Nurse Mary-Allison-Linda-Jaqi-Liz-Susan

My dear, you look infinitely better.
There are, again, peaches in your cheeks.
I've been told by your husband how much
he has missed them. The pale, gaunt
appearance you've latterly worn was so
very concerning to him. There, that's
the kind of smile we like to welcome,
to complement those peaches. And
so, my dear, how do you feel now?

What's that new orange bracelet for?
Ah, allergen to sulfa, Remember now?
Second blood transfusion just completed?
Relief, isn't it, to get rid of that line, I know
it was irritating. Oops, there goes that
blood pressure cuff again, kind of miserable
isn't it? Kept waking you up last night?

I know it's tight. But this constant
monitoring is important. Drug delivery
line still going? Check. Saline? Check.
Electrodes nicely in place? Check. Yes,
they are cumbersome, a nuisance to contend
with, tend to complicate moving to the commode,
but their function is vital. No, the cardiologists
are still discussing the results of that last
EKG before determining the order of
this day's proceedings, my dear.

You're still on liquid diet, you know,
because the gastrointestinal team is still
on call for that gastroscope procedure we
discussed yesterday. You know? No, haven't
yet heard whether your heart reacted favourably
to the clench-enhancing medication. Oh, you
filled out that questionnaire? Excellent!
Now, let me introduce you to Nurse Allison.
I'm going off duty for the day ...

When, Where, How, Why?

IV drip and second blood transfusion
bag ... drip, drip, dripping alongside the
one delivering the drug meant to coat my
stomach to stop the bleeding that has
caused my haemoglobin level to fall
precipitously, cutting off oxygen to my
heart which rebelled as only a heart would.
Oh, and the electrodes stuck to my chest,
the pulsating blood-monitor cuff, damn!

And this is heart-attack territory...
Good morning, madam, my colleagues and
I require some background, to enable us to
fully understand your body's collapse. Any
familial history of heart disease? No? Ever had
a previous incident? No? Stroke? No? Exercise
regularly? Yes? Alcohol? No? Tobacco? No?
Heads nodding, hands scribbling.

When were you first aware you have a heart
murmur? Shortness of breath? Constricted
chest? Lack of energy? Was there pain...
chest, shoulder, jaw, back, anywhere at all?
It was all so sudden? How long were you
unconscious for? Did you know where you
were on gaining consciousness? You felt a
sense of overwhelming heat? Abnormal thirst?

Oh, episodes of tight chest date back 35 years?
Heart murmur as well? Who prescribed that
81 ml of baby aspirin regimen for you? When?
Why did you not dial 911 and head the paramedics
immediately to this hospital's emergency
department? This is not business as usual Madam,
this is no mere inconvenience, Madam, this may
represent a personal catastrophe. Madam...?

Time And The Tides

Drained of energy, he quipped, grinning,
as he inserted a new battery in my tired,
sputtering electric toothbrush. And I
wryly observed how fitting was that
comment applied to his wife, whose
body so suddenly and acutely has rebelled
so every movement had become an utterly
astounding exercise in exhaustion.

He cannot change or charge my
batteries while we await diagnosis of
this strange fatigue syndrome. Now, he
engages himself in a learning trajectory
tending to my needs and comforts as
assiduously and tenderly as I had done
him some many years ago in his need.

Underlying the protocol of care and
concern, fear of the unknown future
impelling us to action as though striving
for normalcy, as though by behaving as
we normally are wont to do, this descent
of the fearful unknown may suddenly lift
and turn back inexorable time and the
events that occur within its swift passage.

Two Little ... One Little

We've seen them often, over the years,
walking on leash; two small, white and fluffy
bichon frise dogs. Always impeccably groomed,
a sweetly comic pair straining at their leashes,
panting with the effort, with their human
companion softly urging them to relent, to
'be nice', to kindly behave. One of the pair more
accustomed to holding back, the second truly
straining forward, their owner feinting to control
as they surge toward and confront our two little dogs.

One of the pair does indeed behave well. The other
however, not so inclined, lost to her obviously aggressive
instincts. We position our own small ever-pugnacious
one aside, but the two are by now well known to one
another and the alternate two of more gentle disposition
merely snuffle each other and move on. Through the
seasons, mellow or bitter, sunny summer days or
snowy winter challenges, we are as passing familiars;
brief stops to wave, to chat, on our daily trail walks
in our privileged neighbourhood urban forest.

Habit ingrained within our daily routines, bringing
comfort and stability, we seldom pause to reflect
on the unknown lying beneath the surface of ready
assumptions. Came the day when the familiar face
held but one leash and the abashed, reluctant revelation
that the white, fluffy partner of the one who stood
panting nearby had been 'put down'. Her aggression
no longer within the realm of tolerable, bringing
calm and peace to the newly-mourning household.

