I Wish I Had My Crayons





The View From Our Front Porch

Years ago, my young niece stood transfixed at the screen door of our farm house, gazing out at the sun which was setting in the west; meanwhile, her mother was upstairs, calling for her to come and have her evening bath.

Lost in the moment and oblivious to something as mundane as a mere bath, my niece exclaimed aloud in voice filled with yearning and awe, “Oh, I wish I had my crayons!”  In that moment, I was swept along with her to a magical place filled with beauty and wonder.



An Artist At Work

Reflecting back on that episode, I recognize that the reason why we were able to bear witness to such beauty was that her attention was there in the moment. She wasn’t focused on the routine tasks that needed to get done before bedtime; she wasn’t worrying about getting into the right university program or climbing up the corporate ladder; she wasn’t fretting about whether she’d have enough money to retire. She was fully present in the moment; in turn, her intense focus drew my attention and together, we immersed ourselves in its magnificent glow.

As Susan Slotnick points out in the CBC article about prisoners and dance, attention is “the heart of love.”

In that moment, my niece’s heart was open to the glorious scene before her eyes. She wasn’t angry at her brother; hurt by some careless comment of a co-worker; bitter about missing out on a promotion; resigned to the fact that life had bestowed all its goodies on others, but had somehow passed her by. Instead, she was utterly and completely in the present gazing out at a beautiful sunset with an open heart and on some level, she recognized that these kinds of moments are fleeting, transient, fluid; being human, she wanted to capture its beauty with the power of her crayons and in doing so, transcend the temporal limits of this world.

The Blogger As A Young Artist

In her open heart, I heard a poignant echo of my own childhood and was transported back to that earlier time.

There has been a lot of talk recently about the disappearance of the bees and Monarch butterflies in Southwestern Ontario.  Monarch butterflies were fixtures in my childhood; something that we took for granted. Milkweed was so plentiful that my mother once offered us a penny a pod to pick them; in a short while, we had picked so many that she had to put a stop to the enterprise, lest we bankrupt her piggy bank.

Ask anyone who was a rural child of my generation living in this area during the summer and chances are they poked holes into the metal lid of a glass jar, filled it with milkweed and put a caterpillar inside; eventually, it would spin its cocoon and however much we might want to keep it forever inside our glass cage, we knew that we had to release it out into the world in order for it to complete its transformation into a beautiful Monarch butterfly.

I would argue that this practice of the jar-and-caterpillar was a type of meditation—a way to focus our attention on and instill an appreciation for the wonders of the natural world.

Thanks to our hyper-focus on efficiency in farming, the milkweed is almost gone from our area now and so it would seem the monarch butterflies. My question is: why didn’t we notice? When something so majestic and beautiful disappears in front of our eyes, why isn’t there a huge hue and cry—the kind of uproar we’d see in Canada if a Stanley Cup hockey final were pre-empted on television? Are we so distracted by the demands of the daily grind—are we so removed from the natural world—that we no longer have the ability to see what is happening in front of us—to mourn its destruction and the part that we, as a human race, have played in it?

This week at the high school library where I work, we handed out photo ID cards to our students; invariably, when students were given their card, they’d take a quick glance at it and then heave a collective groan, “That is so baaaaaad. I look soooooo ugly in that picture.”  

After hearing a few of these self-denigrating comments, I began saying as I handed out the cards, “I just want you to know that you’re beautiful. When you’re my age and you look back at this card and at this time in your life, you’ll realize this.” Invariably, they’d laugh, but hopefully, the thought will stay with them, especially as they make their way out into the world.

Just like the caterpillar in my jar, youth has its own unique beauty, but I would argue that so does each stage of life. I’m sure an elderly person would look at my middle-aged self and ask, “Can you walk without pain or fear of falling? Do you still drive? Are you able to live in your own home without assistance?” and point out that these years are precious and to be savoured. Hopefully, when I’m old, I will be grateful to have lived a full life—appreciate the beauty in having accumulated a degree of wisdom, a heart filled with memories and once again, have the time to gaze upon the wonders of the world around me without sneaking glances at my watch. If my eyesight, strength and/or memory fail me, I would like to think that, on some level, these things will still give me solace.

