Memento Mori

I thought I had destroyed all mementos of the relationship. Truly. I did that with most of my romantic history. A few photos remain, maybe. But all letters and emails and tokens of a once seemingly profound and everlastin' love were tossed, burned or otherwise disposed of.

I don't know whether I regret this or not. I believe there is something oddly pathetic about clutching dried roses and love-cards to one's bosom in old age. As if that was all that mattered about one's life when there is so much more. Often in solitude but also involving deep and abiding friendships.

Anyway, this fell out of a box of photos, don't know why it survived because the other 27 were destroyed I think, but I'll tell you the story behind it. I was away for a month in Ireland. But before I left, my lover handed me a package of sealed notes, one for every day of the month I would be away.

It was 1997. And yes, he was my last great love.

Well, its Tuesday
I wonder where you'll be
I wish I was there with you seeing you do your party pieces, hearing you sing, enjoying the vitality, the fun, the warmth, the excitement.
I'll be missing you terribly.
But I know you'll soon be coming back and I have all the wonderful memories
of moments shared
magical feelings
incredible passion
but above all the joy and peace of mutual love.
H.

Melange a Trois

(1)I can't imagine what life is like without some creativity or passion in it. Any creativity. One of my dear buddies now since gone, would make log cabins out of those flat icecream sticks, with a working fireplace of pebbles and the chimney lined with tinfoil and a porch with rocking chairs on the front.

Me? Well I write and knit. And yesterday I finished this massive knitting project. It took me months but now it's winging its way to Massachussets to a sweet young friend whom I wrote about here. She sent me this incredible yarnbowl, right out of the blue, when Ansa died and signed it "Sunset for Ansa".

We had one of those rare instant connections at her father's wake. The kind that sees into each other's souls. Rare enough to be treasured.

(2)Since I moved here I've had the chance to explore my personality in ways I couldn't even dream of when I lived in the metropolis. Time, the gift of time and beauty all around me frees up the mind and imagination like nothing else does. The timelessness of the ocean at my door, the salt-laden walks on the shores or in the pine drenched woods invigorates, wakes up dormant brain cells.

(3)I continue to whittle away at "stuff". Discarding 5 items a day. Should be more like 10. Attaching the words precious or important or valuable to pieces of it is dangerous. A burn barrel is where much of it is going. And the dump. I don't want any kind of clutter in my new home. I'm listing what's coming with me. And so far it's not much. Clutter is weighty and murky and has a stranglehold on the psyche. I lived that in a marital home way back and remember feeling so overwhelmed as we conducted a 3 day sale around and in the property. Given space, I will fill it. Time to let go. Of inner and outer stuff.

Ah sure, 'tis nothing.

As promised here's my latest creation which dragged me through some pretty painful times recovering from that fall on the ice.

It came to me that if there's some tiny bit of creativity nesting inside us at all, it has the capacity to sustain us through some bleak, sad or depressing times. Gives us a pair of wings to help us limp over a challenge.

I am conducting one of those dream classes at the moment where I am talking writing, critiquing and distributing assignments to a class of 12. A series of 10 two hour workshops. Many have never written before, some have. But it is the enthusiasm and delight I am confronted with every single week or via emails in between that truly hearten me.

And all of this reinforces yet again, the power of passion to transform even the most timid amongst us.

Ah sure, 'tis nothing.

And yet, it's everything.

5%

It was +5C yesterday and I treated myself to the full Aran effect for my long afternoon walk with the wonderdog, Ansa. I had to take a pic. I made it all myself over the years. A headless selfie wouldn't have done it justice at all.

My morning meditation had it:

"We only spent 5% of our lives doing what we love to do best."

It stopped me in my tracks.

Imagine! Only 5%!

Some of the 95% is maintenance, I imagine: roof, food, clothing, medical, etc.

Another chunk would be addiction: booze, food, TV, interwebz.

What do I love to do best?

Write. Read. Knit. Have friends and family in. Take photographs, play the piano. Write and direct plays. Visit friends and family.

I'm caught again by the weather today and had to cancel all town appointments including medical, lunch and dinner with friends, groceries and hair chop.

It is -10C with windchill and freezing rain now to be followed later on by 10CM of snow, followed my more rain. My larder is looking light but I have pre-prepped meals in the freezer.

And I'm writing. Even if it's the blog. I'm writing. Increasing that 5% even a wee bit.

What Are We Without a Sense of Wonder?

I watch the dragonflies outside, swooping and darting, chasing the mosquitoes. Who eats the dragonflies?

I've never forgotten the seller on Ebay who mailed me a handcrafted towel rack for the kitchen with a hand-drawn map of where every screw went. It still works beautifully and holds towels and potholders and dishrags and my oven mitts. A self-taught man who loved his work.

I am a firm believer in that some things can't be taught by others. At least to a creative level. Try as we might to teach it or to learn it. I think if we truly want to learn something, fire up a hobby, fulfil a passion, we just go ahead and acquire the resources and then the skill and then experiment and do it. This belief comes on the heels of trying to teach software and then Irish rug-hooking and writing and now people asking for more writing classes and Irish knitting workshops and photography lessons.

I should clarify that I am writing about mid- and elder life learning or rediscovery of self.

I think that passion comes first and that whets the appetite for more knowledge. No one has ever knocked on my door with a piece of knitting looking for help. Or with a chapter of a book they are writing. Or with an album requesting a photo critique. No one. I would love if they did. Advertising workshops and then conducting “classes” in creative arts is a waste of everyone's time, I believe. The huge dearth I perceive out there is a sense of wonder.

One can't teach a sense of wonder.

I could riff off further into what I've come to believe on all of this but I'm still thinking about it.