My Semi-Conscious Doctor

There she is, young and vibrant,
glossy black hair, lithe body in tight
jeans, scoop-necked tee-shirt,
comfortable flats, briskly interviewing,
rapidly note-taking, alert to telling
details; my new personal physician.
My "old" doctor, after 40 years of
tending to my paltry few health issues
has just retired; long may he enjoy it.

Her slight Eastern Europe accent
charmingly assured and assuring, she
turns from me to my husband's tense face,
for he is prepared to describe what he has
witnessed and I did not, having been the
object of collapse. She animatedly invites
me to emulate her movements: "Can you
walk a straight line, heel to toe? Good!
Balance on one leg? Excellent! Now,
push back hard as you can against me.
Very good. Balance and strength just fine."

"Look straight ahead now, over my shoulder
while I come very close, shining this intense
light. Eyes normal, ears fine, reflexes good.
Were you aware you have a pronounced heart
murmur? Oh, forty years ago? I can see by
your tongue you are dehydrated. Your blood
pressure very low. You must have salt, must
rehydrate yourself. If you admit to Emergency
they will take instant blood tests; not on week-ends.

If you lose consciousness again, or have
difficulty speaking you are to treat it as an
emergency, call an ambulance. I can have blood
tests initiated on Monday morning; results may
take a week or more. I plan to refer you to a
cardiologist; that will take a month, perhaps.
I see your colour is returning. How do you feel
right now? Well, go home, rest. If anything
unusual occurs again, take immediate action."

Thank you, Doctor.

Little Things

Always and ever, now and forever,
little things mean a lot... There's another
golden oldie to recall in our Golden years.

They do mean a lot, those little gestures,
the recognition in one another of a shared
sensibility, the awareness of being in each
other's thoughts. A deep-seated recognition
of meaningful surrender to the need to surmount
differences, to accept one another as we are,
to venture into the unknown territory of
full emotional commitment, through that
over-riding concern for the well-being of
the other, rising over concerns for self.

When we danced together in crowded rooms
of even more crowded dance floors where
natural selection of a different kind takes
place, surrendering ourselves to the melodic
sound, and murmuring those gentle words
we could hardly have been capable of
visualizing our future together, and just
how very deep our commitment would be
through the small, shared things we valued.

Small things they may be; ritual, routine,
daily shared concerns and trite tasks of
everyday living, but they are magnified by
the very essence of their reliability of
occurrence so that an absence of their very
ordinariness would represent a profound loss.
There is nothing little about the sum total
of those moments of tender sharing.

Our quotidian shared morning showers,
where we soap each others' backs, and you
dole out shampoo into my hands. When you
spread lotion over my back, and carefully
attend with assisting in dressing me.
Together setting the table for meals. The
dishwasher sitting idle, I wash, you wipe
meal-time dishes. We go our separate
ways, you to the never-ending household
chores requiring workshop tools, and I to
tend the housekeeping. Conferring on meal
contents, each assisting in the preparation.

Discussing the news of the day with hugely
divergent, not necessarily equal perceptions.
The discourse challenging and informed,
still leading to oppositional, albeit not entirely
opposed conclusions, we agree each view has
some merit, but remain fundamentally each
within our personal views and conclusions.

Our daily walks in the woods, where we divide
the stewardship of two small dogs, as together
we clamber up hills and descend others,
marvelling at nature's seasons and the passage
thereof. All much too swift, dazzling us with
the speed of transition, sad with the thought that
any one day in the passage of time will never,
in its uniqueness, be met again, anticipating
the arrival of successors yet finite they be.

It is the little things that make up the minutia
of life. For us, the predictability of habit born
of deep and abiding love for one another and the
zest of meeting the days together, bidding them
farewell in tandem as we prepare to take to
our beds for each night's practise of finality.

Preserving Memory

When he was a toddler, the peach tree
we planted in the backyard of our home
yielded a rich and fragrant abundance
of blushing, moistly-sweet fruit. What
to do with it all! Why, preserves, of course.
So, while his brother and sister were at
school and he at my side, the task of
peeling, skinning and simmering was
joined and the preserves placed in jars
for winter desserts invoking summer.

Years on, another house, with no peach
tree, in a colder climate. Still, we picked
wild strawberries, blueberries, raspberries
and blackberries in their luscious abundance
while on family forays into the woods and
hillsides of another place; appreciating
nature for her welcome mat, and generous
offerings. When children exhausted, sought
their beds, it was I who transformed the
gleaming berries into colourful preserves.

Now he is older than I was then, but he
remains intrigued by the tradition and the
production of glass jars bursting with the
gleam of bright red, blue and black preserves.
I no longer produce such treasures; why
bother for just two people, his father and me?
He comes home to visit from his far-off
home, bringing homey gifts of seasonal
jam from wild berries he picks, to please us.

