Sabbath rest

Re-reading Sabbath, by Wayne Muller…deep sigh. Paying heed to the longing for more than one day a week.

Spending several mornings in a row by the lake, poetry, paper, pen and bible by my side…yes. Be still. Listen. Know. Learn how to do this again…lean in, see, hear. It is good.

Spending golden hour in pursuit of the light, camera, eyes, heart seeking ordinary beauty…yes…weeds, but not really…


And then this morning by the lake a poem comes trickling, flooding through me…just when I think I have passed writing the last one, when I’m convinced it has all been a cruel trick of nature, that I actually can’t write a jot, that my work is shite, that the combinations of words will definitely NOT flow this time around…what was I thinking…and then…a poem…a draft poem…appears (she says carefully, not wanting to sound as if she thinks it is any good.)

A friend once scolded me…you are a poet…you write…HOW DARE YOU NOT SHARE IT WITH THE WORLD!!! Whoa, it bothered me to be spoken to like that. Who was she to say that? I stuttered out excuses, like these ones I still push down every single time;

I’m nervous

It feels self-serving doesn’t it, a bit boastful

There are many poets so much better than I

It seems inappropriate to ask if I may read, silence is just easier

Um…I don’t think it’s that good yet, maybe a few more edits

Edie looked at me straight on and said it again…How dare you! It’s your gift! It’s your voice! So you’d do good at getting over yourself and sharing your work. (Well, maybe she didn’t say it precisely like that, but I remember clearly her emotion, her gentle yet persistent tone. I often share those words with young emerging and nervous poets I spend time with.)

It’s been a while. The last few days as described above have included solitude, silence and the joy of allowing my heart to free up my fingers and journal some thoughts and some poems. Here is one of them. For you, Edie.

Praise the Mutilated and Aching World

after Adam Zagajewski’s ‘Try to Praise the Mutilated World’


Praise the mutilated and aching world.

Praise civil rights activists and pamphlet propaganda,

praise the moment after

you watch the Youtube video and can no longer say

I did not know. Praise your confusion. Praise your disbelief.

Praise the ones who call it evidence, or conspiracy,

and sleep soundly with both points of view.

Praise each pair of opposites, the terror and the beauty,

disgust and delight, the wildness within us

and the sea, sky, and expansive forests

that swallow men and their wives.

Like the elderly man, axle deep in snow

at the end of a logging road, who suggested his wife

stay right here, stay warm, and I will go for help.

Praise his half-frozen body

and the wolves who received his offering.

Praise her waiting, for days.

Praise the sway of nighttime hydrangea bouquets

and dead black stares of roof rats chirping

like beautiful birds. Praise their goings out

and comings in for seed and vegetables.

Praise their diseased droppings.

Praise copulations of wet salmon

over gravel substrated shallows, praise

their slick fins and gaping gills.

Praise homefires in our wood stoves

and firestorms in our neighbourhoods,

praise the smoke, the candled trees,

the displaced and crispened wildlife.

Praise equally the ash smothered front lawns

and ash crossed over foreheads in remembrance.

Praise each fickle choice and self-righteous justification.

Praise lonely and never alone.

Praise here and hereafter.

Praise Him whom you have not seen but believe may be who he says he is.

Praise Him. Praise Her. Praise Us.

Praise the mutilated and aching world.



Benjamin’s real story…

holding out hope

Benjamin, 38.

He has a sense of joy and laughter!

We all go through trials and hardships in life. We have our ups and downs. These life experiences are just dealt with differently by each person. Some people may become engulfed in their work, others may become closed off, some may reach out to find comfort and some may get lost in addictions…a different story for each.

Now Benjamin is someone I met many years ago. He has a rough exterior that might make others misconstrue him for someone he is not. This is because after years of trials and hardships, experiencing times where he felt judged by the “outside world”, he had to create this persona. But Benjamin is genuinely a kind hearted guy.

Benjamin’s birth mother put him up for adoption when he was just a baby…so the Lord placed him in a good Christian family where he was…

View original post 273 more words


holding out hope

Today is my birthday. I am choosing to spend this part of my day alone and writing. It is good for me.

People might be surprised to know I was excommunicated from my church for marrying my husband, over 29 years ago. I have denied my pain, making light of it whenever it came up in conversation. I made it about my husband’s woundedness, rather than my own.

Oh, I knew what would happen. I grew up in a fundamentalist church, and knew their stand on being “unequally yoked.” When the elders contacted me about my engagement to a Catholic, I agreed to meet with them. No big deal, really. A formal letter was read to the church announcing my “outside place.” Friends and family I had grown up with, shunned us. My finance never understood why the church would turn against us, rather than rally around us. But I always knew why. I chose him. I still do.

