One fine morning...

I am content. I am sitting in bed, laptop on lap, Ellie, the wonder pooch, lying beside me (sorry C.C., But what am I supposed to do? She just jumps up and takes your spot when you're not here!)

Coffee steaming in my favourite mug. Sun streaming in through the windows. Birds chirping at the feeder.

Marley, the Great Cat, is playing with one of his stuffed mice in the hallway. I hear him pounding along the hardwood floor. Batting into walls. He races into the bedroom. Ducks behind the door. Grabs his toy and whips back out to the hallway.

At least. I think it's his toy.

Somewhere in the back quarter of my mind, a thought drifts slowly into view.

"Sure doesn't sound like his normal play with a stuffed toy."

I keep working on my laptop.

"He sure seems to be kinda active with this toy."

I read some more. Take a sip of coffee.

"Remember the last time he played with one of his toys like that?"

Another sip of coffee. A moment to contemplate the garden.

"It was a..."

STOP! Don't think that.

Ellie sighs in her sleep. Rolls to one side, curls her body up.

"But... last time it was..."

"I know. I know. But we haven't had any incidences in two years. Not since the arrival of The Great One."

Slurp of coffee. I peer towards the door. Listen some more to Marley's antics in the hall.

"Better go look."

I sigh. Uncurl myself from the bed. Walk towards the door. I peer down the hallway. Spy Marley, on the floor, inches from the bedroom door.

What I don't see is a red or green or bright yellow stuffed mouse between his paws.

What I do see is a black furry ball.

It moves.

Marley pounces.

I scream.

Marley looks up at me. "What? Isn't this what you hired me for?"

"Yes! But not when I'm home and in bed. Couldn't you at least wait until I was out?"

The furry black ball which is not a toy but a real live mouse sees his opportunity to escape. He runs towards me. Skitters between my feet and into the bedroom. Dashes behind the dresser.

Marley races into bedroom. Runs from one end to the other of the dresser.

I high tail it back to the bed.

I am not getting out until the vile little creature is caught, I yell at Marley.

Marley paces along the dresser. Back and forth. Back and forth.

Ellie sleeps.

I am not getting off this bed, I repeat, until you remove that thing.

He ignores me. Keeps pacing.

I look for weapons. The bedroom is particularly devoid of mice killing implements. I curl up beneath the blankets.

Ellie keeps sleeping.

Marley keeps pacing.

I am not getting off this bed until the vile little creature is caught.

I'm still here.

Waiting.

Ellie sleeps.

And Marley...

Tired of the cat and mouse game has retired to the love seat for a nap. This protecting hearth and home from vile little creatures is tiring business.

Ellie rolls over. Looks at me through one half-opened eye. "Could you keep the noise down please? I'm trying to sleep."

I think of pushing her off the bed. I think of replacing the word 'curl' throughout this post.

I think of the mouse under the dresser.

I am not getting off this bed until that vile little creature, even if he is one of God's children, is caught!

Marley stretches his body. Yawns. I think of throwing a shoe at him, or maybe my coffee.

He keeps sleeping.

Good thing he's so cute. Otherwise I'd fire him on the spot!

Anyone know of any good mouse catchers?

I am not getting off this bed until the vile little creature is caught!

Magic is all around

The racoons come to say good-bye on my last night.

Let us always meet each other with a smile, for the smile is the beginning of love. Mother Teresa

The city was enshrouded in mist as Alexis and I headed out across the Lions Gate Bridge. Giant sea-going tankers lumbered at anchor in the bay below the bridge as a lone sailboat scuttled amidst them, heading across the bay towards the shelter of its dock. Traffic flowed steadily, streaming into the downtown core, carrying people in an endless stream to work, to play, to bed, to places they needed to be.

After dropping my daughter off at her destination, I head eastward, back towards Calgary.

I like the feeling of going against the flow. Of pushing off in my own direction as others drive in theirs.

By the time I hit the high plains the sun has burnt through the cloud to reveal clear blue sky above. Around me, the Nicola Valley spreads out in a wide swathe of golden fall colour.

I open my sunroof. Light pours in. Wisps of wind play with my hair. I keep driving.

The words of C.C.s text to me as I left flutter through my mind.

Sing loud
Smile lots
Stop often.

Those are great words to live by, always, Alexis tells me when I tell her C.C.s driving instructions.

Good point! I smile. To myself as I drive. Who cares? No one's watching but me!