That is the lesson of the monarch and the sunset, I think. Surely, life is about change and transformation; inherent in that is loss—not the mindless destruction of a habitat and species but rather, of each phase of life. In order to move on to the next stage, we must shed our cocoons, let go of the day’s light, exchange our youth for experience and wisdom and ultimately, give up life itself.

I hope that wherever you are on the path, you will notice, appreciate and protect the fragile splendour of life around you and although I don't have my crayons handy, please know that this article is my way of telling you—and the world—just how beautiful you are.

Prisoners Discover the Healing Power of Dance

Since writing last week's article about dancing with adversity, I read this CBC news item about prisoners discovering the healing power of dance and thought I'd post it here. Whether you're facing adversity in your own life or wondering whether one person can make a positive difference, the message in this story is truly inspirational!

Dancing With Adversity

I have a confession to make. Last week, when I was picking up four hours’ worth of tree limbs that had crashed down in our yard during the storm, I found myself lapsing into “poor me” mode—you know that feeling where you wallow in self-pity and wonder “why me, Lord?”  As that dark mood fell upon me, it occurred to me that perhaps the H in “Hm…” stood for Hypocrite.

In earlier postings, I’d written about how important it was to celebrate each day and to be grateful for the many blessings in our lives. If that were true, why was I unable to walk the talk? Why was there this great, gaping distance between what I professed to believe and what I experienced in that moment? It’s easy to believe in the sun when it is shining right there in front of our eyes; not so much when it slips behind a cloud. In those moments, positive affirmations seem like mere platitudes.

When I was a child and feeling sorry for myself, my mother would encourage me to embark on a mental exercise where I went up-and-down our road in my mind, paused at each house and peered in like the proverbial fly on the wall. She suggested that if I stopped and thought about what the family in that house had experienced in their lives and then, reflected back on my own life, I would see that sooner or later, adversity knocks on everyone’s door: financial difficulties; illnesses and accidents; marital disputes; the loss of loved ones; the one thing that is certain in life is that eventually, trouble will find us. What shapes our experience is not what happens to us so much as how we react to it.

When it comes to thinking on the bright side, I would suggest that it’s not simply a case of making up one’s mind to be positive, but rather a long process of practice. Certainly, it is important to become conscious of any negative thinking traps in which we might be ensnared. A degree of self-awareness and self-honesty is crucial. Once one is aware of the need for change and desires it sincerely, it isn’t a case of clicking one’s ruby heels and magically finding ourselves transported home to the bright side, but rather, of putting one determined foot in front of the other and inching one’s way towards positive change.

I stumbled across this stoic, one-foot-in-front-of-the-other, philosophy when I walked the Camino in 2005. I’m sure I’ll write more about this Spanish pilgrimage/adventure and what I learned from it in future postings, but today, I would like to talk about a taxi cab moment when I was riding from Biarritz, France to nearby Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port where I was scheduled to begin my trek. The French driver pointed out the car window towards the Pyrenees Mountains and indicated that this would be where I’d be walking—that I would have to hike up-and-over them on my first day. 

I took one look at the towering mountain range before me and thought, “What in the world was I thinking?! What possessed me to assume that I—who got her one-and-only D in the subject of Physical Education during her public school career—could walk the Camino?!" A feeling of dread settled over me.  

Sure enough, when I set out early the next morning, I encountered a steep, uphill path out of town. In that moment, it would have been tempting to turn back—to run back to the B&B where I had been staying and pull the bedcovers up over my head for a few weeks; instead, I set out on the path putting one-booted-foot-in-front-of-the-other and in doing so, moved forward, albeit slowly, towards my destination—Santiago—which beckoned 480 miles to the west. 

