In response to my good blog-buddy Twilight, I am endeavouring to offset my sometimes bleak and heavy posts with something lighter.
And I should add that even though I comment on the dismal aspect of this ever-changing new world we have wrought, I am not a pessimist by nature.
There are only two outcomes to the current condition we are in:
(1) Most of us are shaken off by Gaia in one huge shrug of her shoulders
(2) We regroup and reform a kinder, gentler world of equality in an image more befitting to Ghandi’s exhortation: “Let me be the change I want to see in the world”.
Meanwhile, to get back to this post’s topic.
This was my second home for a while, now it is my primary. Even so, I am continually touched by the little gifts that have been given to me over the years that I have painstakingly transported, sometimes unconsciously, and see or use on a daily basis, bringing those who are no longer of this plane or those distant, close to me.
My mother was a fabulous embroiderist. She would sit on the strand in the summer, surrounded by her friends, me playing with sandcastles or reading books or in and out of the water swimming while she diligently embroidered maybe a square inch of a tablecloth. Even at a young age, I was appalled at how little she accomplished in an afternoon. What an effort for so small a result, I thought. But before she died at far too young an age, she had embroidered a tablecloth each for her six children. Mine is in the living room here, on a table in the corner. Reminding me daily of her patience and love and incredible artistry.
I have an ancient electric coffee grinder, it must have been one of the first invented, given to me by an old and dear friend, Toddy, one long forgotten birthday over thirty years ago that I still use every day to grind my beans. It has never needed servicing and I think of her every morning as I reach for it.
On my dining room wall are four canvases created by my granddaughter filled with poetry, each running into the next, meaningful to her and to me, spinning in wonderful rhythms and patterns and colours. A labour of talent and love.
Hanging on a hook is a bag with a picture of my previous, now deceased, dog, her back and her front on each side, now used by my current dog for her ‘gear’. Having a dog and travelling a lot with her is like having a toddler, lots of ‘stuff’ to pack. This was given to me by a dear friend, Judy, who died very suddenly, five years ago. The bag is getting the worse for wear but I will never throw it out.
Hanging from my wooden clock is a smooth stone with my name carved in druidic symbols on it given to me by a dear Irish friend, exiled, like me, to another country.
On my couch is a wild multi-coloured afghan, given to me by a new friend last year, concerned I would get cold in my car in the long journey across Canada. I will now take it in the car with me on all my long trips.
There are more of these mementoes but you get the idea, I am touched and strengthened every day by these beautiful and priceless objets d’art.