1000 Voices Speak For Compassion, Feminism, Guest Blogs and Featured Spotlights, Kerry's Causes, Memoir and Reflections, Shows and Events, Special Occasions, TToT

TToT: Jagged Echos Off The Snare – Wet and Dry, #10Thankful #UnitedNations2016 #WomensEqualityDay #HappyInternautDay

Every single day that my vision fades, no matter how slowly over time, I remain, to some extent, a visual person. The sights I once saw, colours which used to be so bright, they have never left my brain. I attempt to bring what I still can’t help seeing in my mind’s eye out or else I go a little loopy.

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This is what I like to call “BlacK and Yellow”.

“I’ll be yours instead in my head. I’ll be yours instead.”

Sweet World – Braids, from “Companion”

Of course, this song doesn’t sound nearly as thrilling here, but the line from above seemed to fit with the visual images in my head of which I am attempting to do my best to bring forward through visual art.

Nothing is so black and white or, in my case, black and yellow.

🙂

I’m thankful for black and yellow, the darkest and the lightest colours that I can only now see such a vague idea of, compared to how I will always remember them.

I am thankful that I had a few moments of pure blissful peace. All I did was play Braids on top quality sound and let that stereo sound take me away from everything. It was as close to meditation and drowning all my other chaotic thoughts out as I ever get.

I’m thankful for siblings, such as an older one who is understanding and does not mind helping me out with a writing project which has the potential of being huge. All it took was a request and my brother was all ready to go. I trust his insights and impressions after all this time. I appreciate that more than he knows.

That my younger brother makes such breathtaking music, with his friends, with his own talents, and now with his sister.

😉

He plays, unafraid, loudly and I feel the vibrations of that music’s power through the floor under my feet and into my heart and soul. He is so cool, his outlook on life and on getting on with it, as best we can, and not allowing negative thoughts and feelings to drag you down, no matter how hard they try.

And also for the pictures that show a new life and my sister’s own strength in giving that new and developing life a safe and healthy place to grow, for as long as it needs.

I’m thankful for fresh peach soft ice cream sundaes
.

I’m thankful for women who speak up on the most vital matters that I wish I myself could do/say more about,

such as this woman in particular.

She is one of my heroes, in feminism, in literature, and in the art of just being a decent human being who stands up for what’s right. She spoke most recently at this United Nations 2016 meeting for World Humanitarian Day.

I am thankful for the thing which happened 25 years ago this week.

Happy Internaut Day. With the creation of the World Wide Web,

thanks to Tim Berners-Lee,

I would soon be able to find out anything I could ever wish to know and a whole new world of possibilities would open up to me, so many others, and especially the visually impaired.

I am thankful for the violin lesson I had, even for the rain that soaked me and made my shoes all squeaky as I stepped inside the music school. I am trying to get past feelings of silliness when my teacher shows me another technique she learned as a child. I am improving, slowly but surely.

I am thankful for the kindness and compassion shown to me by a nurse practitioner. She took the time to speak to me, not making any attempt to rush me, and I felt like she was really listening to what I had to say about my own years of illness and pain. I did my best to explain my many medical issues and how I’ve dealt with them. I tried to explain how far I’ve come, in making an effort in spite of the pain and the stress, to live my life. Not all medical professionals are nearly as understanding or empathetic. I don’t take such an attitude for granted when I come across it. I am lucky to have the medical clinic to reach out to in my town. It wasn’t so easy getting there.

I am thankful the Toronto Blue Jays are doing so well and that they won the game my brothers and my father were at. Here’s hoping for more of the same, as we head into autumn and a possible second year-in-a-row of playoff potential for our only Canadian baseball team in Toronto.

I am thankful my nephew is so big into the planets right now, just like I’ve been since childhood.

We enjoyed singing along to his favourite planet tune, even though I told him:

“In my day we had nine planets.”

Why is Pluto no longer a planet?

Pluto will always be a planet to me.

🙂

I leave off this post with what I’m calling “Circulation” even if those I’ve asked all guessed I was trying to draw the planets, but I originally began with only the images of coloured circles. I don’t mind. I love the planets.

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Things change. Nothing stays the same. I am thankful that I have learned to recognize my thankfulness.

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Feminism, Guest Blogs and Featured Spotlights, Memoir and Reflections, Song Lyric Sunday

Good Riddance, #SongLyricSunday

When J.K. Rowling finished writing the final chapter of the last Harry Potter book (The Deathly Hallows), she was being recorded for a documentary on a year of her life.

I was her newest, biggest, huge fan and I watched that documentary over and over again, soaking up every word she spoke, in response to the journalist’s questions.

The one scene had her at her laptop, locked away in a hotel room somewhere in Scotland, and finishing the book, joyous with elation and then a song comes on that I won’t ever forget.

From then on I was and am still a Lily Allen fan.

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And this song was called “Smile”, which seemed to fit the mood Rowling must have had on completing the novel series she had been working on for more than ten years, really since she suddenly acquired the idea of a boy wizard with a lightning bolt scar on his forehead, on a train back in 1990.

The song plays for a short time and then its cut off, just as the true mood of this particular tune is revealed.

***

Note: Some strong language ahead.

When you first left me I was wanting more
But you were fucking that girl next door, what you do that for (what you do that for)?
When you first left me I didn’t know what to say
I never been on my own that way, just sat by myself all day
I was so lost back then
But with a little help from my friends
I found a light in the tunnel at the end
Now you’re calling me up on the phone
So you can have a little whine and a moan
And it’s only because you’re feeling alone
At first when I see you cry,
Yeah, it makes me smile, yeah, it makes me smile
At worst I feel bad for a while,
But then I just smile, I go ahead and smile
Whenever you see me you say that you want me back
And I tell you it don’t mean jack, no, it don’t mean jack
I couldn’t stop laughing, no, I just couldn’t help myself
See you messed up my mental health I was quite unwell
I was so lost back then
But with a little help from my friends
I found a light in the tunnel at the end
Now you’re calling me up on the phone
So you can have a little whine and a moan
And it’s only because you’re feeling alone
At first when I see you cry,
Yeah, it makes me smile, yeah, it makes me smile
At worst I feel bad for a while,
But then I just smile, I go ahead and smile
Lalalalalalalalalalalalalalalala lalala
At first when I see you cry,
Yeah, it makes me smile, yeah, it makes me smile
At worst I feel bad for a while,
But then I just smile, I go ahead and smile Lalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalala
At first when I see you cry,
Yeah, it makes me smile, yeah, it makes me smile
At worst I feel bad for a while,
But then I just smile, I go ahead and smile

Smile – Lily Allen – (lyrics)

***

Helen asked us to share lyrics about

anger,

which I’ve always said is just a cover-up for the emotions of fear and sadness and the feeling of loss that we all experience.