By doing so, I not only made it up-and-over that first mountain range, but walked over 250 miles across varied, often difficult, terrain before wrenching my ankle and having to call it a day. Although I did not walk the entire Camino—and yes, my bucket list includes a return trip to finish what I started—the lessons which I learned along the way have stayed with me.  

First and foremost is how far you can go simply by putting one foot in front of the other. Sometimes, when facing adversity and finding ourselves paralyzed by it, it’s useful to remember how important it is to move forward towards the hope of a better day—to simply keep moving. 

And just as the Camino has yellow arrows to point pilgrims in the right direction towards their ultimate destination, positive words can encourage us along the way. In that sense, they’re not mere platitudes, but rather, guideposts that prevent us from losing our way.

 


Similarly, there is much to be said for following in the inspirational footsteps of others. A few weeks ago, I read a CBC news item about Tiffany Staropoli who was diagnosed with stage four colon cancer back in May and is now determined to dance her way through it. 

When I saw this uplifting video whose soundtrack features Great Big Sea’s When I’m Up I Can’t Get Down, I thought about the dancer Martha Graham and her famous quote about how there is a “life force” that is translated through us into action—how there is only one of us in all of time and therefore, this expression is unique. She went on to explain that if we blocked it, “it will be lost. The world will not have it” and it’s not for us to judge how good it is or to compare it to others.  

In other words, I need to stop thinking of myself as a hypocrite for not getting it perfectly right in that moment when I was picking up sticks. It was a huge step forward on my path to simply recognize that I was mentally whining. 

What I didn’t realize until I looked it up on the Internet was that Martha Graham also talked about how we learn by practice. According to Graham, to practice “means to perform, in the face of all obstacles some act of vision, of faith, of desire. Practice is a means of inviting the perfection desired.” 

I don’t know about you, but instead of whining and wallowing in self-pity the next time adversity knocks at my door, I’m going to try and remember the words of Martha Graham and the amazing, courageous spirit of Tiffany Staropoli–to invite adversity in with wide-open, welcoming arms and ask, “Shall we have this dance?” 

And if I falter and step on its toes, I’ll hang onto the hope that I will have a long lifetime in which to get it right. 

Hey, I'm Alive!

A wild storm blew through here on Wednesday night. The power went out around 7:10 and stayed out for almost thirty hours.  At one point, the wind started to scream a high-pitched wail and a white wall of water slammed into the west side of the house. I was glad that I had cleaned out the “tornado closet” under the stairs. We don’t have a basement in our old house, but as a survivor of the Reece's Corners tornado in 1983, I know how important it is to have a designated emergency space in which to take shelter during a storm.

Damage From a Storm a Few Years Ago

Back then, I was working in the plaza at Reece’s Corners. As in the case of this week’s storm, the hydro went out first; then, the next thing we knew, white water, sticks and other debris were swirling around in circles; it felt as if we were trapped inside a washing machine. Afterwards, people talked about how the wind roared like a freight train passing through. Initially, I had no memory of this—trauma has a way of cushioning us in this fashion—but eventually, I was able to recall putting my hands over my ears to block out that horrible, horrible sound. I also remember running back behind a partition and shouting, "Get back! Get back!" to my co-workers who stood, as if mesmerized, with their noses pressed against the glass. Instinctively, I knew that the glass could shatter at any moment. 

When it was over, we ventured outside and into a scene from an apocalyptic movie. A tree at the corner of our building was uprooted; the car next to mine was turned over on its roof; my car had the windows and mirrors sucked out of it—for years, I would find fragments of glass in it—and it looked as if someone had taken a chisel to the paint. Hundreds of little round holes had been chipped into its body work.

Then suddenly, it hit me that my aunt lived nearby and would have been home at the time. We raced down there and were shocked by the sight before our eyes: that big, bad wolf of a wind had blown her house down. Tentatively, we ventured into the rubble. To this day, I shudder at the memory—desperately wanting to find her, but also terrified that when we did, she might be dead. I couldn’t fathom how she could have survived such mass destruction.  Quickly, it became evident that it was too dangerous to walk through what remained of the house so reluctantly, we gave up the search and shortly thereafter, were grateful to learn that she had escaped unharmed—that she had already been rescued by someone driving by and taken to a safe place down the road.