This road is rich in history for me. Memories stored in a long ribbon of highway, they sprawl across the terrain, unwinding as I travel along the road in either direction. They are memories that unfurl like the yellow line colours the asphalt, a continuous stream of sunny thoughts that keep me company as I drive.

I remember the car laden with belongings, my daughters in the backseat. On holiday. Travelling westward to the far edge of Vancouver Island for our annual trip to Tofino. Singing out loud. Laughing, full voice. Girls sleeping. Girls reading. Me driving. Sharing stories. Playing games. I Spy. Name that place. Alphabet soup. Tell a story. Quick. 30 seconds. End to beginning.

Today, I drive alone. Memory my companion. I smile in memory of my week.

It was a fabulous trip. Rich with people and learning and growing and stretching. Rich with incredible weather, special places and rich with song.

Eric Bibb carries me into the Nicola Valley.

Don Bray moves me down off the high plains into the interior. I speed along the lakeshore, sunlight glittering on the water. Fairy dancers laugh in the sun as Ahmad Baabahar's blues sweep me into the dark green forest. Light dances through towering firs, streaming onto my head.

Alyssa Wright's soulful cello and sultry voice serenade me as I climb into the Rockies.

Through my sunroof at Roger's Pass. My friend's from Gabriola carry me as I travel along the road. I am in heaven. Surrounded by snowcapped peaks, towering fir trees marching endlessly along their sides until the air becomes too thin for them to breathe, the soil to rocky for roots to settle in.

I sing outloud with Andrea Boccelli in Italian I cannot speak. My soul soars to Keith Jarrett's wild piano virtuoso accompanying me through Roger's Pass.

I am coming home. Coming back to this city sprawled out along the foothills of the Rockies. Far from ocean views and sweeping vistas that call me into the horizon. "I Blame the Horizon" Don Bray sang on Gabriola.

I blame the sea.

It's depths awash within me. It's silky waters washing through me.

I blame the sea for pulling me ever westward, for calling me away from home.

At the ocean floor I am inspired, transformed, transported.

Here on wide-open prairie I search for a way to hold onto that feeling of effortless joy that cascades through and in and around me while playing by the sea. I struggle to keep the magic visible.

I know it is there. Always. I know it is not created by 'the place', but rather, is a place within me. Like a kayaker on the river, I need only become part of the flow to find it, feel it, know it.

I tap into the reservoir of joy within. Sun filters through the trees in the back yard, apples turning red, leaves turning golden. A squirrel bounces along the garage roof, leaps to a tree branch, scurryings down the trunk to join his friend busily eating birdseed that has fallen from the feeder.

There is beauty everywhere.

I only need to open my eyes and heart to see it.

There is beauty everywhere.

I carry you in my heart

Reflecting on Downtown Vancouver.
There was a time, not so long ago, when broken-hearted, I closed myself off to love. There was a time when I feared love. Feared breathing. Feared living.

I feared.

And then, a miracle drove up in a blue and white police car, and I got my life back.

And fear subsided. Fear abated. Fear hit the road and I spread my wings and learned to fly.

Free of fear. Free of broken hearts and worn out dreams.

A broken heart is an open heart and an open heart is a loving heart.

And my heart is loving.

Some days, my heart loves so much it hurts.

Some days, the air is so thick with love and beauty and wonder and joy, I feel myself vibrating to a new song, a new world, a new way of being in this world.

That's how I awoke this morning. Feeling like I couldn't get enough of this beautiful morning. Feeling like my skin was too confining.

I smile.

Silly me.

How does that saying go? God never gives you more than you can carry.

The Universe never gives me too much joy and wonder to contain.

I am a radiant woman igniting joy in a world of wonder.

Last night, my daughter Alexis and I walked down Lonsdale Avenue to a tiny, hole-hole-in-the-wall Thai restaurant where we sat on a rooftop deck, the only patrons courageous enough to eat outside.

"It's very cold out," the waiter told us.

"That's ok," we both chimed in together. "We've brought our shawls."

We at on the deck, and shared and laughed and sipped a glass of wine each, and watched the sunset over the Coastal Range, the evening light sparkle on the waters stretched out across the bay leading out to the sea, out into the distant ocean.