I’ve always admired Allen’s spirit. She’s feisty and tough, not afraid to show her anger, especially in her younger years and before she became more settled, with her partner and children. As far as I know, from what she’s released recently, she is happy in her personal life. This, however, hasn’t totally dampened her no bullshit British female attitude. She is all that I am not, of which I become, even for a few fleeting moments, when I listen to her music.

In those early years she sang songs like “Smile” and in such songs her lyrics and her tone both exuded anger at times throughout.

I wanted to be so angry, to be able to purge myself of the raw rage I’d found myself experiencing. It wasn’t really worth all the trouble, I told myself, as songs like the one Carrie Underwood sang about keying a guy’s car became hit songs on the radio.

What was the point? I asked myself. I felt betrayed and let down by someone in a major way, sure, but I wasn’t really an angry person by nature, was I? It lived inside me, in some small way, like it lives in us all. I just didn’t want it to consume me. I pushed it down. I fought it. I told myself I wasn’t angry and didn’t wish pain and loneliness on any such person. I truly hoped that someone was happy, wherever life had taken them. No good could come of me wishing revenge against one who’d caused me the type of agony I didn’t believe possible previously. Lyrics were my way to let it all out, let it go, and feel better again, in some small way.

So, I like to drown my sorrows in an angry song now and again, to help me feel all the feels, but then I move right along to lyrics about other things, as I try to look to the future, one bright with mega possibilities.

Lily is always there for me though, when the anger threatens to rear its ugly head.

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FTSF, History, Memoir and Reflections, Piece of Cake, The Redefining Disability Awareness Challenge

Pieces of Me, #FTSF

The truth is, my left eye is artificial. a rod fuses my spine, keeping the curve of scoliosis at bay. My father’s kidney sits on my right side, at the front of my body, in my abdomen.

I sometimes feel like more others and other things, than I do myself.

How I grew up to be the one I am now…well, I acquired all these things along the way, making me stronger, propelling me forward.

What is artificial and what what is real?

I became who I am, with those materials and those extra, needed transplanted body parts.

It sometimes feels like I am part of some science fiction story.

I am who I am today because of all of this, but not without those people and the memories we’ve made together.

Right now, pieces of me are being kept safe, within boxes and boxes of old cassette tapes, a passing fad it seems, but even vinyl has made a comeback, so who knows what could very well come back around again one day.

On those tapes I was becoming me all those years, with the help of my family, my friends, and my doctors. They saved me, my very life, on more than one or two or a dozen occasions.

When I grew up, I knew…well, I’m still growing. Up and up and up I go. Up and back down again, as life often happens.

But as long as I have my father’s kidney (working well and taking me straight to breaking records for longest renal transplant) – nineteen years, on June 5th!

As long as I have my artificial eye where it’s supposed to be and my spine held straight, thanks to the hardware that keeps me from curving and twisting.

As long as I have my family behind me, supporting me, in whatever I do.

As long as there now exists digitized copies of those memories from childhood and the life that gave me…its best shot at stability.

Then I will be here to finish another sentence with all of you next week.

Another excellent one, with

Finding Ninee and her journey as a special needs parent

and this week’s FTSF sentence producer,

Life Through My Bioscope.

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1000 Voices Speak For Compassion, Blogging, Feminism, Guest Blogs and Featured Spotlights, History, Memoir and Reflections, Piece of Cake

Uneasy Me, #FTSF

“It’s not easy to be me.”

Superman’s Dead (It’s Not Easy) – Five For Fighting

Superman was always one of the last of the superhero stories I would choose. I was always more of a Batman girl. I don’t know how many Superman films I watched there for a while, but none of them stuck with me as being particularly interesting. I didn’t understand the whole backstory or even the definition or importance of kryptonite.

That’s why, when I read this week’s FTSF prompt, I froze in my tracks, unsure if I would write anything at all, have anything to link up with.

I looked up the meaning, refreshed my memory, but still drew a blank. Kryptonite meaning, basically, weakness and still I was coming up with nothing.

Come on, I nudged myself over the last few days. You’ve got to have a weakness. What is it? What would be the main one?

I am working on writing my memoir. It seemed like a perfect moment in time to start again, as I think back on the twenty years, exactly, that I was diagnosed with kidney disease as a frightened twelve-year-old.

Since that point I have been called brave and inspirational many many times. How did I do it? How was it that I managed to survive feeling so sick, dialysis, and surgery to have a transplanted kidney from my father?

I am not as strong as all those well-meaning family, friends, medical professionals, and acquaintances assumed. I don’t want what happened twenty years ago, what was only really a few years out of my whole life, to define me forever. I try to get past it, really, but I keep going back to it and writing my story down is a big part of that.

Sometimes I wonder if that’s even a good idea. Maybe I should just move on and look ahead. That’s what I am doing, but then I turn my head round and admit to myself that what happened during those rough months, all those years ago now, that stuff left its mark on me and I can’t honestly say I don’t look back in reflection.

My kryptonite is the past. It’s the affect a physical illness had on my body, my mind, the girl I was trying to grow into.

It influences my body image even now, as a grown woman.

When I was treated I was clearly under-weight and malnourished. I was lacking proper vitamins and minerals, things the kidneys are supposed to take care of.

I stayed stable on dialysis and I had the transplant. This got me back to a healthy state, but I went from being barely eighty pounds, maybe less, at age twelve. My puberty was hugely disrupted. I was not growing.

Once I had a working kidney, one being all you technically require, I began to gain weight. I gained weight as a side effect of more than one of the medications I had to go on.

I remember standing on our bathroom scale, realizing I was ninety-two pounds, and starting to panic. I wasn’t relieved I was gaining. I was horrified.

I was weighed every time I went on and off the dialysis machines. This was necessary, to monitor my fluid loss and gain, but it played havoc with my head. I was shown to focus on weight, at a time I shouldn’t have had to, when only months before I was pushed to put on the pounds.

Now, the weight was coming on abnormally quickly and I was visited by dieticians who went over the list of foods to stay away from if I didn’t want to gain even more weight.