I cut my finger on a bit of glass that day. It is just a small—almost invisible—scar now, but it was a big blow, just the same. Is it any wonder why I clear out the closet at the first sign of a storm?! 

This week’s storm wasn’t of that magnitude, but it did get me thinking about a couple of things. First of all, gratitude. As the Joni Mitchell song goes, "You don't know what you've got 'til it's gone." After twenty-four hours of tepid drinks, that first cold sip of water tastes divine. Also, there is much for which we can be grateful: no one was hurt or killed; the house was still standing; although the yard was filled with limbs, no trees came down. I could go on, but you get the idea. It shouldn't take a major storm to remind us of the many blessings in our lives.

This week's episode with the storm brought back memories of the book Hey, I’m Alive! which I read around the age of nine. When I was in library school, a professor asked us to talk about the book that had most influenced us in childhood. Everyone else in the class cited beloved childhood classics such as The Secret Garden, but for me, it was this obscure, out-of-print work of non-fiction by Helen Klaben that had captured my imagination as a child.  Only later did I learn that books with a survival theme are a legitimate genre of childhood literature. Recently, in one of his blog postings, Matthew Ruttan asked what books we’d choose if we were stranded on a desert island. Without a doubt, this book would be on my list.

Basically, it’s the true story of a college girl Helen Klaben and a pilot named Ralph Flores whose plane crashed along the Yukon-British Columbia border back in 1963 and how they survived forty-nine days in the frozen wilderness. They only had a few snacks and no emergency supplies on board; quickly, they ran out of food. The thing that I remember most about that book is how they made soup out of toothpaste and melted snow. As a child, I thought that was rather ingenious on their part; also, a sign of just how desperate their circumstances were. Even at nine, I knew that toothpaste soup wasn't exactly high on anyone's list of culinary delights. 

Ever since then, if I am having a hard time getting to sleep, I will think about what I would need to survive a similar disaster. It’s a great cure for insomnia; invariably, I fall asleep before my survival hut is completely furnished.  As an adult, I have to admit that sometimes, I cheat and add a bottle of wine and bag of potato chips to my survival list just to make the experience more tolerable.

A few years ago, my sister tracked down a used copy of Hey, I’m Alive! for me. Re-reading it, I discovered that the heroine’s name was Helen; I’d forgotten that. Perhaps that is one of the reasons why it resonated with me. There is also a theological tone to the book that went completely over my head as a child. Helen was Jewish; the pilot was a recent convert to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Early in the book, he tells her that the plane crashed because she rejected Jesus Christ.  

That eyebrow-raising comment is worthy of another blog posting, but today, I would like to focus on the theme of survival. This week’s storm made me think about that subject and whether we’d be prepared if a major disaster struck—for instance, if the power grid went down for weeks. Out here in the country, our water well is powered by an electric pump; if the power goes out, we don’t have any water. Luckily, we had filled jugs of water when we heard the storm warnings this week; later, I went out and bought a case of bottled water, but if a major disaster struck would we be able to do that?  

Are you prepared for such a disaster? Have you taken steps to ensure that you are? I’m not suggesting that you build a bunker in your backyard, but  it might be an idea for all of us to do a little research on the subject and set aside a few basics, just in case.  

At the end of her tale, Helen Klaben looks back on her harrowing experience and what she learned from it; her final words are an amazing gift: “ I have a message for the world after all. The message is love.” 

Fifty years later, I would like to reply, “Message received, Helen.”  Her words still seem relevant. In fact, as we reflect on what we need to survive, I would suggest that we would do well to put that at the top of all our lists.

Aunt Myrtle and the Red Hats

I’ve been thinking a lot about red hats this week so I was taken aback to read a Petrolia Topic article about a local woman named Bertha-Rose Park who is joining a red-hatted flash mob at the Toronto Film Festival.