Years later…

View original post 359 more words


Sometimes stories are shockingly painful to hear. This beautiful woman went through a lot in her formative years. Dear Eyvonne, may your life continue now in love and in peace.

holding out hope


Eyvonne is a compassionate woman with a special place in her heart for dogs. She carries dog treats with her everywhere she goes. Last Christmas, Eyvonne brought several boxes of dog treats to me in the art studio. She asked if I might deliver them to the SPCA along with a card thanking them for taking care of the animals. Yvonne says once Metro Arts finds a home she would like us to make a poster filled with all the animal pictures we can find. She wants me to write this on the poster,

Save the animals, and find good homes for them. Save all the wild creatures too!”

When I asked Eyvonne to share her story, she said she had a long, long, history and that it was already written down. So I met with her and she showed me a large crinkled piece of blue paper, and on it was a poem. This is a poem, I said. It is the…

View original post 547 more words


Sometimes I shake my head in disbelief, not knowing the whole story but knowing the weight of some details that are almost unbearable to hear. There is such resilience to the human spirit, and I pray that Jackie does not give up, but God continues to bring enough, just enough, to her. The sacred trust of story. Thank you, Jackie.

holding out hope

Jackie, 30

I feel like I’m a thousand years old some days. People come to me for help and someone to talk to, but they pass by and don’t seem to notice when I’m crying. I don’t get a break. Some days it feels like it goes from bad to catastrophic. I don’t want to wake up some days. I go to bed crying and wake up crying.

There have been some good times. Until last year I had a home for three years. Once I was clean for 4 1/2 years. I worked for a long time as a dishwasher in the Leon drop-in centre before it closed. There’s not many times I can say I was genuinely happy, but when I remember back to when I was living with my adopted Dad in Penticton, I was really happy then.

I started using when I was 13 and having…

View original post 238 more words


Each story is a privilege to hear and to write down. What a sacred trust this is. “Hope is not a feeling. It’s a choice; an act of faith.” Laurence East.

Please read, and if you feel compelled to, please share.


holding out hope

Nick, almost 50

My story goes from being like everyone else to being trapped on the street and trapped in the government health care system. My parents divorced when I was 8 and I went into foster care. My childhood was marred by insanity. I beat up my teachers because they wouldn’t teach me, so I was caned daily.

They thought I was unteachable. They labeled me, then ignored me.

I knew I wanted to be something. Someone told me I needed an education, so at 14, for two years I sat in a closet in the classroom and taught myself so I could join the army and escape. I struggle with PTSD from military trauma and schizophrenia.

I came to Vancouver and met a Korean Rev. through his daughter. She took me to church and I met Jesus. At this time, I had a mental lapse and he kept me for two…

View original post 471 more words


A brief crossing of paths…and he is gone from us.

holding out hope

He smiles a sad smile, a bit reserved, a bit wary, and I say hello. Would you like a bowl of soup. Yes, please, he says. I serve him up a healthy portion, he takes it from me and joins the others in the room who hunch over their steaming bowls, enjoying some comforting warmth on a cold day.

I’ve met Kelvin previously, he’s always polite, quiet, but he will talk if you engage. He is a good looking young man, keeps to himself mostly. I wonder what his story is?

After lunch he comes over to me and says can you help me please? I say yes, anything. He says, can you help me in the clothing room? I say sure. The two of us look though the clothing for what he needs…a pair of shorts that he can work out and go swimming in. I’m trying to get in shape he…

View original post 266 more words


A new blog I’m posting with Metro Community, all true, inspiring and surprising stories about real people. Starting with their names!

holding out hope

Diane Larsback is a proud First Nations woman; her people are Cree and Iroquois. She is a survivor and a poet.  For many years she struggled with her addictions and lived rough on the street.  She told us this powerful story of kindness shown by two complete strangers which became one such incident that eventually convinced her to seek her recovery and healing.


I dimly remember crawling out from underneath a bridge in Kelowna where I had spent a hellish night trying to stay warm while my body and mind cried out for alcohol.

By this stage in my addiction i was drinking to keep “the shakes” away and anyone who knows how this feels knows it is as close to death as one can get.

This particular morning happened to be Christmas. I was worried I wouldn’t be able to find any stores open so i could steal…

View original post 536 more words

The practicality of metaphor

July, 2014, I buy several books of poetry in a Belfast booksmith, including “Selected Poems” by Belfast’s son John Hewitt. I pack the book into my luggage and take it with me on the next leg of my journey; a pilgrimage of sorts, a homecoming, and a mysterious gathering of strangers walking and tale telling and music-man healing and Guinness tasting, in Kilkeel and Cultra. The book remains packed for several days.