So now I like my chocolate but I also like my fruit.

At Easter I love chocolate eggs, but come summer I go nuts eating strawberries, peas straight from the pod, peaches, and apples for weeks and weeks on end. They are really all I want to eat.

All in moderation. Diets don’t work. Or avoid some foods entirely?

I can list all the excuses in the book as to why exercise and weight loss hasn’t been easy for me, but I know I am not alone. I must keep plugging away at it, remaining mindful of it. I don’t want to make excuses, to use chronic pain or my blindness as reasons why I am now gradually gaining weight over time. I only get my kidney checked twice a year, but they still take my weight at the start of these appointments, and I am forced to look back and try to recall what the scale read six months before, to keep track, somewhat, of where I’m at. So although I don’t keep checking my weight on my bathroom scale every morning, I’m made to be accountable, every time November/April rolls around.

Yes, the meds have decreased, things are more moderate now, but the damage is done – floodgates have been wide open for twenty years. I deal with something so many people deal with, I know. Emotions also play a part and my psychological state becomes a factor.

Can I keep things under control? Can I not let the events of my past rule my present or influence the future?

My kryptonite are the stretch marks I’ve had (not from a pregnancy, like most women my age), but since I was on high doses of prednisone, when I was fourteen years old. I can feel the clear visible evidence of how it all began and I feel weak because I can’t keep things in balance as much of the time as I’d like, but that’s why I write about it all. I hope that part doesn’t make me weak. I don’t feel all that brave or inspirational and I don’t want the weaknesses I live with to bring me down. They do serve as reminders of the scars of my past and the toughness, as they’ve driven these bits of my past in deep.

Now I’m off to go eat a mango and some chocolate.

🙂

The brains behind this week’s FTSF is

Lisa Crisp Witherspoon

of The Golden Spoons.

Kryptonite – 3 Doors Down

And, as always, Kristi of

Finding Ninee.

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Uncategorized

TToT: Where Everybody Knows Your Name and It’s Raining Compassion, #10Thankful #LoIsInDaBl #HisNameIsGeorge

“Nothing was done for us, but the result was that we lived in our imagination.”

–Harper Lee on childhood

I decided to combine my latest TToT with Love Is In Da Blog this week and

SONG LYRIC SUNDAY.

I was asked what my favourite song from childhood was.

Cheers Theme Song

This one came to me as I watched a tribute special to James Burrows, director of such television sitcoms of my childhood and beyond as: Cheers, Frasier, Friends, The Big Bang Theory, Mike & Molly and several others like Taxi and Will & Grace.

I thought back on all the kids songs I loved when I was one and there were many, but not one song in particular came to mind. Then, I thought about how it didn’t necessarily need to be a children’s song.

TEN THINGS OF THANKFUL

I am thankful for my childhood. That’s a bit of a broad over generalization I realize, but listening to “Where Everybody Knows Your Name” made me miss it. I had a good one. Sure, I could very well be idealizing it now, but if it had been unsafe or unkind I wouldn’t be able to say it.

Sure, I had things that were hard, but they were not things that all the love in the world couldn’t help overcome, which is what I did have in abundance.

I hear that theme song from Cheers and I am automatically transformed back to my early childhood, as far back into it as I can recall anyway, with the way my family would all be in the basement and around the TV. That was back when a family really only had one television and we did not have cable, let alone a satellite dish, so our choices were limited and all the family would gather and watch one show, at a time, together. No electronic devices other than the television set. No cell phones or tablets to distract us from being a family. Not even a computer at that time.

I am thankful for the violin.

I may be including this one in my TToT every week from now on, as I learn and practice and, hopefully, improve.

I am thankful for my uncle’s patience and the time he’s giving to showing me the ropes.

He came over this week with “Violin For Dummies” and I was not offended.

🙂

He’s family and he’s not that far off. I’ve got a lot to learn. He’s got me working on a scale, starting with the open G string. Little bit at a time.

I am thankful for another successful Writer’s Circle this week.

The mystery object was a roll of duct tape with peace signs on it. Yeah, you heard me. I’ve heard of duct tape with bacon and with Duck Dynasty on it, but I had to struggle and I still needed the other group members to remind me what a peace sign looks like.

Since I couldn’t really picture it clearly, I decided to just write my story for the evening about the tape and leave the peace for another time.

I received one comment that my story was “cute”. Not sure if that’s exactly a good thing, but I took it and a few other comments that left me satisfied.

I am thankful for how well my brother is doing in his music course.

He shows me his assignments and they are songs he actually had to put together. The teacher gives all the students all the separate parts of a song, each instrument in a separate file, all the vocal tracks, and it’s the student’s job to turn them back into a song. It’s like a giant puzzle, but when he showed me the song and I realized he’d put it together from bits and pieces, (mixing as it’s called) I was so proud. I am so proud.

I am also thankful my brother agreed to come along, to check out what the game of Dungeons & Dragons is all about with me, as it was only my second time and I wasn’t sure yet if it is for me or not.

He knows me so well that I figured he might be able to give me his opinion on how he thought I seemed to fit in.

I am thankful that there have been a few days this week where I could feel spring in the air.

Of course, I enjoy February, bit of a bittersweet bond with this month, but I don’t usually like signs of warmer weather around here when it’s winter still.

I like winter when it’s wintertime, but, a few times when I felt the warmth of the sun and smelled the fresh spring scent on the breeze, I did start to look forward to more of that, I must admit.

I am thankful for

Here are all my posts for #1000Speak since its inception.

https://kkherheadache.wordpress.com/2016/02/19/celebrating-a-year-of-compassion-1000speak-loisindabl-bloglove/

I am thankful my brother talked me into listening to some relaxation/meditation/trance tracks.

I resist often, but I do need any ideas I can take to help me still my thoughts from time to time.

Waisting All These Tears – Cassadee Pope

I am thankful for Harper Lee and the story she created.

I thought about writing a tribute to her here when I heard the news, but I’ve honestly already written so much about her on this blog over the last year, with last summer’s release of Go Set A Watchman, that I felt I had already said it all, as best as I could, in those previous posts.

RIP Ms. Lee. That’s all that’s really left to say.

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Blogging, Bucket List, Feminism, Guest Blogs and Featured Spotlights, Shows and Events, Special Occasions, TToT

TToT: Share the Land, Love, and Music – Today’s the Only Day, #10Thankful #LoIsInDaBl #WorldWhaleDay

“One minute you’re waiting for the sky to fall. And next you’re dazzled by the beauty of it all.”