The synchronicity was not lost on me. You see, my Aunt Myrtle impressed the importance of red hats upon me long before a society had formed around them. Recently, I attended her memorial service and that got me thinking about our mutual encounter with the infamous red hats.

Rather than opt for a traditional service in a church or funeral home after her death this past winter, her family honoured her wishes by holding it in her backyard during the summer, across the lane from the beloved greenhouse business which she had founded. It featured an informal picnic meal followed by a brief, but poignant, eulogy and the committal of her ashes at the base of a newly planted tree. Afterwards, her son invited each generation, starting with her great-grandchildren, to come up and plant a flower in her memory.

As I watched each group of people place their plant carefully in the ground and pack the earth around it with such reverence, I realized that it was a very fitting tribute to a woman who  had spent her years on this earth nurturing others—cultivating the relationships and world around her. In addition to raising her own family, she was a foster mother to over one hundred children, including a mentally-challenged girl whom she eventually adopted and cherished as her own child, and as her obituary pointed out, any young girl or boy who came to her door. Despite having suffered from a life-threatening heart condition since she was a child, or perhaps because of it, Aunt Myrtle had a keen appreciation of and passion for life; she embraced each day to the fullest and approached those days with a sense of joy and celebration. In that regard, she had a lot in common with those red-hatted women that you see in the tearooms.

Aunt Myrtle As A Young Girl

During my childhood, Aunt Myrtle made a point of inviting my cousins and me to her house for summer holidays. Typically, she’d leave the lunch dishes in the sink, and in an era before seatbelts, pack eight or more kids into the car and head to the nearest sunny beach along Lake Huron.  

One summer day, she marched us into Kresge’s, a department store in Sarnia, and bought each of us a red felt cowboy hat. To a rural child growing up in the 1960’s, this was the height of high fashion. As I recall, we swaggered out of Kresge's as if we were the long lost siblings of the Cartwright family on Bonanza. We strutted out those department store doors with our red-behatted heads held high; indeed, so proud and preoccupied with our purchases that we didn't realize that we were walking straight into a torrential downpour of rain. Before we knew what was happening, the felt brims on our hats had drooped like last week’s roses; a flash flood of red dye, rain and tears ran down our distraught faces. Suddenly, my aunt was faced with a pack of howling children. Our new red hats were ruined.

Quickly, she sprang into action, telling us not to worry, she’d fix them. I couldn’t fathom how she’d manage to pull that particular rabbit out of her hat, but later at home, a row of soggy red hats were lined up like toy soldiers; the brims were held together with clothes pins. In my child’s heart, I knew that, despite my aunt’s best efforts, those red hats would never be the same again; as an adult, I recognize that in that moment, my aunt was sending us a powerful message.

Looking back, I understand that the lesson of those red hats was twofold: first, that life is something to be celebrated. Each day is precious. As adults, we have to be responsible for a seemingly endless list of practical things--holding down a job; paying our bills; keeping a household running; insert your most tedious/tiring task here--but we need not plod through life without an exuberant appreciation for the gifts that each day brings us. The Red Hatters have it right in that respect. Based on my own brief childhood encounter, I can assure you that life is infinitely better with a red hat; they are the epitome of fun, especially if they come complete with plastic whistles. 

The second, and equally powerful, lesson is that when things fall apart, as invariably they do sometimes, all need not be lost. Sometimes, hats (and I would argue many other things in life) can--and should--be mended. Although this might seem to be an out-dated idea in today’s throwaway world, I would argue that it’s never too late to apply the clothes pins to our relationships and lives. The onus is on each of us to try, try, try and yes, if necessary, try again.

This moment of epiphany--the wisdom of the red hats--came to me as I sitting there at Aunt Myrtle’s memorial service.

