Going Inkless

Magic is what you make of it.  Superstitions only count if you believe in them.  The omens you notice and their interpretations are mostly a way of talking to yourself.  So I do not view Friday the thirteenth with trepidation.  Thirteen is not an unlucky number for me.  It's just a step beyond twelve.  I recognize that in the the language of symbols, that puts it beyond the totality of things, so in that sense, "supernatural," but that doesn't make it bad.  In a way, it's like going beyond the door, like breaking into a new adventure. This past Friday the thirteenth, I arrived at work as normal, started my computer and made myself a cup of tea.  The day before, we had celebrated National Library Week with Chinese food for lunch, and there was a bowl of leftover fortune cookies in the lounge.  I pocketed one to take back to my desk and enjoy with my Earl Grey.  Not long after I started into building a supply order, my cell phone started...

Common belief holds that what you do at the new year sets the pattern for the year ahead.  This is why people throw parties to welcome the new year, why they try to spend New Year's Eve with the ones they love, and why some are determined to make that midnight kiss happen.  There are superstitions about wearing new clothes, starting off debt-free, and generally declaring your intent to be a better you starting January 1.  New Year's Day is a time of omens for the coming year.  Everyone hopes that good luck on the first day will presage good luck through the year. And we really needed that hope in 2017. It's pretty well accepted that 2016 sucked.  Whether you were saddened by the many deaths of beloved celebrities, shocked by various disasters and humanitarian crises, or disgusted by political developments, chances are you've had a rough time lately. I was a little overwhelmed by the politics, myself, which is part of the reason I fell off posting to this b...

     In the staff lounge on Thursday, I ate my lunch quickly, scanning my smart phone and reading articles I don't remember.  When I had done with that, I looked at the clock.  With some 20 minutes of break time left, I considered returning to my desk early.  While I usually take a walk, I just didn't feel up to it, and I only wanted to get back to my work and finish out the day.  Such "dedication" is frowned upon for non-exempt employees, so after a bit of waffling, I put on my jacket and headed out after all.  A few steps out, the urge to keep walking took over.  Suddenly, I wanted to go as far and as fast as my feet would carry me, to walk until I couldn't anymore - to nowhere in particular.  A few steps more, and I couldn't stop the tears from rolling down my cheeks.  The transformation was abrupt and unexpected.      That morning, my daughter's dog Freya had gone on her last trip to the vet.  She had been ...

The standard answer my Grandma would give whenever one of us kids would complain about the cold was one simple question.  "What are you gonna do when winter comes?"  To this day, it replays in my mind every time I notice a chill or hear someone comment on the frosty weather.  "What are you gonna do when winter comes?" It sounds curt, unsympathetic, or maybe a little cold, but the response was always delivered with kindness.  I assure you, she did care about our comfort.  She was concerned about red cheeks and noses when we came in from hours of snowball wars, from tunneling through drifts or climbing the snow covered wood pile in order to reach the low-hanging icicles.  She fed us hot cocoa and gave us warm socks for Christmas like any other grandmother.  The question was more a matter of philosophy - in far fewer words than I might use, but that was part of her Grandma magic, I guess.  She was succinct, often with a touch of humour, and she let...

"The Earth keeps some vibration going      There in your heart, and that is you."            ~  Fiddler Jones,   Spoon River Anthology , Edgar Lee Masters       Spoon River Anthology  was required reading in one of my high school English classes.  I don't know if that's a common choice or if the fact that Spoon River is an Illinois location might have played a role, but I'm glad this book wound up in my path just the same.  It's a collection of poems, each written in the voice of a different "resident" of a small town cemetery.  Over the course of the book, you get the singular glints of individual lives, but also the collective glow of shared stories, and a larger picture of the town emerges.  In that respect, the literature reflects the way the real world works; A community is bound together by shared experience, but we each have our own perspectives and our own stories to tell.  I...

There's a tone of harvest's richness and abundance that ripens in late summer, growing fat and gold until one day you realize you've slipped into autumn. I think it's always been my favourite season. This is the breathing space between the summer's frenzied activity and the hectic winter holidays. The air is cooling and filled with the scents of ripe apples and dying leaves. Where green ruled the view, now all is flame and gold, and a papery rustle accompanies each crisp gust of wind. It's time to dig out the sweaters, to see the new patterns and promise in another school year, to plan costumes and fun for Halloween. But autumn, for all its joys, cannot be separated from the principles of death and loss. We recognize that the world around us is dying, drying out, moving from summer's blush to winter's shroud. Through all the celebrations of the season, we feel that ancient wheel turn. Autumn is a time to contemplate the darkness. In the world ...