Earlier, we'd left C.C. at the "Canada Line" terminus to catch the metro to the airport where he was grabbing a 6pm flight. We'd had a late lunch on the patio of Scoozis', where proprietor Michael, greeted me like a long lost friend -- as he greets everyone -- and treated us to a dessert of apple filled phyllo pastry with a to die for sauce and fruit. One of the secrets of Michael's success is his charm and sincerity -- and the food too! It was a relaxed and fun filled afternoon. We three were joined by BA my lovely and beautiful friend here in Vancouver and Tim, a friend from Calgary and his friend Kelly. Tim's eldest daughter Vicky and Alexis have been best-friends since they were 2 and a half. When Tim sat down he immediately turned to Kelly and said, "Alexis was with her dad when Vicky made her famous comment, 'my daddy doesn't say that when drivers cut him off. He always yells and says, 'you f*&#ing azzhole!''

Which is a true story. It did happen. Just like that. Out of the mouths of babes...

C.C. and Alexis and I wandered around Canada Place. We oohed and aahhed at the Olympic Torch statuary -- which is beautiful in the daylight and according to Alexis, even more beautiful in the evening.

I snapped photos on my iPhone (because I hadn't brought the camera) and we people watched and played tourist in this city by the sea.

It was one of those days where the sun could not shine brighter, the air could not feel warmer, the breeze could not caress your skin more tenderly.

It was one of those days.

Today, Alexis and I are going for a tour of Covenant House and then, we'll wander along Main Street and meet up with my new friends, Don Bray and Alyssa Wright who together make up the incomparable musical duo -- The Brights. We'll come back to my sister and brother-in-law's home, pack up the car, have dinner and then head to bed. (FYI -- staying here is bliss. My brother-in-law actually brings me my coffee in bed so I don't have to interrupt my typing! How sweet is that? Sweet. Sweet. Sweet!)

Tomorrow, I drive east. To home. To my youngest daughter who wishes I'd come home early - to feed me -- she said. But I know she misses me as I miss her. And Ellie, the wonder pooch and Marley the Great Cat too!

Tomorrow I will drive home (I won't be blogging as I will be heading out early) and with me, I will carry my heart. And in my heart I will carry the most precious gift of all, Love.

I feel it within me. Carry it with me. always. For no matter which direction I go, no matter where I turn, I carry my heart with me and you are in my heart. Now and always. (Thank you e.e. cummings)

i carry your heart with me
by e. e. cummings

i carry your heart with me (i carry it in
my heart) i am never without it (anywhere
i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing, my darling)

i fear
no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) i want
no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)


Namaste.

Fearing the blues

Go ahead and play the blues if it'll make you happy. Dan Castellaneta

I do not remember a time in my life when my mother was not sad. When 'the blues' didn't reside within her delicate frame colouring my childhood world with fear and hesitation.

It is perhaps where my sunny disposition found its roots. I always worried if I was ever sad, I would be sad forever.

I don't regret my disposition. I do, sometimes, wish my mother had been other than who she was - and I know. I know. All the wishes in the world will not change another. Will not change the past.

And still, the blues scare me.

I feel powerless, useless, incapable of changing someone else's mood -- especially because I am not powerful enough to change someone else's mood, or disposition, or life.

When I became a mother, I wanted to change the world. I wanted to end war and famine, strife and hunger. Cruelty and abuse. I wanted the world to be safe for my daughters. I wanted the world to stop turning in on itself and start turning up for eachother, for us, we human beings who inhabit this planet along with thousands of species of insects and birds and fish and mammals and other creatures.

And I could not change the world.

All I could do was my best. All I could do, can do, is change the way I move in the world. The way I am within myself and those around me.

And somedays, my best is to simply hold a space, to open a place where those I love can be exactly who they are, exactly the way they are, freely.

I struggle with that as a mother. I struggle with letting be, so that I do not become someone other than who I am, who I want to be in this world. And I struggle with it because I want to 'make the world right' for those I love. I want to ease their burdens, share their load, shift their perspectives, open up their dispositions.

And I am not that powerful.

Recently, in a conversation with a woman who is almost nine months pregnant, I told her that 'becoming a mother is the best thing I ever did in my life'.

Becoming a mother has made me a better person. It has opened me up to all the wonder of the world -- and the sorrow and sadness too.

And in that opening, I have discovered the depth of my heart, the capacity of my love to grow and grow and widen out to encompass all living beings, all things, all aspects of life on this magnificent ball spinning through space, turning around and around the sun.

And in that opening, my heart feels. Deeply. My heart knows. Deeply. And my heart hurts. Deeply.

I want to make the world a perfect place for my children, for everyone's children.

And all I can do is make it a perfect place for me to be who I am, and make room for those around me to be who they are, perfect imperfect humans being together in all our human perfection running freely through and amidst all the colours of the rainbow.