LOVERS IN A DANGEROUS TIME – BRUCE COCKBURN

That’s life. That’s love.

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Last week I combined

#BlogLove with Ten Things of Thankful and Finish the Sentence Friday.

Now, this week, my TToT is all about music, songs I love, because they are connected to people, places, and things I love and am thankful for.

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The theme of love is shared also through:

SONG LYRICS SUNDAY (VALENTINE’S DAY EDITION)

Sunday means music and lyrics. I found this song,

HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY

and I like its message, as today is all about love.

My previous posts on this day (Feb. 14) have been:

Valentine’s Day 2014

&

Ruby Red 2015

I am thankful for colours like red, white, and pink. They symbolize love, flowers, and the white cane I use to get around.

I am thankful for chocolate. Oh boy am I thankful for chocolate.

😉

I am thankful every time my musician brother directs my attention to a song I’ve not heard of before, even though he swears I must have heard the Valentine themed song from above at one time. He finds songs for every occasion on the calendar.

ONLY LOVE CAN BREAK YOUR HEART – NEIL YOUNG

This is true Neil.

But then The Police said it best: “Love can mend your life but love can break your heart.”

I am thankful for an excellent performance I attended the night before turning thirty-two. I pretended it was all in my honour, but the proceeds actually went to a very important cause, as this is February:

HEART AND STROKE FOUNDATION OF CANADA

It was put on by my brother and his music program (Music Industry Arts MIA).

HOTLINE BLING – GLASS FACE (DRAKE COVER)

I am thankful for Canadian influences in all areas of art: music and literature. There were several of the Canadian artists covered that I am a fan of and I had my favourites that the students orchestrated. Some sounded completely different, like Drake. His is a popular hit right now, but is a little too commercial for my liking. Glass Face’s adaptation is more chilled and mellow.

Some people might believe the point of performing a cover song is to make it sound exactly like the original, but in this case, these students showed off their many musical talents by putting their own unique spin on hit songs that most everybody already knows.

I am waiting for the entire show to become available, but I’m so glad I was there live. I became nervous, like I always do when someone I care about is about to perform. I am so impressed that anyone would have the guts and the nerve to put themselves out there like that, risking ridicule, but without taking that chance…none of us can show the world what we’re capable of.

My brother’s time up on that stage was no exception. I became emotional as he played his solo. I thought about where he was, only mere weeks ago, and how none of us dared hope he would be back to himself, artist that he was born to be, so soon. Still, there he was and I closed my eyes tight to the tears of glee and pride.

Oh, and another one of my favourite songs from that night is one that will always remind me of the videos of the eighties and of certain people. It’s a cool song really, just like some of those people.

SUNGLASSES AT NIGHT – COREY HART

It’s a song one might also associate with someone who is blind, sunglasses, shades, at night and all, but will always be a groovy one.

🙂

I am thankful for my birthday because I draw strength and motivation from every one of them I get that come around.

TODAY’S THE DAY – PINK

This song made me want to focus on the here and now. Two years ago, on my thirtieth birthday I started my blog,

BUCKET LIST,

and I have a new goal for this year. I can’t wait to see what kind of music I am playing when I turn thirty-three.

I am thankful for my growing love of the violin, not just listening, but starting to learn how to play myself.

I am thankful for all the violin recommendations coming in, to me, from friends and family. My uncle, who has been showing me the basics, he gave me a few CDs to check out and I’ve found Lindsey Stirling and she is becoming a new favourite of mine.

SHADOWS

My father wants me to look more towards Itzhak Perlman, from Fiddler on the Roof and Schindler’s List. That is likely where I first began to hear and fall in deep love with the sad melodies of the violin as an instrument.

ITZHAK PERLMAN, SCHINDLER’S LIST

However, as beautifully sad as this music is, if I were to focus on it too much, not to mention trying to shoot for perfection in trying to emulate one of the world’s best violinists, I would focus on the theme of sadness too much. It has its place, definitely, but I need a balance of Jewish tragedy and a more happy and upbeat sound, from more modern sounding violin, even Canadian Celtic sound would do.

I am thankful for music sent to me by someone, even when I rejected it on first hearing it, but later reconsider my stance on its merits.

Missing – Luca Schreiner feat. Kimberly Anne (Official Video)

That’s right. I’ve reconsidered. Caught me on a bit of a strange night, in a weird moment. With music, it’s often all about where you are at any particular moment, when you first hear a song. Sometimes, like people, some songs take a little while to grow on you.

🙂

I am thankful for the music of the most beautiful and amazing animal on earth.

BEAUTIFUL WHALE SONG

They make the best music around. Yesterday was

#WorldWhaleDay

I am thankful that, although my brother may not be the best choice to teach me musical theory for violin specifically, that he and I can hopefully jam together in future.

Actually, I couldn’t believe it when, suddenly and seemingly out of nowhere today, we were jamming. I started playing a few notes, a few of the only notes I can produce on violin so far, and he did what he does best – he started to play with me, improvising like he does when jamming with someone. It lasted a short time and I ruined the moment by laughing eventually, because I simply couldn’t believe it.

We have always had a special sister-brother bond/connection and we have these amazing discussions and conversations all the time, but this is a different form of communication, a way to connect without speaking. I would re-create it if I could, but some moments cannot be reproduced on command.

I am thankful for this.

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I have my tools, metaphorical or literal: my white cane, my pencil/pen (words), and now my bow. I think all three are more powerful than all the guns and bombs put together. The power in words and music and independence is unmatched.

BLACKBIRD

Happy White Cane Week 2016.

And congratulations,

Helen Espinosa,

who hosts “Song Lyrics Sunday”, for her engagement. Love the song.

“Nothing worth having comes without some kind of fight. Gotta kick at the darkness till it bleeds daylight.”

LOVERS IN A DANGEROUS TIME – BARE NAKED LADIES

I started and ended TToT 2016 (Valentine Edition) with a version of a favourite Canadian hit.

Which one do you like best?

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Uncategorized

Beyond the Reach, #MindfulMonday #LoIsInDaBl

“You’re twenty…something years old. It’s time to get over birthdays.”

–Don Draper, Mad Men

Oh really Don? I will be thirty-two.