July 10, 2014, and I cozy in to a little Kilkeel cottage with my fellow pilgrims. I take note of the country walls about us, invisible lines of heft and pull and balance, boulders gathered from the fields and lifted into place, and the walls find their way into my psyche.


Sunday July 13, 2014, we begin a time of silence and solitude, from 1 pm until the following day at 11:30 am. We are asked to choose a slip of paper or two with words ‘that serve.’ I choose a Thomas Merton quote, then find myself seeking out the Hewitt book of poetry and a phrase that sticks;

I am the green branch asking for the flower

John Hewitt, ‘The Green Shoot’

I take a walk, chewing on the words, repeating them over and over in my head. I walk along the county roads, bounded by country walls. Again the walls. I look. I listen. I return after a couple of hours and write;

The walls, always the walls, my eyes drawn equally to the spaces as much as to the weight of boulders. At first I think it is the wind they must build for, a feat of engineering with revelation built in. If they build and leave room enough for the wind to pass through, the walls will stand forever. But the more I look, the less I see of stone and more evidence of green invasion, seed and wayward bits of bracken carried by wind or wild beast finding cracks and crevices rich with possibility to root in, find purchase. And so a transformation takes place in the spaces, created hollow where light and rain and soil collect. The wall does what the wall does…encloses, defines, stands firm with unquestioned ownership. But is is also a catchment for transformative work, where green shoots take root and thrive, become saplings, become trees, where ferns and grasses fill margins, where moss softens hard surfaces and wild vines climb, and poke through. And slowly, the stones, displaced from the field and placed by hand, become unified by green…and then, small creatures build their homes, raise young, trust in the shelter of the green mass that is slowly enveloped by the earth.

I am the green shoot asking for the flower

I am the green shoot asking

I am the green

I am…

This line of this poem in this place for me becomes a prayer as I consider my life and my ask for the flower and a feeling that change is coming through the angst and doubt and struggle I find myself in. I believe in my purpose. I believe I ask God and he hears me. So many of the things I previously held true are dropping away, and yet the truth that I exist and I ask and God hears and gives good gifts remains. This God is close up. This is a new way of being. Can I dare ask this…yes, I can.

I am the green shooting asking for the flower

I chew on this for the entire time of solitude. I write and write and write. I cry. I sleep. I wake and write again. I have other encounters that impact my spirit in a deep way. I return to Kelowna. I live my life differently than before I left. I make difficult decisions. I withdraw from church. I have written of this before. The journey before Northern Ireland, and after.

TODAY: Thursday, May 26, 2016 I recall the line of the poem, almost two years past, and so much since then. The metaphor of the walls still speaks, but I return to this other metaphor of the green shoot and…suddenly I see flowers…maybe not the flower but maybe, just maybe there are more than just one?

How audacious flowers are, how heady and lovely and unnecessarily necessary to the life of the plant, or not? Why else do we green so, why else does the sap flow, if not to some glorious showing of what is happening in us, and the possibility that the flower comes before the fruit. I don’t know what it all means, but I know some things…

like this…

My part of messy belonging within the Metro Community, the gift of bearing witness and holding space for the beautiful broken ones on the streets and how they are just like me, has become vital and fragrant to me, like a flower

and like this…

a community awards nomination has been gifted to me, unexpectedly, and with humility and surprise I see it is also a flower, whether I win or not, I am opening to this possibility that who I am is who I am supposed to be

and like this…

that while there is so much I can no longer say for certain, and while some of my theology is deconstructed or rebuilt or may be forever lacking structure, I only need look at the glory of the natural world and all God’s creatures and at this incredible life I get to live, and my heart bursts open like a flower, the fragrance of gratitude

Back to the wall…and I have to wonder what it is about the wall that matters now, aside from the perspective of the green shoot and the flowering, I mean? And why must it mean anything at all, rather it is helpful for me to find meaning. I do think there is something to be considered in this wall, still something in the placement of the stones and the spaces, and still there is something about the shoots rooting in the spaces, finding a nurturing spot to grow and yes, to bloom.

What is the stone wall? I don’t know. Perhaps my core belief in God, or a foundational structure that is required to root in and cling to? Perhaps. Or the idea of inert stony places in our lives coming alive, assimilated into an ecology of plants and creatures and all living things connected when there is room enough to believe it so? I don’t know. I leave that to you to consider.

Many years ago my then very young son Malcolm told me there were messages in the winter trees that God wanted him to hear. What a gift that he knew that then.