Prior to his marriage to my aunt in the 1950’s, my uncle had married an English war bride. She came to Canada and had a son with him, but like many war brides in that era, she grew homesick in this strange new land and returned to England, taking their son with her. He never saw him again. About a decade ago, my aunt asked me to help her find him. We managed to track down his birth certificate and found some addresses and phone numbers in England, but at the time, this information led to dead ends.

Then, shortly before her death, Aunt Myrtle learned that my uncle’s son had made contact with one of her grandchildren. After his mother died, he began doing Google searches for his birth father; each time he tried, nothing came of it. It would have been so easy for him to grow discouraged and give up his quest; instead, he kept hunting and one day, stumbled across my uncle’s obituary. From there, he was able to track down one of the granddaughters on Facebook. Just prior to her death, my aunt, who had poured so much of her own heart into this search, was told about this new development and she replied, “I think you’ve found him.”

When the memorial service was held seven months later, he, his wife and two adult children flew in from England to be in attendance; in fact, he gave the eulogy for my aunt who had tried so hard to find him. It was a lovely moment to witness and quite moving, in the midst of our collective sadness, to see this new chapter unfolding. What had been torn apart so many years ago was being mended.

Although dark rain clouds rolled across the early evening sky, it didn't rain during the memorial service; at one point, the sun even broke through and in that brief, shining moment, I swear I caught a glimpse of Aunt Myrtle looking down upon us, smiling. It felt like a benediction and a sense of peace settled over me as, in my mind, I tipped my red hat to her in return.

You're History!

Canadian humourist Stephen Leacock once said, “I did not realize that the old grave that stood among the brambles at the foot of our farm was history.”  To some extent, I think we’re all guilty of this. We tend to think that history is something that only happens in textbooks at school, on some far-off battlefield or to those illustrious faces we see featured on TMZ. Often, it doesn’t occur to us that history is also here in our own backyards; in our own lives.

One thing about genealogy--the study of one's family tree--is that it shows us how our individual lives fit into history. For instance, imagine that history is like a giant jigsaw puzzle and every life is a piece; without your story, the picture will be incomplete. Anyone who has ever tried to put together a jigsaw puzzle only to discover a piece is missing knows how exasperating this can be.

To some extent, history is always incomplete. Documents go missing; photos and letters get thrown out; people don’t get around to writing information down. A good example is this family photo of my great-grandfather Daniel Maddock. He's the man on the left in this picture.

His father William emigrated from Stamford, Lincolnshire, England to Canada in the late 1840's. Daniel was born in Canada, but we know that he made a trip to England with a shipment of cattle that he was selling; according to oral history that has been passed down through the generations, he visited cousins while he was in England.

The photos of this visit list a photographer’s name J.J.P. Bowler and Wellington and Oakengates; another has Lilleshall. We even have a box of nails that is labelled “John Maddock & Co., Great Western Nail Works, Oakengates, Shropshire.”

This information matches nicely with family stories about a John Maddock who was a sibling to my ancestor William. Apparently, he owned a foundry in Shropshire. Using the website familysearch.org, I found a John Maddock who was living in Wombridge, Shropshire when the 1871 Census was taken. It indicates that he was 51 at that time and was born in West Deeping, Lincolnshire. I'm assuming that the people in the photo with my great-grandfather are descended from this John, but their names and the date that the photo was taken were never written down. I’m sure it never occurred to my great-grandfather that his descendants might not recognize these people. Perhaps he did not realize that future generations would be interested in this information.

Before I judge him too harshly, I just have to pause and think of my own photo albums. How many of my pictures have I taken the time to label? What steps have I taken to preserve my individual story? Too often when people pass on, their stories die with them. Their families will divide up the dishes and dollars, but tend to look at paper documents as “a bunch of old junk." All too often, it just gets thrown out.

Alexander Vidal’s papers are a good example of this. He was a well-known historical figure in Lambton County’s early history. As a land surveyor, he was often away up north working. In an era before texting and Skype, he would write letters home to his wife. I can remember one letter in which he said that he missed her so much that he took her nightgown to bed with him!