🙂

On what was practically my Birthday Eve I could not sleep. I was finding it hard to turn off my brain long enough to drift off. I went from watching Friends, to Stephen Fry Live: More Fool Me, to Mad Men. I had so many thoughts swirling around in my head, so much inspiration in the words and lessons and themes, and I wanted to say everything, right then and there, but my body and also my mind craved rest and a few hours of reprieve from the onslaught.

I wondered if all the modern conveniences of things like NetFlix actually make it worse for insomniacs like myself. As much as I enjoyed all three of these distractions, I kept thinking about what it means to grow ever older with each passing year, with all the modern connections and conveniences at our collective fingertips.

Don’t know if you are familiar with Mad Men, but Don and Peggy are in the office, after hours, mostly alone. In my opinion, upon re-watching this particular episode, it seems to me to be the most pivotal turning point of their relationship, both professional and personal. It’s brilliant really, in all of its stripped-down rawness.

It’s easy to watch a show about what life was like in the 60s, to look at my own life fifty years later.

The whole episode is based, like many of them are, around an actual true historical event that took place, in this case being some all important boxing match, not unlike Super Bowl 50 of 2016 that just took place.

And then, as I first listened to the NetFlix special, the one-man show put on by the brilliant Stephen Fry, for the 2014 release of his memoir, I thought still more about time, reflection,

and MINDFULNESS.

Fry is a brilliant brilliant man. He is full of stories of his eventful life. Some made me laugh and some made me think. I did not grow up in Britain and thus I had no clue about his fame with another well-known and talented Brit, in the 80s and 90s, as I was a Canadian child who did not see British television programming all that often.

My first intro to one half of this dynamic duo was Hugh Laurie in his role in the early 2000s, as the perpetually grouchy and complicated Dr. Gregory House.

Then I learned of my favourite Harry Potter audio books being narrated, over in the UK, by someone named Stephen Fry.

Fry has stories to tell, about his long-time friendship and career with Hugh, one memorable New Year’s Day tea with Prince Charles (Charlie) and Princess Diana, and his childhood and discovery of the work of Oscar Wilde.

His time working on The Hobbit movies in New Zealand with Peter Jackson and his connection to Harry Potter writer J.K. Rowling make him someone of great interest to me already, but also because his knowledge of literature and his gift for linguistics and storytelling make him a man I am to be in awe of.

He begins his one-man show by going through a list of countries that showed him on screens in their cinemas, offering up some little anecdote or story of each country as he goes along. He speaks with sagacity of how the world is connected today, in ways both he and Wilde never could have imagined, and how we’re all so different yet the same all at once. I can’t help but to love him for his creativity and his genius. I want to listen to his words of wisdom and know I, too, will be alright.

I want to not let each passing birthday make me bitter or hard. I want to take Don Draper’s words and put them in the proper perspective, although the episode I reference here includes moments of pure disgustingness, with a business/personal rival attempting to defecate on his desk and even after Don proceeds to vomit horribly, from all the liquor he consumes throughout the show. These moments juxtapose nicely with those of deep, honest truth and sadness between the characters.

Don tells Peggy: “No use crying over fish in the sea.”

At one point Peggy (on turning twenty-six) is told by a colleague’s wife that “twenty-six is still “very” young), as the wife is referring to Peggy’s still good chances that she can find a man, settle down, and have a baby, but is that what Peggy wants?

It made me think about the phrase, most common for women of multiple generations now: having it all.

I don’t have it all. You might even say I don’t have any of it (husband/children/career) at this time. Not by a long shot. What are we supposed to want, at what age, and how do we learn to live with what we may never get?

Men don’t have to deal with this in the same way as women have and continue to have to. I don’t have to face some of the things Fry has had to face, but I feel I understand what it’s like to feel different in some way. I hope to use language and literature to help me in some of the same ways Fry has used it during his lifetime, to help make sense of the biggest parts of life, things I can hardly fathom otherwise.

To believe in something bigger than ourselves is to be mindful.

And thus I present the App I have found, that I love, that helps me stay grateful and mindful, that I have been using to keep track of songs and lyrics for Love Is In Da Blog and for my own love of music.

“Shazam!”

It allows you to take a couple seconds of a recording of any song you come across in your daily wanderings and it will tell you exactly who is singing/performing. Next it keeps a record of any of these songs, which has allowed me to return to so much music I love, anytime I want. It’s a right handy little thing.

Try Everything – Shakira

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Fiction Friday, TGIF, Writing

Words With Friends

I have no idea what I’m walking into, but I stride forward, into my favourite place: the library.

Of course it would be my favourite place. It is a building full of books. I would live there if I could, but I don’t think those in charge would really appreciate that.

I don’t know what took me this long. Why did I take this long to check this out? There had to be others around me who loved to write and I wanted to gather with them. And so I have.

I am always apprehensive going into a new situation, but this is stacked with a whole new set of expectations. This time, I’m supposed to share my writing, to open up that part of me.

Oh, of course I do it all the time here, now, and I don’t know what took me so long to do that either, but here I am.

This, however, is something entirely different. This time, I am not hiding behind a computer, waiting for the comments or likes to trickle in. This time, I am face-to-face with those who also love to write, or else they wouldn’t be here. This time I can’t hide.

I approach the checkout desk where people are taking out library books and I ask for directions to the room where the writer’s group meets.

I have been in this building many times before, for years and ever since the library from the old church of my childhood became the new location. This, though, is new to me. I was not aware of this room, just off the main area.

I find it with little problem, even with signs and people in my path. The room is to the left and they are inside, waiting for me, or new members like me.

I made sure to come on time, but I like the room almost immediately.

Someone shows me to a chair. I can’t remember who it was now. It’s all a blur of frazzled nerves. I’m doing this and I hope it is everything I’ve ever imagined a writing group would be. How unfair to put oh so many expectations on these poor fellow lovers of the written word.

There is someone across the table and people sitting over to my right. They appear to be engaged in some casual conversations when I appear on the scene, but they welcome me warmly. I can be one of them if I put my best foot forward.

My best foot is my coming-out-of-my-shyness-shell foot. I will put it out alright. If not here, where?

This is the time to drop that silly shyness and give it my all. They seem to agree.

There is someone on the other side of the room, bustling around and making tea. The guy to my right speaks with an English accent, which I can make out through a cracked voice, the ends of a sore throat. He still talks enthusiastically and seems to be one of the first members of the group. He is friendly and has a sense of humour, which I notice right then and there.

