Pondering Abstractions

The certainty of yesterday
has slipped our grasp
light deflecting truth
tossing us into the abstract

I ponder process
and outcomes,
will my mind to carry me
gliding between thermals
dissolving into vapours

Some realities too hard to bear –
dislodged, we tread the indeterminate.

(I submit these images and poem to the challenges of Lens-Artists and Ragtag Community. While we try to stay focused on the upcoming holiday celebrations, our hearts are heavy with recent loss and the news of cancer striking close to home. I am reminded that Christmas can amplify tragedy. Be extra kind to one another.)


Four days of fog, followed by a day of thunder storms, and I am stir crazy.

“Let’s go for a drive. I need to get out.”

I grab my camera and open the door, immediately accosted by a wet wind. It has turned cold. There won’t be any picture taking today.

We go for lunch, and then defeated by the weather, return home. I decide to do laundry. For those that don’t know, we are currently living in a 41-foot motor home. Our home on wheels backs onto a canal. The washer/ dryer stack is located in the bedroom at the rear. From there I have a clear view of the waterway.

On this day, I spot my buddy, the neighbourhood Great Blue, hunched in the water with a huge catfish in his beak.

“Look at this!” I call to Ric.

He joins me and suggests I grab my camera.

“I thought about that, but it’s too cold out.”

Ric pops out the window. “Who said anything about going outside?”

Dinner prep.

I capture it all on film. The proud bird with his catch. The half-flight, half-hop up the hill. The laying out and preparation of his dinner.

“How on earth is he going to eat that?”

Seems Buddy is pondering the same thing when another heron arrives on the scene. A juvenile, who noisily announces his hunger, and is easily chased off.

Eyeball to eyeball

Buddy watches to make sure the thief doesn’t return and when satisfied gets back to the task at hand, using his beak like chopsticks to secure the fish, head first.

“Get ready for it,” Ric warns.

The heron straightens his now bulging neck and we can see the fish, still wiggling, moving down.


“This is wild!” I exclaim.

“Exactly.” Ric says smartly.

Now I don’t feel so bad about having to stay home.

(Serendipitously, Ragtag Community’s prompt today is canal, so I’m linking up.)

RDP: Duck

siblingsMother Mallard and her baby ducks foraged along the shoreline of Sparrow Lake at day’s end.  As she waddled past the dock, her little ducklings fell in line, like wind-up toys trying to catch up.  All except one little fellow, who lost in his own world got left behind.

“Peep! Peep!”

He let out a high-pitched, frantic cry as anxiety set in.  Zigzagging, he scurried about, ending up on the dock, where he spotted Mom and siblings down below.

“What will he do now?” I wondered.

keepingwarmWithout a thought, he jumped down, landed awkwardly, but with Mom coming his aid, was soon righted and happily rejoined his flock.

The wind picked up, blowing in cool air, and the little ones cuddled together while Mom protectively offered shelter.

Ducks are the best!

Here’s my attempt to paint the little straggler:


(Ragtag’s daily prompt is duck.)




“Duck under the table and see what you can find,” was Father’s pat answer to the question of what was for dessert.

He was like that: quick-witted and full of comebacks.  My husband is the same, and I compound the problem by walking into it every time:

“What have you got on tomorrow?” I’ll ask, innocently enough, to which he’ll inevitably respond:

“Shorts and a T-shirt.”

The trouble with this kind of humour is that it is never obsolete – the jokes are corny and usually elicit a moan rather than a chuckle, but they are also catchy and when the kids ask:  “What are you up to?”  I can’t help myself and reply:


(These groans are brought to you by the daily prompts of obsolete (Daily Addictions), compound (Fandango), and duck (Ragtag Community).  Have a few zingers of your own?  Leave them in the comments and I’ll promise not to laugh.)

July Blues

Summer bursts with activities and plans, and I am already wondering at the folly of trying to move in the midst of it all.  I put out a group text yesterday to solicit help from our kids, and the response was as expected:

We are away that weekend.
Can we help with the pre-move prep?
Sorry, Mom.

Our youngest son has offered to dedicate a day to help with his truck, which will be great; and the others have said they could help of an evening, but we are moving outside of town, so that doesn’t make much sense.  We’ll hire help.

The other event happening this month is my 60th birthday.  I haven’t really wanted to say it aloud, or make a fuss.  It’s just another day.

“It’s an important birthday,” my husband chastises me.  “I am disappointed you haven’t heard from the kids.”

I am not.  Birthdays in July are always hit and miss.  Kids go to camp; families go on vacation.   For years, my family went away the week of my birthday.

“No worries.  I am getting a new house for my birthday! What more could I need?”

Truth is, July has always been a difficult time for me in terms of depression.   It is not   a conscious thing, but nevertheless it has taken up residence in my psyche.  It hit two days ago.  As usual, it catches me off guard.

“Where did this come from?” I wondered as the heaviness descended.  Even this morning, I felt an urge just to remain prone on my bed, lacking incentive to budge.

It wasn’t until I saw the prompts for the day that I realized the source of this discontentment:  birthday month.

It is not aging that sets me off:  in fact, sixty has a freeing ring about it.  It is a history
of disappointments and letdowns, dating back to family of origin.  I have tried to lessen the pain over the years with therapy, and yet, it lingers: a dappled bruise on my soul.  Maybe some things never heal.

“Send the kids a message that we will host a birthday celebration here,” Ric suggests.

I do.  One family is just getting back from vacation then, another out of town.  So far, one daughter can come.

“Let’s just go away,” I suggest.

And then, sometime later, another text…outside of the group chat.

“We’ve been trying to put something together Mom, as a bit of a surprise, but your messages are messing things up.”

A warmth rushes through me and I smile.  This is not the family of my childhood; these are my kids, and they care.

I had momentarily forgotten.

(Today’s prompts are as follows:  Fandango, lessen; Ragtag Community, dappled; Daily addictions, resident.  Thanks for dropping by.)





How is it that you overlook
my presence, as if
I am no more than
a blade of grass,
a ripple on the water,
our passing









You are flesh
torn from my flesh
blood coagulated,
still flowing –
hearts tied
in forever.








Rest here a while;
there is renewal
in the sun’s rays,
in the steady rhythm
of the water lapping;
in the reassurance
of friendship.



(Inspirations provided by:  Daily Addictions prompt:  indifferent;
Fandago’s: allegiance; and Ragtag Daily prompt: rejuvenate.

All photos from personal collection.)


RDP #7 -Colouring You Purple

I am colouring you purple,
for the sacredness of your being,
for the majesty of your soul.

I am colouring you purple,
for the joy that you spread –
for the laughter that we share.

I am colouring you purple
for that is the hue that best expresses
the infinite capacity of my love for you.

(Written for Ragtag’s Community Daily Prompt #7 – Purple)