Within those colours are, the blues. They are as perfect as sunshiney yellow, autumn gold and red red rose. They add colour where sunny dispositions fear to go lest they get caught in the deep blue wonder of the soul.

I need not fear the blues.

I need only to learn to move through my fear of not being able to change them into sunlight tones so that even the blues have room to blossom into the beauty of the soul carrying them so carefully through the night. So that even the blues can let their colours show, however they may appear.

Namaste.

Never Love

Like billions of people around the world, I didn't know, ten years ago on this day what the skies held. I didn't know what sorrow and heartache was unfolding on the other side of the continent.

My day began like any other.

I awoke. Fed the dog. Took her for a walk. I readied myself for work, woke my daughters. Like every other school morning, I had to coerce and cajole them into getting up for school. My worries were of the normal kind. Would they eat the lunches I had made? Did they have their homework done. Did they brush their teeth? Did I lock the door when we left? Turn off the iron before going out? Normal threads of a normal life. Little worries that didn't add up to much more than a blip on the radar of my life unfolding before me.

I dropped the girls at their schools, drove into my parking spot at work, got into the elevator, pressed the button for the eighth floor. A co-worker got on at the first floor. He was vibrating with the news. "Isn't it awful," he said.

I remember wondering what he meant. It was a gorgeous fall morning. Not a cloud in the sky. Clear skies for as far as you could see.

"What's that?" I asked.

"New York." he replied.

I hadn't listened to the news yet. The girls were abuzz with first week back at school news as we drove. I hadn't listened to the news.

And then he told me.

I thought he was joking.

Another woman got on the elevator.

"It's true," she whispered. "It's true."

How could such a thing be true, I wondered.

I got to my office. No one was working. Everyone was gathered in the boardroom watching the TV. They were showing the footage of the first jet hitting the Tower.

It felt so surreal. So unreal. So unbelievable.

Everyone was scared. Worried. Unsure of what to do. What would ensue from such devastation.

Several people left. They wanted to reassure themselves their families were okay.

I asked my boss if I could leave too. I wanted to get my daughters at school and hold them close.

"Go," he said. "Go. Who knows what tomorrow may bring?"

My youngest daughters Junior High was just across the street from the office building where I worked. I walked out into the bright morning sun. Felt its welcoming warmth and still I was chilled.

I got to the school. Other mothers and fathers were already there to see their children.

Liseanne came to the office and I asked if she wanted to come out with me for the day. Eager for any opportunity to miss religion class she quickly said, "Yes!"

We walked over to Alexis' high school down the street and spoke with her. She wanted to stay in class. "We're talking about it here," she said. "I'm okay."

The three of us hugged and Liseanne and I left.

A girlfriend called me on my cell. "Have you heard?"

"Yes," I replied. "I've just picked Liseanne up from school We're going to spend the day together."

"I can't leave work," my friend replied. "Would you be willing to pick up my son at school? I'd rather he was with you."

And so the three of us set out to spend the day together. Another young friend, the son of my girlfriend's son, joined us as well. I don't remember where we went for lunch. We did go to the zoo for awhile. We wandered amidst the animals and flowers and trees, the sun streaming down, the birds cawing and snakes slithering and for awhile the world felt normal. Sane. And then, in the afternoon, we went to a movie.

A silly choice on my part. Some Jackie Chen, the world is ending if we don't stop the evil perpetrators, kind of film. Cars exploding. Gunshots firing. It didn't seem appropriate on such a day. But the kids loved it. Thought it was funny and cool. And it was a good diversion from the news coming out of New York and Pittsburgh and Washington. It was an escape from reality.

And when we got home, I turned on the TV and quickly turned it off. I couldn't stop watching. I had to stop watching. I didn't want to embed the images of the Twin Towers crumbling, of the Pentagon smoking or the giant pit in a cornfield smouldering in my daughters minds. Or mine.

I turned off the TV and still the images, the thoughts, the fears remained.

They are still there. Somewhere on the periphery of reality. Still there silently smouldering.

This is a fragile world we live in. A place of great beauty. Great joy. Great possibility. And great devastation too. A place where love walks hand in hand with hate. Where possibility slides up against the impossible and explodes in front of our eyes reminding us that war and hatred do exist and have the power to destroy buildings and lives.

But never love.

We went to a play last night, C.C., Alexis, myself and a friend of Alexis'. Part of the Vancouver Fringe Festival, the particular show we went to was in celebration of 50 years of Amnesty International. In the last act, a play about intolerance, and bullying, and discrimination, a priest says after the brutal death of a young girl at the hands of a school friend spurred on by parents fears of her 'difference', "It takes a village to raise a child. It takes a village to kill a child too."