I hear my name. Someone recognizes me. She works at the library and runs the group, but she does not stay for the whole thing, instead overseeing it and taking hot drink orders. She speaks with a soft voice, the perfect library voice I suppose. She has met me through my sister, my brother-in-law, and I strain to remember when, although I knew she worked here.

The guy sitting across the way appears to be a new comer like I am. This makes me relate to him then and there. He has come from out of town.

I am still taking time to get an idea of who is here. I wasn’t sure what the cross section of people at a writer’s group could be. Age. Male or female ratio. From different backgrounds.

As people take their seats and we push tables together, I try not to shuffle and fidget more than is necessary, but in new situations I tend to do both to excess. I try to focus on the cues I can get from the people now sitting around me.

National Novel Writing month is discussed. I think I should speak up and say that I did it once, but not this year. I was sure showing up here for the first time in the month of November would mean NaNoWriMo would be a common topic of discussion, but I had no idea if everyone else would be doing it, as a writer’s group would be the place to bring it up.

I have come equipped with my laptop and earphones. Oh, how I wish I could go the old fashion route and write with a pencil or pen and a notebook. I would have picked out a special notebook for the occasion. It would have been red and the pages would have smelled like books, like paper smells.

I wonder how this is all going to work. I can’t write by hand and so how will I join in and share my writing at the end?

Do we even share?

Do we just bring in writing we do at home, for it to be shared and commented on?

So…many…questions.

Something is happening. I am talking and speaking up and out. Finally, it’s a whole room and its full of those who only want to talk about the writing they love, like I do. There is nothing else I’d rather talk about.

There is tea for the one with the lost voice and ginger cookies from a local bakery being passed around the table.

I decline, hopefully in a polite manner, a cup of anything hot. I even offer up the story of my disgrace from last spring and the ensuing events leading up to me, using a generously provided laptop in a pinch. I am new here and the nerves still could cause a problem. I wouldn’t want to knock my cup over, in a move to open my laptop, as I hear the guy sitting beside me has a laptop too and I seem to have the worst luck. I would hate for that to “spill” over to anybody else.

He asks me if I spend a lot of time in Waterloo. I hesitate and ask for confirmation that he is, indeed, speaking to me and not someone else. I am bad for that because I have gotten it wrong before and I hate that sensation of embarrassment, even though the feeling of discomfort is one I still end up feeling either way.

I tell him he must be thinking of someone else, but it is a strange, deja vu sort of moment. I liked that it happened here. I seem to get mistaken for someone else, in the most interesting moments and in the strangest situations. I wonder who that other girl is that I keep getting mistaken for. Could make a cool story sometime.

Next there’s talk of a mystery object. This, I hadn’t expected, but I like where this is going.

A model of a dragon is being passed around, painted by the one with barely a voice, when he was a teenager.

People compliment him on the painting he did of the creature and it is passed to me.

I take it in hand, ever so cautiously, and I feel the wings and the head. I ask for a physical description of it, mostly its colour. It is small and intricately detailed. I try hard to detect every bump and groove with my fingertips.

The maker or someone else mentions Lord of the Rings. He painted models, or meant to, from LOTR, the sort of thing you might expect a teen boy to do after school.

I like to be developing a picture of everyone here, even if it’s bits at a time. We could give rambling explanations of ourselves, going around the table, but instead we simply state our names.

It is hard it first, taking me a while to learn which name belongs to each and every one of these lovers of words, but I will get there.

NAme tags are made, the spelling of my name is wrongly guessed at, but this isn’t uncommon. I like to have this discussion. How long will people require a glance at another’s tag, before the name to the face will come right to mind?

This is a group of barely ten. I like this number. It’s not such a large group that I feel lost in a crowd, but not so small as I imagined, making a writing group less a group and more a few people.

So I guess we are writing now, or after much of the conversation dwindles. Our group leader brings up dialogue and character development in a story. I announce, perhaps over confidently that I have specifically been complimented on my dialogue, by a trusted friend whom I gave my NaNo project to when I’d finished the month. This speaking up thing I seem to be doing feels good, although still rather foreign to me.

Now the pressure is mounting. The talk grows quieter and less frequent and it’s time to write, right?

So I need to write about a dragon?

Okay. Here goes nothing.

I like the noise of the guy’s fingers: click click click. He is writing, then pausing to think, I suppose. I do the same.

I try not to fear him being able to glance over and read the few words I’ve managed to write. I guess I have some self absorption that writers are prone to. We are all hoping to produce something we can share when time’s up. We all likely think about sharing of ideas vs stealing them.

I take in the smell of ginger and the sound of keyboard keys clicking and I just write.

It slowly dawns on me again. Oh yeah, dragon, dragon, dragon. Don’t forget to write about the dragon.

I don’t write fantasy. I can’t write like Tolkien. That’s not my thing. Or is it?

I pick a locale and two characters and I write a scene for them. The dragon is coming up.

Time is up. The silence is broken by people’s uncertainty at what they’ve just put down, on paper or on screen. Will it be good enough?

Well, that’s what I am thinking, but maybe they aren’t. But wait…how will I participate?

I volunteer to just let my VoiceOver speak my story to the room, as a joke. I don’t want to be different, and I’m glad I didn’t not bring my laptop, or I would have been sitting there and twiddling my thumbs while everyone else wrote, but now how do I read what I’ve written for comments and reactions?

Others read their stories. They are all fantasy themed. They all involve real live dragons, but I did not go that direction. Maybe I should have, but instead I enjoy their little tales of discovery, intrigue, and adventure.

I listen to their reading styles and the inflections they place in the words. I try again not to move around, if possible, as this is a sign of boredom. I want to respect all these people who share, as I want to learn from them and to earn their attention when it’s my turn to share.

When it comes to me I don’t want to miss out entirely, so I go ahead and describe what I wrote. I receive a few comments and nods of approval at my subject matter, as I’d chosen to write more modern and contemporary, about an antique shop, one of my favourite settings for a story.

I talk about my one character not knowing what he’s exactly looking for, when his girlfriend asks, but his declaring that he’ll know it when he sees it.

This part seems to get people’s attention. I am happy they believe that I wrote what I’m saying I wrote and that my relaying of that writing is coherent.

Now that I know what actually goes on during one of these things, I must revise my plan and go with my braille display, as long as there is a plug nearby and I can bring a cord long enough to reach. I can write my stories in there and be able to read them back in the moment, along with the rest. My first idea to bring what I’d written from last time falls flat in my own estimation because I don’t want to be always behind a week. I want to be in the moment with this room and these people.

