April's lessons continued.  The lesson of impermanence through ethereal spring beauty reimerged for her.   All year she waited impatiently for the moment to spotlight her adored cherry blossoms.  This delicate blossom, so luminous;  a celebrated beacon of beauty against the dark grey skys of a cool spring.  Glorious,  yet achingly temporal.  Letting go had  never been her strong suit.   She  tensed her body and prepared.  On her last calendar day she mustered the  courage and blew soft pink snow kisses to May, showering the damp earth with cherry blossoms, grateful her part in the renewal was done for another year.   

  Letting go of her attachment to all of  her creations,
                                                    her body relaxed.    Allowing the transition.   

The gift of impermanence giving way to the next wave of growth.  A  robust black raven dusted her crown with its wing on landing,  honouring  her with a job well done.  She whispered her gratitude to the bird.   She had once again earned a rest and snuggled back into her reading for another year.  

APRIL  knew her blossoms were late this year.    She was distracted by reading the history of humankind.


Ms NGH/2017

The Bones of Winter

The last day of February rolls out.
Chilly. Clear. Familiar.

Patches of snow.  Patches of dirt.   A quiet, bored energy prevails.

Dullness. Ordinariness. A day easily forgotten as so many other unremarkable days blur into one another.

But what of it?

The stars remain behind the clouds.   Life stirs deep in the soil unseen by the naked eye.   Velocity and time continue their kinky relationship.   Nothing is truly more or less dull in this day, than what we so easily celebrate as the glory of a summer month.

February merely demands more of us, by offering less.

It prompts us to remain curious about the journey. Poised for the shoe to drop. Tensions of a waning winter build. In prairie cold places, this is also known as cabin fever build up.

It is a stark offering.   Tired bare branches reach long, sinewy fingers; intricate silhouettes of their winter bones against the fleshy sky.

Oh, I do long for the warmth of sun on my cheek.   My eyes yearn now for the pop of spring blossoms,  like cotton candy for the retina. To unburden oneself from the weight of wool jackets.... the sheer lightness of being wearing one's own skin again!

Yet, February is the anchor that holds us steadfast to winter moments.   An undervalued stillness.   A quiet that regenerates us.   IT serves to both prepare and amplify our joyful bursting forth into a different kind of feverish pitch-----
SPRING!

Perhaps February is an unsung hero that showcases so beautifully the power of patience.  Stillness.
Mining the dream.

It is the bare bones of winter which gifts us the distinct and delicate birthing of spring.

Wherever  you  go,  there  you  are.


I met my shadow self again in the most unlikely of places.   A triangle of deep grey luxurious bamboo lycra.

'What, what, now?... ' You say.

For me it's more, “Ack!”  a la  Bill the Cat!

The lovely Couture Designer, Genevieve, instructs us on the first day of a 5 weekend workshop to create  our own garment. 
            Her prompts include--”hold the fabric,

                        go with the flow,
                                                  feel the bias,
                                                                          the weight,

                           feel the energy—f  l  o  w   with it...”

Sounds simple enough.

But, after my 1st pin is secured in the mannequin, I find I am on a frozen ice jam more than the relaxed river of silk  I imagined.   The fabric tangles in my fingers as my mind tangles competing thoughts.

First I willfully force the direction and the shape of material- -the   fabric  resists.

It's an epic power struggle already.

And there I am,  observing myself mocked by this unassuming  triangle  of  cloth.

The deceptive simplicity of this act, draping fabric, allows me the clarity to see the four deadly horsemen of my inner apocalypse.

Clinging,  controlling,  comparing  and  complicating   everything!
Suddenly, a new fifth horseman gallops towards the posse-- self criticism.


Perhaps  you  have encountered such bandits yourself?

The antidote to their poisoning effect?

Chill.   Relax.    Flow.    Allow.    Yield.    Trust thyself.

Effort without tension.

Deep breath.

Unpin. 

Start Again.
(This time, side step the dung left by the horsemen.)

When I do relax, forget my agenda and let my limbs and instincts weave together with the sensual flow of fabric  (rather than my signature overthinking) the fabric and I both soften, like intimate dance partners  and begin to trust one another.   Together we begin to mold a dress form.

The sun is out  and glints even brighter against the mirror of my inner reflections.  Humbling lessons can step on our well shod feet in the most surprising encounters.  Observing oneself in our own learning curves illuminates our deeply help patterns—unless we are able to hold beginners mind, without ego.

Not generally my  strength.

Once I allowed the process, the process allowed for my inner flow and easily dissolved all the clinging and controlling  into a refreshing drink of creativity; and time flew.

To visit the sublime couture designs of Ms. Genevieve herself,
visit her website at: http://www.genevievegrahamclothing.com/     A revelation in hand sewn originals.

So many  paths  to  brilliance.

