Musings of a Meandering Mind

 To the bullies Who joined in on the torment… ...you’re forgiven ...you were just a child. To the bullies Who poked, prodded, and hit … …you’re forgiven …but understand what you did. To the bullies who enjoyed their sorrow and tears… …you’re forgiven   …hope the child healed from the pain. To the adults Who knew it was happening…. ...it’s your fault …you could have stopped it. To the adults Who didn’t stop the bullying… …it’s your fault …your inaction enabled them. To the adults Who did nothing… …it’s your fault … you should have stopped the abuse.   To the child Who was shunned by their peers… …it’s not your fault …kids can be mean. To the child who was teased, mauled, abused… ...it’s not your fault ...you didn’t deserve it. To the child Whose innocence was tarnished… …it’s not your fault …don’t let them define you.   …dig deep into the rubble of your heart, find your light and shine.    

In our family “the trunk” is a metaphor for the unspoken.  Be it a wrongdoing, an embarrassment, a taboo, or a secret, it’s best to “just put it in the trunk” where it’s hidden, safe and sound; to be forgotten, never to be spoken of again.   In my mind’s eye, the trunk is old, like a large steamer trunk that my grandparents would have brought over from the old country.    Held in a cold, stone chamber, this worn wooden box, wearing marks from a long, hard voyage’ sits in the center on the cold, wet floor.    Its rusty metal clasps hold the lid hiding its contents.    Inside, it’s dark, damp, deep.    An ominous vibe oozing from cracks and crevices.    Secrets quietly humming, anxiously waiting to be released.   The protectors guarding the trunk vary, depending on when one enters the chamber.    Dressed in long dark hooded robes, the elders have inherited the duty to guard the trunk and all it contains.    Should those approaching speak to the guards, they would be urged to leave, to ne

  ONE OF Nine Questions for Journaling and Introspection – Where do I Feel Safe @vanessaandheriphone   I was watching a video by Vanessa Laterza on TikTok called Nine Questions where she poses nine questions to inspire journaling and introspection. Out of the nine questions, one really stood out as a topic to explore.   The question at first seemed simple enough to answer.   But when thinking of the response, I found it was a much more complex question.   One that I needed to dig deep and explore.   The question was “Where do I Feel Safe?” When I thought of the question, the first thing that came to mind was ‘in Walter’s arms.’   Immediately I felt a knot in my throat and the walls of my chest tighten around my heart, squeezing all the air out of my lungs.   Then followed emotions encircling me like a cyclone. I couldn’t answer “where do I feel safe”.   Thoughts swirled around me, the intensity uprooting questions I needed to explore. I first tried to think back to moments wh

I’m not certain why, but this holiday season, I’ve been filled with fervent sentiment and emotions. The intensity grows with each pulse of my heart, and a yearning rises like a tightening in my throat as I go through the motions of Christmas preparation. Memories of loved ones; and images of past Christmases dance in my head, bringing me joy entwined with longing for those who are no longer with us. I didn’t have opportunity to spend many Christmas mornings with Walter, only one in the eight years we had. He would fly home to Nova Scotia so he could spend the holidays with his mother, children and grandson, Jase. But we did our best to spend it together across the miles. Texts, calls and Skype video calls at 7:00 pm. The one Christmas we spent together ended up being his last, little did we know. We enjoyed the togetherness. I’ll always cherish the memories. Like he and Dad, sitting together, sipping coffee, chatting away like Waldorf and Statler from the Muppets, up in the balcony,

  Moving forward.  How do you know if you're ready? After losing a spouse, the thought of life without them is overwhelming. The confidante who helped you navigate the unknown isn’t there. The one whose arms around you provided comfort, is gone. You’re faced with an all-encompassing grief. Logically you know that one day you’ll get to the ‘moving forward’ part of the process. But how do you know if you’ve finished mourning? How long does that take? How do you know if you’re ready? If only there was a litmus test. One must go through the grief process, not around it. Experts say there are five stages of grief. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. Although for every loss, we experience each stage, they present themselves differently, from intensity to length. For me, I had nine months to ‘prepare’ or maybe ‘brace’ myself before he died. We tried to savor the time we had left, to experience joy, laughter, and happiness. But no matter what we did, we could feel the da

  I am still.   My eyes are closed.   I see nothing.    Motionless. I hear nothing but my heartbeat.   A rhythmic pulse, my beating heart, reminding me that I’m alive, that I’m awake.   Attention is drawn to my breath.   Air filling my lungs, my chest expanding, reminding me that I’m alive, that I’m awake.   I try to move ahead. But I cannot. I am still. My eyes are opened.   I am standing. Motionless.   I see a path ahead.   Images ahead which I cannot recognize. A collection of color, of light, of dark. I feel a calling.   From the path itself or what’s down the path, I cannot tell which, but know I must go.   Forward, into the unknown.   I try to move ahead.   But I cannot. I am still.   I raise my hands.   Palms faced forward.   Motionless.   I feel a barrier which I cannot see.   Like a glass wall. Clear yet solid. I feel the coldness of the barrier.   Like an ice wall. Frozen and numb. I try to move ahead.   But I cannot. I am still.   My will is there. I lack momentum.   M

  Like a blooming Dahlia, opening wide to the sun. Each petal opens, boasting its color, creating sheer beauty. Warmth in my bosom grows, tightening my chest, shortening my breath. Filling me with excitement, a burning passion, pure bliss. Love. Like a wilting sunflower, after darkness falls. Weighted down by the center of its being, tearing its grounded roots, leaving a gaping hole. A painful ache inside me grows, a hollow echo crying, vibrating throughout me. Welling tears burn my eyes, a knot in my throat, pure despair. Grief. Like a wild rose emerging, finding the light after a forest fire. Peaking through the ashes, looking up at the sun, vibrant color emerging from the dark. Love and experience feed me, a new me emerges, pure intrigue. Life. 