It takes a handful of men to raise up a building of steel and concrete.

It takes a handful of men to destroy it. To drop bombs. To kill eachother.

It takes a world of love to create peace.

Let us share love today. Let us commit to creating peace.

Namaste.

Nothing to hold onto

Spend time every day listening to what your muse is trying to tell you. Saint Bartholomew

Early morning slips into late. I cling to sleep. The day beckons. I arise.

Two ferry rides, a missed connection a stalled drive off the ferry because of a car that wouldn't start (not mine but the one car that needed to move for my car to move along too) and I am back on the mainland.

Beside me, C.C. sleeps. He flew in yesterday to join me for the weekend in Vancouver. Upstairs, on the main level of their home, my sister and her husband putter through their morning ablutions. Alexis made a brief appearance from where she was sleeping and has wandered back to bed after declaring, "Im never hanging out with C.C. again!" I had left the both of them at a bar around ten pm, after sharing a wonderful dinner at the Water Street Cafe. I stirred only slightly when they rolled in at 2:30 am.

Outside, a hear the grating of gears as a truck drives by. I hear the distant hum of 'city'.

It is hard. This immersion into 'real world' mode. I want to hold back the data stream. I want to stup up 'island life' and carry it within me like a vile of magic elixir into which I can dip when 'life as it is' streams into the soul-full living I experienced at The Haven all week.

When I'd taken the ferry from Gabriola Island to Vancouver Island yesterday I dreamt of going west again, across the Island's back to the far western shore to my favourite place on earth -- Tofino.

But love awaited in the city. And love's call is greater than any place I've ever known.

And still, this morning, I feel it. Thepull of the tide, the lap of the waves calling me, like the voice in the song we wrote -- Come on home.

It was an intention of the course, Eric said on Sunday evening when we first convened. "I'd like for all of us to write a song. Together. Are you open to is?" he asked.

We all said yes, and so, interpsersed with discussions of music and musicians, of lyrics remembered, and the ones that got away, we 'noodled' at the song.

"Let's start with the chorus," Eric said. "It will lead us to the song."

And the chorus began to appear.

I feared I'd have little to offer. But no one had heard of mindmapping and I lead them into the lure of calling words and thoughts and ideas into a web of inspiration.

I did have something to offer!

And the chorus began to appear.

hesitantly at first, but gaining confidence, the collective muse appeared on the whiteboard. There was no idea too small. No thought unworthy. Eric, a master at inclusivity, insured every voice was heard, every word noted. Every thought captured and measured on the whiteboard as it sought its place in our song.

By the end of the first morning, the lyrics and the notes of the chorus took voice.

Come on home. Come on home.
The air is clear. Door's wide open.
Whatever path your spirit's chosen.
You're not alone. Come on home.

It was pure magic. Undistilled wonder to sit amidst a group of strangers and feel the muse weaving in and out of our presence, wrapping us in the delicate weave of her beautiful voice connecting us through a song none of us knew we held within and in which we now all share.

Pure magic.

It is that feeling of connectivity, of being part of something very, very special that I cling to.

That moment in time when spirits met and flowed in and around and together, drawing out the voice of a song that must be sung. that must be shared.

I have been blessed. With a song. A voice. A place. A name. A connection.

I have been blessed with five days by the sea floating in the waters of beautiful souls singing together.

After the concert Wednesday night, Eric told us he was 'beyond words', afraid that to put something so beautiful down on paper would distill it to a mere idea.

It is beyond an idea.

Beyond the moon and the sea, the waves lapping, the stars glittering all above.

It is beyond all of this.

And yet it is within me. Of me.

It is me.

And you.

And you.

And you.

It is not us and them.

It is all of us. Connected.

I do not struggle to hold onto it. There is nothing to hold on to. And everything to hold when I let go and surrender to fall, in Love.

Always, in Love.

Where ever I am.

Where ever I go.

Whatever I do.

In Love.

Forever.

Namaste.

Come on Home

It's life. We bite off more than we can chew. And then we learn how to chew it. Eric Bibb. Sept. 7,2011. Spirit in the Song, The Haven

The Haven (a little slice of heaven by the sea)
After the last chord was strung. After the last note sung. After the writing and rehearsals. The laughter and the tears. After the voice of fear was quieted. The voice of doubt relieved. There was the song.