The guy beside me informs me there is an available spot to plug in my device and that he too may require it at some point. My laptop has held up this time, but I know its battery life is limited.

My laptop’s voice was an interesting bit of discussion this time. It has resulted in talk of a Gilbert Gottfried reading of Fifty Shades of Grey somewhere out there online. I had never before compared VoiceOver to Gilbert, but it makes sense.

I wonder what they will think when I walk in next time, with my Braille Sense over my shoulder, like a purse. I’m already looking forward to next time. I love this. I’ve found my tribe. I did not want to get my hopes up about this whole thing, but the real thing did actually surpass my expectations, in unexpected and interesting ways, some of which I’ve mentioned here.

I feared they wouldn’t like me, that I would feel out of place, as I do in a lot of places, but here I have this one thing in common with these people.

I don’t play Words With Friends, but I like the name of the game.

I don’t know what might come of being a member of a writer’s group, whether we become friends or not, but I like to hold back on any expectations I may harbour and just be in the moment, in that room, with those who love words as much as I do.

Paperback Writer

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1000 Voices Speak For Compassion, Feminism, Guest Blogs and Featured Spotlights, IN THE NEWS AND ON MY MIND, Kerry's Causes, The Blind Reviewer

Who Is Malala? #1000Speak, #StopGunViolence

Malala Yousafzai has just three words for you: BOOKS NOT BULLETS

Malala.org

“Let us pick up our books and our pens. They are our most powerful weapons. One child, one teacher, one book and one pen can change the world.”

I write with many things in mind today.

1000 Voices Speak For Compassion

This is part movie review, part

1000 Speak post,

and part outcry against gun violence.

Note: possible “He Named Me Malala” spoilers ahead.

I want to answer the question, just in case it isn’t already known: Who is Malala?

The word “Malala” means grief stricken or sadness and she was named after Malalai of Maiwand, a famous warrior woman from Pakistan, who fought and died.

Malala’s story went differently. Bullets did not stop her, on that bus, back in 2012 and hatred did not silence her.

He Named Me Malala

This film shines a light on Malala’s everyday family life, in and amongst the news clips from the shooting.

Just like any other teenage girl, when an interviewer asks her about crushes and boys, she replies with shyness and giggling.

She appears on television, doing many interviews. On The Daily Show, she states the idea that girls are more powerful than boys. John Stewart replies, feigning shock at just such a thought.

The scenes with her arm wrestling and bickering with her younger brothers showed the sweetness and the love of a family who only want to live in peace.

Her mother does not speak, for the most part, throughout. She loves her family, her daughter, but she has found settling into the new life they have in Birmingham, England and far from their home, which is now too dangerous, a struggle to adjust.

Their Islamic culture has taught her things about modesty, as she still points out to her daughter, when they are out. Her mother notices any man that appears to be looking at her. She was raised in a place and time when it was the norm to cover the woman’s face in public, but Malala tells her mother that “he may be looking at me, but I am looking at him too.”

It isn’t easy to blend these two countries and cultures for Malala’s mother, who is unable to speak the language and, despite all that’s happened, misses her home.

She says, in the film, that she looks up at the moon and reflects on how everything is different, in their new home, except the moon. She knows this is where her daughter is safe from those, in the Taliban, who would still want her silenced, and so she adapts.

Only those filled with hate could be threatened by an innocent child. Nobody who understood what love means and the power it has could or would act with such cowardice.

Malala tries to educate, about what is said in the Quran:

“Allah says, if you kill one person, it is as if you kill whole humanity.
The profit of Muhammad is the profit of mercy. Do not harm yourself or others. And do you not know the first word of the Quran means “read”?”

Malala Yousafzai’s 2014 Nobel Peace Prize Acceptance Speech

I can hear her bnervousness, during her acceptance speech, by the sound her mouth makes as she speaks. It’s as if her mouth is extremely dry, but she makes a hugely important statement with her words..

“When you light a candle, you also cast a shadow.”
–Ursula K. Le Guin

Malala is the candle. The shadow barged onto her school bus and shot her and her friends.

These monsters, under the guise of the religion of Islam, made their way onto that bus and asked, “Who is Malala?”

Now, her story and her documentary shines a light on that shadow and on the candle that brings the world’s attention to what must be done to keep candles like hers burning.

Malala went to her father’s school, studied and played with her friends, and then things began to change.

The Taliban came to her village and began to worm their way into people’s heads, to seize control and to indoctrinate. They would, soon enough, turn to the only thing they know: violence.

Women were rounded up, flogged in the town square, and people were killed. Schools were destroyed.

“Education for girls went from being a right to being a crime.”

Girls were forbidden to go to school, to speak up, to have a future. Most people were, understandably, too scared and remained silent. Not Malala and her father.

Malala was still young, but not so young that she couldn’t be afraid, for her father more than herself. She speaks, in the film, about checking and double-checking all the doors and windows in their house before going to bed because she was afraid they would come for her father in the night.

This is love and it can drive out hate. No young girl should have to live with this fear, I realized as I thought how I would feel if my own father were under threat like that.

Her father taught her and believed that if you have to live under the control of someone else, enslaved, that becomes a life not worth living. Some might find it controversial, for a child to do what she would do, but try living under such a regime and then judge.

Malala did speak up about her right to education being taken away, the rights of her female friends, and she did it in a blog for the BBC. At first she was anonymous, but eventually, as she did more speaking and interviews, her identity was revealed. This made her a threat.

She is sometimes asked:

“Why should girls go to school? Why is it important for them? But I think, the more important question is…why shouldn’t they?”

Brave brave girl.

Malala has only ever wanted children to receive education, women to have equal rights, and for their to be peace for every corner of the world.

These aren’t too much to ask, are they?

She wants all frightened children to have peace, for the voiceless to have change.

“It is not time to pity them. It is time to take action.”

She says it is not enough to take steps, but that a leap is needed instead.

Her story of hearing from a girl she once went to school with, after losing touch with her, only to discover this girl has two children sticks out in my mind most sharply.

Malala is asked what her life would be like if she were just an ordinary girl and her response is that she is still an ordinary girl:

“But if I had an ordinary father and an ordinary mother, then I would have two children now.”

Nothing ordinary about this young woman. Number one thing that makes a difference in any child’s life is getting the love they deserve, that all children deserve, but that so many don’t receive.