Undim your light.

nh 2017 

I rather enjoy hiding out when the world is noisy and mayhem ensues.   The dizzying days leading up to Christmas  encircling us  like a spiral staircase, spinning, heady;  is the perfect time to seek refuge.  The  brief days and long nights of winter.   I like the focus night time brings, and as the darkness begins at 4.30...there is lots of it to be savoured.

The permission to sleep. The permission to rest.  Delicious.

And what better way to curl up and slow down, then with a book.   A wandering, wondering, wild tour of unknown territory; down the rabbit hole of wooly imaginings.  Or deft learning.

Books are intimacies we explore, relationships we dive into, with a clear beginning,  middle and  end.  A good book is like a great friend or love affair.  One is always happy to see them and it's almost  always equally hard to say good bye. 

Bittersweet partings catch your breath. 

At times constant companions, some you crack the cover and never put down again; others you flip through and push aside with disdain.  Occasionally, you may even go through a stack at your bedside; on hand for a brief dalliance at your whim, unaffected if you are reading other tomes.

Some reread books many times.

Some never finish them.... Abandoned.   Heartbroken.  A cold shudder shimmies through you at the thought of unread pages.

The beginning, like a worthy courtship.

A flirtation catches your eye.  A flashy cover perhaps.  Alliteration, or a metaphor, you simply cannot resist. Curiousity builds, a mysterious attraction..."  Why this story?  Why not the one with the clever booksleeve? The promise of an exciting plot? " No, no, it's definitely the quiet, plain bookish one in the corner that  appeals most.

Then comes the excitement of the first date!

Your thoughts preoccupied all day by the object of your affection, waiting anxiously for that bewitching hour  to  gently touch  for the first time.   Fingertips barely skim the smooth surface.    The deep inhale for the smell of your new book.  The first clean page turn.   Shudders.

And, like many love affairs, the ending comes all too quickly.

The writing was on the wall, you could feel the relationship thinning out through your fingers, lopsided, top heavy, the foundation eroded.

Reflecting back, perhaps  it was about the time you spilled tomato juice on it's pages, unable to forgive your carelessness; or the flashing, dynamic prose, once such a vibrant challenge to decipher, until it cruelly pointed out your stupidity.   It's unpredictable nature left you ragged and tense.

Perhaps there was a crisis when they realized you were reading other books as well, and they weren't into your lending library lifestyle.

Regardless,  however they end,  closing a beloved book is a heartache.

Sensing the end is  nigh results in sadness, stalling, avoidance.....

 There is a mourning period.  Forlorn regret, it is over.  Even deep  sorrow.

Weeks go by before one can even think of fondling another. Leafing through cheap paperbacks, a mere distraction. The wounds, the papercuts, the stains, torn pages, missing passages....what was it all about? You try and reread a chapter or two only to discover,

“I don't remember that! Or, I skipped this section it was too upsetting....”

When you are really lucky, there comes along an epic book, so beguiling, it holds you enraptured.

And yet, one can never regret the mis-education that some book folly brings.  It makes you the avid, discerning reader you are today.   Still passionate, still curious, longing for more  learning.

No one ever forgets their favourite reads.   Imprinted timelessly like fossils  in our soul.


                                                                                                      ***

The end of each year part of my  'ring in the new' ritual  is collecting a bevy of  titles  that thrill me. 
What will you be reading this new year? What reading did you celebrate in 2016?


.....and  by  my bedside waiting patiently for me:

Beyond Words: what animals think and feel   Carl Safina
Fearless      Arianna Huffington
My Life on the Road     Gloria Steinem
Sapiens: a brief history of humankind    Yuval Noah  Harari

Sublime, expansive, juicy, vexing reading to you all, in 2017!   Happy    New     Year!!     

Leonard Cohen.

How could you leave us now, this wretched week of
agonizing defeat

hate and ignorance rise in the south
confusion and disbelief

Leonard Cohen
How could you leave us behind in this world?

I cried out in denial when I heard the news
the smoke and embers  overthrew me

Did you know I loved you?
Touching the edge of  sin renewed me

Not this week.
It cannot be true,

to lose this soulful starlight?

'we don't want it darker.'..I call out in vain
another paradox,

you killed the flame--
or did you leave a crack in the universe, for the light to seep in

Hallelujah.

eery quiet blankets my world
remembrance:

           fallen soldiers,
                                   fallen poets,
                                                        fallen civilians....


I don't want it darker,
let's light another flame.


Hallelujah.


   
   11/11/2016
c. norma hoeppner

'Action is eloquence', as  Shakespeare  defines.

It stands to reason then, that the inverse is also true;  indecision is paralysis.  For example,  I have had upteen ideas for blogs in the past 3 months and yet, no posted output. Topics from competitiveness in the creative nature, to Olympian inspiration, to travel logs, reflections on aging, agism,  summertime blues, reviews of canadian cities, culture and landscape.   So, why the inactivity then?