And so, I wonder…



DSC_0035_2When I was quite young (spoiler alert) my Grandmother used to sew. Each summer I would be excited to receive my “pop top” with matching short set, exciting to me because I was wearing something new and my darling Grandmother had made it with her own hands. She used a pattern, probably Butterick or McCall, and though it was not a unique pattern, each set was made with her choice of fabric and thread, which made it one-of. I felt like a princess in my new summer handmade homespun outfit!

In autumn, I remember collecting leaves and saving them between two sheets of waxed paper, ironed carefully using my mother’s iron and an old pillow case. Or, pressing leaves between the pages of heavy books, which was even more successful at maintaining the vibrancy of colours, albeit leaves were very fragile afterwards. We did this with flowers too.

At Christmas, we often baked using hand written recipes from family members or close friends, meticulous explanations of how to craft welsh cakes and shortbread and empire cookies, and we anticipated then enjoyed every morsel of our traditional treats.

Often, at family gatherings, we congregated in the living room and laughed ourselves silly over black and white home movies, hazy images of mom and her cousins riding a calf or sledding or standing proudly in front of a new family sedan. The clicking sound of the film as it was pulled through the projector and the click clack faster and faster at the very end of the reel.

We led fairly simple lives, I guess, a middle income family with strong connections to our cousins and aunts and uncles and grandparents, country roots, and an earthiness that translated into deep pleasure for me in enjoyment of simple things like riding a hay wagon during harvest, or feeding the barn cats a plate of warm milk, or feeling the rough tongue of a calf on the palm of my hand, or watching sheet lightening over the fields on warm August nights. I don’t recall any feeling of competition, or any need to prove what I was doing compared to anyone else. My experiences were just that…mine. There was a lovely innocence to the time, sure I was innocent then, but when I look at my life now I wish for more of that simple way of being, unto myself.

Today there is an insidiousness about social media that has me wondering what we are doing, and why? Even as I type this blog post it feels like more of the same thing…writing, which I do love, but then I will cast my thoughts upon the internet waters in hope of…what…that you will click “like” or follow my blog, or like me? Rather than living unto myself I often live unto others.

My access to these ways of sharing myself, my pursuit of connection, wide connection, (I do enjoy the contact with those who live far away, family members whom I seldom see) encourages me to craft my life into something a little larger than it is were you sitting beside me on the couch right now, sharing a tea and a story. I post photos to Facebook, share my joy, but I wonder is my joy better served by turning back to those who have created it within me. And I wonder does social media serve me, or does it master me, subtly, yet clearly, and to what greater good?

I am beginning to pay more attention to how I present myself, and how my online virtuality spills over into my reality, affected by every single friend that rolls through my news feed. I see trends, new norms, creating expectations which are both unrealistic and burdensome at times, because truth is everyone else is tweaking their image a little bit too.

If I were to spend too much time on Pinterest, for example, I admit my homemade cookies would beg for a better design, my Christmas decor would never match up, my photos would be carefully edited prior to posting, and photo shoots would be required for a myriad of occasions I never thought necessary before. I love design, so research on Pinterest can be really fun, but it can also be overwhelming to see the finesse and extreme excellence of every craft and upcycle and undertaking. I am exhausted with the thought of meeting this pimped out status quo before I begin my own DIY. The stakes are too high!

I think we (sometimes/often) need to leap off the virtual bandwagon and rediscover the power of simple homespun imagination…unplugged. Which is very hard to do…maybe impossible? No, it is possible. Yes, it is!

Because sometimes I get a taste of it, and it is good. Like last night I watched a very sweet unpolished video of a bunch of kids dressed up in homemade costumes, telling a story in the form of a play. It was that tickle trunk dress-up my kids used to do when they were little. The lady who made the video said, sorry about the audio…but it was fine…it was more than fine…it was extraordinary. It allowed me to…breathe…to laugh…to enjoy the silly wonderful way of mistakes and imperfection and sweet innocence of those kids doing their play oblivious to any need to be…better…or slicker…or more excellent. It was pure. It was perfect.

And so I wonder, in this virtual world, with everything, and I mean EVERYTHING, available to me at a few clicks of my keyboard…can I find a way of being without all that, or with just a little bit, or sometimes? I really don’t need to know everything. I don’t need to do and post photo shoots of my Christmas crafts or cookies. I just need to know a few things, and give myself over to the pleasure of each new experience, in the moment. I need to trust  who I am, with quirky imperfections, uniqueness, imagination, my way of being and doing, is…one of…and good enough. I can be the homespun version of me and create an authentic life. And maybe I won’t blog about it either.

Slow down, log off, focus, breathe…

I wonder…