September 2009


Lets take a look on top, September 2009


Dangle, September 2009


Inside the black, September 2009


Outer-space drive-in, September 2009


Buddha of the oil tanks, September 2009

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Norbert's toenails

I watched Norbert edge his way out of bed. I’m not so good at transfers, but I thought I could at least help by getting him up to the edge of his bed. My occupational therapist partner would be there in a few minutes to help move him from the bed to the wheelchair.

He flipped off the malnourished hospital blanket with the back of his wrist, but the sheet snagged on his feet and stuck there as the sour, sweet smell of morning gas-passing escaped from under the covers. Norbert was much too old to be embarrassed. Many delusions like pretending our farts don’t stink have to be abandoned when you check in to acute care.

Realizing that he wasn’t down far enough in the bed, the guard rail with the bed control buttons was in the way, he propped himself up on his elbows. It was like he was lifting a cement sidewalk block into the back of a pickup. Once he had the leverage, he shifted his rear down the bed. His diaper had a plastic cover, but it still didn't slide easily along the rug burn sheets.

After three one-inch bum slides, he was far enough down. He took hold of the sheet and tried to yank it off his feet. Still snagged, he yanked and yanked until he was finally able to free his trapped feet and hoist himself to vertical on the edge of the bed.

“My arms are just cotton-pickin’ useless these days,” he said.

I only nodded. My eyes were simultaneously compelled and revolted by his newly revealed feet. Each toe was capped with a half-inch nail. They were yellow, the colour of nicotine stains on the Marlborough man's fingers, and they curved to dangerous points like mini daggers. They looked like they could shred those bleached white sheets, never mind harmlessly hook them. Images of freak show wannabes like the Californian grandmother with seven-inch toenails who likes the attention she gets when she takes a stroll in Compton (what kind of shoes could she possibly wear?) or the Indian in Poona who’s left hand is disfigured by four-foot long nails that twist and curl as if they were blackened branches on an irradiated apple tree.

But this was just Norbert Walker. He wasn’t trying to be famous. He was just trying to get out of bed so that he could be wheeled down to radiology for a video x-ray of his disordered swallowing. He was deaf as an antique telephone, but he had the voice of an auctioneer or an evangelical radio preacher. Powerful, chesty, and driven by a melodic intonation.

I got a good look at his pale pink head fuzzy with post-comb hair as I yelled in his ear. “Can you get to the wheelchair?”

“Well, I can get in alright, you see. But gettin’ out might be a whole ‘nother story.”

Then before I could do anything to help, he slid off the edge of the bed and swiveled into the chair. It was more of a fall than a transfer and I immediately regretted not waiting for help to move him. Luckily the chair’s brakes were on and he landed squarely on the seat,

“Can you still wear shoes?” I asked, wanting to keep the process moving so that nothing bad would have time to happen.

“Yes. Yes. I do believe I can.” He gestured with gnarled fingers to his jaunty deck shoes, stashed under a nearby chair.

Later when I was charting, I mentioned to the ward nurse that his toenails were pretty long.

“I know,” she said. “Dr. Mohamed, the podiatrist, is coming in two weeks.”

She looked at me filling in my part of the conversation and responded before I my wheels had a chance to turn. “Nurses don’t do nails.”

A call bell sounded before I had a chance to raise my eyebrows.

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Unworried flowers and an unlost cat

Soak it up, September 2009


Today is good enough, September 2009


When shadows approach, September 2009


Wounds will heal (but they leave scars), September 2009


You're never really lost, September 2009

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When it comes, I feel fear

The green days of warmth and light have left me. Dark northern cold, like the airless space between galaxies, smothers me and draws out my flame. A depression that won't go away. I pretend I don't notice. It's how I cope.

When I can't ignore any longer, I open my eyes to the black. I shudder and a vital vibration flees taking a bit of my soul with it. I reach for it, grasping at nothing.

I'm told that I have a lot of soul to go around and that the charcoal skies will pass. I must have faith.

How do I stoke the fire of faith? What will fuel it's flames?


Watching it go, September 2009


Darkness has a sure foot, September 2009


Weak warning, September 2009


One last touch, farewell, September 2009

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Take a walk with us

These photos are from a recent afternoon at the Cooking Lake-Blackfoot Recreation Area. Come along with us.


Paddle softly, September 2009


Shameless savages, September 2009


This way to "away," September 2009


Mother & son, September 2009


Whiskers, September 2009


Rise above the mud, September 2009


Evidence of moose, September 2009


The long shot, September 2009


Om, September 2009


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Still waiting to move

Who wouldn't want to buy this house? I love it. It's roomy enough for my boys to run laps and fill it to the cedar with squeals of laughter. The rain bounces harmlessly off the metal roof and the fireplace chases away malevolent chills. The kitchen fills the air with scents like rosemary, fresh autumn apple pie, and soul-stirring coffee. There is room for everything: toys, people, passions, books, exercise, visiting, and peace. Who wouldn't want to buy this house?


Recreating warmly, August 2009


Peace upon the pillow, August 2009


Eat, enjoy, stay, August 2009


Think, study, create, August 2009


You can even get a hair-cut, August 2009


Kids too noisy? Send 'em downstairs, August 2009

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Five Remembrances

I cannot escape becoming ill, September 2009


I cannot escape growing old, September 2009


I cannot escape death, September 2009


I must parted from all that is dear and beloved to me, September 2009


I cannot escape the consequences of my actions, September 2009

These are the five remembrances. Depressing? I don't think so. We have choice. We can decide what we do with this knowledge (that we all share). Do we avoid it? Do we reject it? Do we embrace it?

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