A constricting combination of self doubt, (what's original? does it matter? Why am I doing this?) and faltering indecisiveness have restricted my writing muscles into a frozen cramp of creative rigor mortis. It could be called the infamous writer's block, but perhaps more fitting; indolence, distraction, and generalized anxiety and neurosis overwhelming the creative circuit.   Routine and discipline are important for writing, I am bad at both, at least with prose.

Sharing can feel unnerving and vulnerable at best, even privately and publicly? Well, let me tell you, it takes courage and a bit of steely resolve;  Or perhaps some would  rather say,  a bout of hapless foolishness and an oversized ego, to post your own words to the Black  hole of the cyber universe.

The frozen knot of my  immobilization comes in part from constant evaluating and comparison;
Is this of value?(how?) Does it matter? (to whom?) DO I and others even enjoy it? This last question is the only one I can adequately answer.  

(So please do comment,  cheer,  jeer, or complain...as civilly as possible, I humbly request of  you)

Naturally, certain subjects appeal more to some then others.  Some reflections hit the spot, others simply hit a nerve. It is always a matter of perspective.  Life itself is subjective.  Reading material, creative contributions, endeavours, what one deems an adventure  is always very personal, like choosing a perfume.  Of course, these days there are far too many allergens and asthma episodes to be wearing fragrance.  It is indeed a complicated era, to be marching through  one's journey on Terra firma.

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, … '' this opening held serious impact as a young girl when I first read Charles Dickens' wise words from the opening of A tale of Two Cities. His words have indeed staid the test of time and could be held true in fact, of ANY era in history.  


His lines in fact, encapsulate the very nature of living.  Today, we work at finding the joy, being in the moment, appreciating the now, while struggling with stress about the bleak global future, reacting to news and demands of the day and juggling the crazy busyness of modern life.  Feeling at times overwhelmed can even lead to over-correcting this until a state of underwhelm is achieved, or numbness, creating  a strange creepy stress of it's own.


Is there an antidote to the angst of this cycle?

It  may  simply  be  taking  action.


The art of making swift decisions is POWERFUL.  I think it is also a learned skill for many of us.  Swift, to be clear,  is also different then rash or impulsive.   It simply avoids the dithering, the procrastination.  Decisions free up our energy, bringing clarity, focus, and renewal.   Even when the choice at hand is very difficult, painful or complex, a decision can launch us into the momentum of healing, letting go and feeling lighter;  which is often energized and more expansive.   As the buddha teaches, 'pain happens, but suffering is optional.'

Sometimes the decision should be simple, and isn't...say which shirt, shampoo or peanut butter to buy! One can get buried under copious detail researching ingredients, company practices and price comparisons; the mass options and choices  of everyday presented us in today's western world is utterly astonishing, gluttonous and confusing.   And potentially  a HUGE  time sucking machine.  Three choices, done. Seventeen choices........23? ..........um...........????   Wtf. 


This is where, and why,   I am training myself to be decisive. This self induced, self  administered study program has admittedly been initiated now for a few decades with intermittently poor results or forgotten application;  nevertheless, I am now happy to report that I have seen much improvement recently.


Therefore, in the spirit of decisiveness,  hence action,  I am posting this tonight.


And, as I have just returned from a spacious trip to parts of western Canada,  the next blog will be a travelogue of the grand road tour from Toronto to Ottawa, Mont -Tremblant, Quebec City, Baie Sainte-Paul, Montreal and Kingston: complete with cultural hilights, spotlights, fashion, heartwarming animals, culinary delights and disasters, all seen through the golden fall lens of September's soft light.

There, another decision. I'm feeling chuffed.

Now you try it!   YES!  If there is something that has been weighing on your mind, or dwelling in your proverbial background taking up valuable real estate;  and you simply haven't  yet made decisions about what ails you, just  try it.   Whatever the nature of the matter.   Chuck it, chop it, recycle it,; call them,  block  them, invest in it or sell it.   Enroll, drop out.   Invest in yourself.   Sure, outcomes may remain uncertain but notice how you feel after a decision;  isn't that lovely?  

Your own energy rises again and focus returns.   Action is eloquence after all.


Next up:

Part one: Finding one's inner compass through travel.
Part deux: Glad to be Canadian: and here's why.

Stay tuned.

in gratitude,  NH. oct/2016

Remnants of July blew down my front street today,
like a parade of ghosts riding erratic tumbleweeds

gossiping gaily in the distance

I felt you as heat against my bare skin;
a half bitten ruby cherry squirting lusciously on my tongue

the sonic swell of distant tourist traffic rises
like covered bread dough in Grandma's country kitchen

summer swoons in a billowy dress,  a little drunk again
on her own delights

as the parade of frenetic ghosts shake sunbeams loose
through delicate fingers of pine

the sudden solitude fills an unquenchable loneliness

a fiery arbutus exhalts its arms toward the endless blue sky
as a drenched dancer sweating their prayers

good bye sweet, sweet July--

your hand brushed my neck so softly
the hairs stood on guard like a platoon of soldiers-

just the bare impression of you
brings me to my knees.


-N. Hoeppner, jul 31/2016