The beauty of a story like this is that suddenly, he is not merely an historical (and arguably dull) figure from the past, but also a flesh-and-blood man who once lived.  It adds a human element that might otherwise be missing and helps to bring his story to life. The irony is that in one of his letters, he tells his wife to burn his letters; presumably being sentimental, she saved them instead. Years later, a local historian by the name of George Smith bought an old cupboard from the Vidal estate and in it was a cornflakes box filled with these letters. They are now housed at the Lambton County Archives in Wyoming, Ontario. To check out their link, see: www.lclmg.org/lclmg/?TabId=110

The first step in preserving your own piece of the puzzle is to recognize that your story—whatever it might be—is important. Contrary to what the world might have you believe, you are not a mere cog-in-the-wheel that can be replaced on a whim. The phrase “You’re History!” might seem to imply that you’re irrelevant in the grand scheme of things, but quite the opposite is true. The truth is you matter; your story is a vital piece of the bigger picture.

Once you acknowledge this, there are practical steps you can take:

• Write down or record the stories which you have in your head. What do you want future generations to know? The important thing is to put in lots of details. Personal anecdotes and feelings will bring your story to life; factual information such as dates and places will help your family relate your stories to larger events in history.
• Label your photographs including names, dates and places.
• Make arrangements for your family papers, documents, photos etc. to be saved. This might means entrusting them to a younger family member or donating them to a local historical collection or both.

Ultimately, it is up to each of us to ensure that our individual story isn’t lost. And the next time you gaze up at a towering monument honouring the past and find yourself feeling insignificant by comparison, please remember that you too are history!

Oh, How My Heart Murmurs

Years ago, I knew an Australian girl who lost her voice on a roller coaster. The doctors ran tests, but couldn't find a physical reason as to why this might have happened. They said her voice might return one day, but couldn't say for sure if or when it would; in the meantime, she was forced to speak in a whisper. You had to lean in closely to hear what she was saying.

Although I lost track of the girl and have no idea whether her voice came back eventually, I thought of her when I was setting up this blog. From my experience, life, with its many ups-and-downs, is akin to that roller coaster. It’s a gas for sure, but it can also be a crazy, unexpected ride. Sometimes, through no fault of our own, we lose our voice along the way. A marriage ends; a job is lost; an illness is diagnosed. We are told that it is better to be seen and not heard; that our voice doesn’t count or find ourselves paying a heavy price for speaking up with our personal truth. Whether it is shocked into silence by a sudden event, made mute with the fear of ridicule and repercussions or simply drowned out by the noise around us, the individual human voice throughout history has all too often been silenced.

But if you lean in and listen carefully, you will hear the quiet sound of your heart murmuring--that still, small voice within. It lives on, alive and beating, and need not be lost to you or the world. According to the pundits, one of the keys to blogging is to know your audience. In the case of this blog, that's easy. The intended audience is me; in the process of writing it, I hope to find and become reacquainted with my voice again.

Hence, the blog's title: "Hm..." Not only does it represent the initials of my name, but it also refers to "how my heart murmurs" in response to the world around me. I may not have made up my mind on any given subject, but as the sub-title suggests, I'm thinking about it. Whether it pertains to home or away; the past or the present; something that I read in a book, a blog or in the news; or is simply an idea that has been rattling around in my head for awhile, there is a chance that it will make its way into this blog.

Having said that, it has always seemed to me that we use words to try to pin things down once and for all time when in actual fact, all they can do is express the fleeting moment; that all in life is flux, change, movement and that words aren't fluid enough to capture this. The moment I write something down, it may no longer be true. And yet, the words of the poets and great writers have a ring of universal truth to them as if, for a moment, they were able to rip through the veil of time, and catch a glimpse of something eternal, something that endures.

That seems like a lofty goal for a mere blog. To be truthful, I'm not sure what direction this blog will take--whether it will add to the conversation or simply amplify the noise--but something tells me that wherever it leads it, like life itself, will be an exhilarating, always surprising, joy of a ride. Feel free to lean in and listen.