“It is not time to tell world leaders to realize the importance of education. They already know it. Their own children are in good schools. It is time to call them to take action for the rest of the world’s children, to unite and make education their top priority. Basic literacy is no longer sufficient.”

Watching her documentary and her Nobel Peace Prize speech make me cry, but they empower me too.

When she talks about that moment when you must choose whether or not to stand up or remain silent, I get chills and I want to cry. I know about feeling voiceless and powerless. I am sure we can all relate in some way, to these words, whether it’s due to prejudice against women, inside the oppressive walls of old fashioned cultural beliefs, or against people with disabilities.

You don’t know how lucky you are to have an education, until it’s being taken from you.

I Am Malala: The Girl Who Stood Up for Education and Was Shot by the Taliban

She demands to know why governments find it so easy to make weapons, tanks, and wars but building schools, bringing education, and spreading peace instead of violence is so hard.

This is the same question I’ve had for a long time, when I see my own country of Canada (who have made Malala an honorary Canadian citizen) saying goodbye to one prime minister and welcoming in the next, when a new president will be decided upon for the US next year.

Why do we value weapons like guns and tanks and bombs, over words and books and education?

Malala asks why is it so easy for countries to give guns and so hard to give books and build schools?

Speaking about her attackers:

“Neither their ideas nor their bullets could win.”

Guns, in the wrong hands, the hands of a violent group of terrorists like the Taliban put Malala in a coma, have damaged her smile, her face, her hearing on one side of her head, but they really ended up doing the opposite of what they were hoping to do. Instead of silencing her, living or dead, she survived and is louder than ever.

“They shot me on the left side of my head. They thought the bullet would silence us. I am the same Malala.”

And does Malala hold any grudges or feel any hatred? Has she forgiven them?

No and yes are her answers to those questions. No hate. She has decided to focus on love, compassion, and peace.

“I don’t want revenge on the Taliban, I want education for sons and daughters of the Taliban.”

Some men, spoken to on camera for the documentary, go so far as to claim that Malala’s story is simply a publicity stunt and that her father is behind it all, that he wrote every word supposedly attributed to his daughter.

I couldn’t believe this when I heard it. What arrogance. The fact that a girl is thought to be unable to say anything of any value is the saddest thing of all, but it is so often the reality.

Malala’s father is proud to be known as such.

“Thank you to my father, for not clipping my wings, and for letting me fly.”

This film is about love. It’s about the love one father has for his family, for his daughter.

My Daughter, Malala – Ziauddin Yousafzai – TED Talk

It’s easy, for some in the west, to think of all men in the Muslim culture as being oppressive towards women. Ziauddin is a father, just like my own, just like any other. He and his daughter are squashing stereotypes and showing the world that most families, no matter where they come from, only want peace, safety, and an education for their loved ones and for themselves.

This father has taught, not only his daughter to stand up for her rights, but he’s shown his two young sons the value girls and women deserve. He’s imparting, into these two impressionable boys, the respect that is going to make a kinder, gentler generation of men everywhere.

“My father only gave me the name Malala. He didn’t make me Malala.”

So then just who is Malala Yousafzai?

“I tell my story, not because it is unique, but because it is not. It is the story of many girls: 66 million girls who are deprived of education.”

I chose Malala’s story for October’s #1000Speak because I saw nothing but compassion and love.

“I had two choices: remain silent and wait to be killed or speak up and then be killed. I chose the second one. I decided to speak up.”

I can speak up, without the fear of being killed and hopefully now so can Malala.

Love triumphs over hate.

EDUCATE.

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Blogging, Guest Blogs and Featured Spotlights, Memoir and Reflections, SoCS

SoCS: Hide and Seek

Hello there August.

STREAM OF CONSCIOUSNESS SATURDAY

Remember playing hide and seek when you were growing up?

Imogen Heap – Hide And Seek

If only the world could remain as simple and sweet as it was when this game was all there was to having fun in life.

***

It may be a stretch. The point of stream of consciousness is to just write, right? My thoughts do have a common thread running throughout, but you probably need to be inside my head to follow it straight through.

You can try anyway. I will understand if I lose you somewhere along the way.

I’ve had a lot of time, as this summer has gone on, to think about what I’m ready for.

SoCS being “ready”. I immediately thought of Colorblind.

“I am ready. I am ready. I am ready. I am…”

That caused me to think of the line from the Counting Crows song that I first heard in a movie, an important movie from my teenage years.

It was a fairly racy movie, for the fifteen-year-old that I was at the time. It was my American Pie.

American Pie: I did not get the hype. I never did like pie.

🙂

This particular movie, with Counting Crows on its soundtrack, I saw in the theatre two times. It was an important part of my sixteenth birthday celebration with friends.

It was about playing games, but they weren’t the kind of games of my childhood. No hide and seek. That’s for sure.

I saw that love often equaled playing games, seemingly the grownup thing to do, but I never really believed that was the right thing.

I knew nothing about love then and would hardly know, for ten years more. What I was learning about love, at age sixteen, I wished I never learned.

Now, whenever I hear this particular Counting Crows song I think of the sweetest, most romantic part of that film and what I was ready for then and what I’m ready for now.

I think of the moments when Colorblind came on, where I was at with love really. The raw emotion that comes from the song and from those moments in my own life make me try harder to leave the emotions and the memories of who I was in the past behind me.

As I learn what dating feels like again and what love has the potential to feel like in the future, I look back on the childhood, free of harsh realities, my teen years and the newness of every emotion, and the risks I’ve taken in love as an adult.

I can always associate a song with anything any prompt might bring up in me, sometimes more than one. It’s all intertwined: music, writing, and love.

But bring back the days of hiding behind some boxes in my parent’s basement, in our back cellar or in a corner, under a pile of clothes in their bedroom.

These days are long gone. Life having refused to stand still since playing this childhood favourite with siblings or friends.

“One…two…three…four…five…six…seven…eight…nine…ten…ready or not, hear I come!!!”

***

These scattered ramblings are what came to mind for this week’s prompt from Linda:

http://lindaghill.com/2015/07/31/the-friday-reminder-and-prompt-for-socs-august-115/

The song at the centre of said ramblings:

The Counting Crows – Colorblind

I’m ready for something more than this, more than I’ve experienced thus far, but more than happy to join in a game of hide and seek with my niece or nephews, if they asked.

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