There was the song and a night and a knot in the tapestry of the lives of the eight people who on Sunday had come together as strangers and were now knotted fast as friends.

Nothing can undo the knot of kinship woven in the weave of magic that was spun throughout these days. Nothing can take the knots back. Nothing can unplay the notes. Nothing can take the song undone.

And after it was over. After the applause and the smiles and the ‘job well done’, I stood at the waters edge in the stillness of the dark, looked up into the stars and let the silence fall all around me.

Grace descended.

She climbed down upon a moonlit path and stood upon the shore beside me. She opened her arms and I stepped gratefully into her embrace.

Joy is measured in the breaths of my heart beating in time. In time to our song. This song we have created.

Far beyond the words we strung together in melodic verse. High above the Bflats and Fsharps, the major chords and minors, far, far beyond their gentle strum beats the rhythm of my heart. Of our hearts holding time together.

Once upon a time there was a little girl who believed in magic. She believed in wonder and mystery, of dreams calling in the night and happiness riding in on the light of day. She believed the world truly was her oyster. That only goodness would rise with the sun.

And then, one day something happened. To this day she cannot tell you what that something was. She cannot tell you what happened. She just knows something did. Many somethings to steal away her eyes of wonder. Her belief in dreams and dreaming. And in the harsh and grating container of those some things, she stopped up all her dreams. She put away her wonder. Because somewhere written in the lines of the songs she sung was the echoing refrain,

And the wonder died upon a dream. And the wonder died upon a dream.

Sometimes, in some dark alley, in a bar or high upon a mountain top, or deep in some stranger’s arms, she’d whisper into the night. “I wonder where my dreams went. I wonder where the magic’s gone?” But mostly, she left the song unsung. Mostly she didn’t dream.

And then, one beautiful summer’s day, a prince rode in and promised to sweep her away to happily ever after.

She’d been looking for her prince for a very long time so she didn’t think about it long. Who could refuse a shortcut to happiness driving up in a shiny red Ferrari?

“My mama always said someday my prince would come,” she said as she climbed into his steed with nary a backwards glance at the gods of caution warning her to take the next curve slow.

She did buckle up her seatbelt. He’d promised her it would be a hell of a ride.

Now, it would be easy to put all the blame for forgotten dreams and broken hearts upon the broad shoulders of her knight in shining armour. He did lie. And he did manipulate. And scheme and tear her world apart.

But, in truth, her falling out with magic happened long before he rode up promising her the world. He was not the destroyer of her dreams.

They had vanished long before he appeared on the horizon in his shiny red Ferrari rusting to black.

She’d only needed that particular ride to take her into that place she’d dared not go for all those years. That dark, forbidding landscape of her heart where she had locked away her dreams, shored up all her wonder behind a wall of stone and fallen into a sadness hidden behind the brilliance of the smile she held in place for all to believe, she was not unhappy. She was as carefree as she could be.

And the wonder died within a dream. And the wonder died within a dream.

Her falling out of wonder began long before the men she could not name, long before the running circles round the moon in search of a better view. Her falling out of wonder began in those childhood days when a little girl stood upon a stage and called out with wild abandon, “Watch me. Watch me.”

And she leapt and she ran and she drew a picture and she wrote a verse and she sang a song and turned a cartwheel and stood upside down. And no one watched back.
And with each frantic calling out for attention, her voice grew weaker, her song fell silent.

And then, she sat in a circle of seven strangers and said, “I am not a songwriter. I do not sing.”

And her journey into wonder began with the unfolding of that lie. For in truth, she is a songwriter, the writer of her very own song of life singing beautifully in tune to a world of wonder dancing all around.

I stood beneath the stars last night, the waves lapping gently at my feet, the air a soothing whisper against my skin. I stood beneath the stars and I breathed. Deeply. And then I heard it. A voice, a welcoming voice in the wind. And the voice grew stronger until I heard many voices rising up in song at the edges of the night, pushing back the darkness, gathering in the light.

I heard it. This song we have created. together. This song of wonder, of joy, and magic. Always the magic. For this is a song of gratitude and peace rising up from my toes, cascading all around me, in me, through me, pulling me out into the tide racing back into the sea. Carrying me beyond the shores of nothing standing in my way but the way itself unfolding in this place of wonder.

I stood beneath the stars last night and I heard our song.

Come on home, it beckoned me. Come on home.

And I did. Come on home.

Thank you, Ahmad, Alyssa, Cameron, Don, Eric, Sari and Sylvie. Our songs connected are a beautiful knot that hold me fast as I soar into my dreams.