  Father time carries me further and further away From the last moment I kissed your lips, said goodbye We approach the second turn around the sun. The void you’d left in my world remains And life just continues to move on.   As I experience life without you. New memories and moments are made. Yet, at night, I close my eyes in sweet anticipation For the past, an image, any image of you to surface In my thoughts, in my mind’s eye, in my dreams.   Hoping for a moment A still, a shape, an image. Caught like a dragonfly in amber or a faded black and white photograph. To see your face, your eyes, your lips, that smile.   Hoping for a memory playing like an old film. Maybe not as clear as I’d like but happy to relive a moment in my mind. Captured, cherished deep inside my heart.   To touch your face, to kiss your lips To hold you tight throughout the night. To feel your warmth, your heartbeat under hand. To look into your eyes and see th

 

The leaves of summer turn crimson, ochre, brown. Leaves softly flutter, dance float gently to the ground.  The morning air so crisp, brisk, cool. Children ramble, meander saunter blissfully toward school. The reveries of summer gone, faded lost. Replaced with the veracities of school, work preparation for the first frost.  Harvest moon shining, vibrant bright. Days grow shorter, decrease diminish into a cool dark night. The icy north wind blows, blusters calls. Beckoning Winter's advent, appearance arrival as the last golden leaf falls.  Linda Brailean 2001

  'Twas 11 days before Christmas, When all through the town, Sask Health tightened restrictions, And made us all frown. Covid spread across the province, With Increased daily cases, Cuz some don’t follow rules, And refuse to cover faces. Many family plans have to change, Through the Holiday Season, It may dampen our spirits, but it’s for a good reason. Though we may not be together, with those we love dear, it’s so we can stop Covid and be together next year. But still try if you can, to feel the holiday mood. Reach out by phone or video to connect with your brood. Christmas isn’t about food, or gifts from a store, As the Grinch would say It’s a little bit more. It’s about family and friends, About gratitude and love, For those all around us, And of Heaven above. Wishing a Merry Christmas, To all of you from me, and cheers to 2021 may it be Covid-free!

  I flipped over another page of the calendar hanging on the wall. December.  Twelve months have passed.  A year of firsts-without you.  I felt your absence everywhere, every day.   Beside our bed, your cell phone sits on your nightstand.  The water bottle I filled the last day you were home sits beside it, still filled with the water.  The only item I can hold in my hands knowing that your lips last touched its rim.  I can’t yet bring myself move those items.    My mind wanders back to memories of you.  I bring myself back to the now, but my emotions are strong; my heart aches to be back with you and relive every moment.  I fear my mind will one day fail me and those cherished memories may fade with time.    I think back to the last day you were home.  Since then our house grew cold, sad, empty.  The walls heavy with memories, but the rooms echo my sadness.  No longer filled with love and laughter.  What lingers is emptiness.    My mind strains to remember as much of those las

One of the chapters in T he Artist’s Way is on recovering a sense of strength.  One of the tasks is to pick a colour and describe myself in first person.  One of my most vivid childhood memories was getting school supplies – more specifically a brand-new box crayons for the upcoming year.   A bright, new, untouched, chisel-tipped rainbow hidden beneath the flap – to this day I can still remember the smell when opening the box.   To get a box of 64 colours with a built in sharpener was better than winning any lottery.   I would read the names with excitement, organizing them from the best colours to the worst, then  sort like with like.   I spent hours sorting, drawing and colouring.   So, with this week’s task of choosing a colour, I immediately thought of a colour, then hemmed and hawed like the 7 year old girl with the big box of crayons.   Atomic Tangerine, Hot Magenta, Ultra Red - so many choices – but returned to my first choice. I am Black.   Black as the closet. Filled

Eight years wasn't long enough - eighty years wouldn't have been either I wish I could relive every moment together.   From the moment we first met to the last goodbye. If only I could feel your arms around me. Your body pressed up against mine. To hear you whisper I love you in my ear. Just one more time. I wish I could run my fingers through your hair. Trace your jawline, your moustache, or your dimple. If only I could walk with you hand in hand. with our fingers interlocked tightly. To randomly dance to the beat of our hearts. Just one more time. I wish we could lay in bed and let the world disappear. In each other’s arms, our bodies entwined. If only we could return to our happy place. Where we shared our hopes and dreams. To feel your lips tenderly against mine. Just one more time. I know I could wish upon every star in the sky. But we will never relive those moments we had. I must settle with all the memories I keep.