And, last evening he enthused that he and I
could together make peach and ginger jam.
Quite the contest as to who between us
could blanch, peel, slice the baskets of
Niagara-region-produced fruit most
efficiently. Fun, we had, and laugh we did,
while each attended to the tasks at hand.

The house was filled with the sweet,
pungent fragrance of peach and ginger,
coalescing into their new relationship, as
the stew bubbled and thickened, to become
an utterly delectable addition to grace our
breakfast settings. The jars, filled to their
crystal brims with the orange nectar
presented in neat rows of practised tradition.

The Paper Recluse

After his wife died he became obsessed with the need to maintain his life the way it was when she was with him. For he missed her cruelly. It was almost ten years since she had left him for the Grim Reaper, at that point in her battle with cancer, a more attractive suitor to her than he was, and she seemed to decide against remaining with him.

Holding on to life, even if she was capable of doing it, throughout the months of her treatment, after that useless surgery, just meant ongoing pain, even if he did everything his feverish, grieving mind could think of, to ease her torment. It just wasn’t enough, loving her as much as he would and would and did. She needed something he could not offer her; complete release from the incessant darkness the future offered; pain surmounts cherishing love, he learned. And she finally greeted death thankfully, full release straight ahead.

And he was released from the burden of caring for her. His tender ministrations, gently awakening her to pain in the morning, after a long, restless night of coping and aching for sleep that finally came too late and too briefly to offer a reasonable period of energy replenishment. True, it was late morning when he brought her back to pain, and she did so much appreciate the baby-warm water that he used to cleanse her wasted, wrinkled skin and limbs that he so well recalled were once smooth and wonderfully curved and inviting to the touch.

He fed her, spoonful by spoonful, the broths he learned to prepare that might give her lapsing stamina a brief surge of strength to face the day ahead. He knew his close attendance on her needs meant much to her. It could not be otherwise, since his own life was now shaped by the need to tend on her, be with her, bring her the comfort of his loving presence.

She hadn’t, until near the end, lost her curiosity about everything occurring about her in wider society. Wanted him to read the daily news to her, for she oddly had no willingness to listen to the news, view it on television. She had never been an avid news-watcher, television bored her. She wanted to feel the paper of the newsprint firmly in her hands, turn each page with growing anticipation, often reading out to him brief bits of news she felt he should be knowledgeable about. She had always felt he hadn’t paid sufficient attention to the daily news, the newspapers; too reliant on the evening broadcasts.

“They’re just the tip of the news iceberg”, she scoffed.

“That’s enough for me” he would respond, defensively.

“Well, you’re not getting the details, the details are only provided when they’re shabby and shoddy and tinged with sensationalism; they're anti-social in nature, because that’s what the little minds watching television want to be regaled with”, she insisted.

“I am not invested in the news the way you are. I’m satisfied with a broad outline, I don’t need all the gritty details”, he’d repeat by rote, for this was an ongoing irritation between them. Her, the newshound, he the diffident reader.

“You’ve no social conscience”, she would sniff, rebuffed and patronizing.

It was just her way. Part of her character. To be critical of everything he did. A bit of a harridan. He knew the bargain he had, with her. She was intolerant of so many things about him. She was a relentless nag. But she was his nag, and he loved her. And he knew how vital his existence was to her well-being. She depended upon him, always had, right to the very end. And he was there, right to the very end.

He felt utterly crushed, devastated beyond any sense of loss he might have imagined. His world and his life suddenly become meaningless. A void where his sense of being, his balance, his idea of the meaning of life had been. He was adrift, confused, disbelieving that despite the cancer steadily consuming her, she would prefer death over life. In death he was absent, no longer at her side, ready and eager to perform all that she commanded of him. How would she manage without him, in that dark kingdom?

More to the point now, how would he ever live without her presence close beside him? At night he groped in the dark for meaning and it eluded him. He wept into her pillow, the white no longer white but a murky grey, for he never changed the linen as often as she did. She so assiduously looked after all the minutiae of housewifery before her decay into nothingness. When she was ill to the point of physical incapacitation she would instruct him when and how he must proceed with taking care of the household chores she was formerly invested in. She had been a meticulous housewife.

He’d always notice when she’d gone through the house like an efficient whirlwind of cleaning-activity. And he always expressed his admiration and appreciation to her for that, and she in her turn appreciated that. That was before his retirement. It seemed as though the moment he had the time and the leisure to spend himself in close communion with her, she suddenly collapsed, became a faint shadow of her former robust, bustling, critical self.

It had not even been a year that elapsed after his retirement when she began to complain of feeling ill, and then the swift diagnosis of cancer. It wasn’t fair. He had worked all his life to produce comfort for her, companionship for him, and as soon as he had the opportunity to delve more deeply into the nest he had helped her to produce for them both in their declining years, she was gone.

He held her close beside him, still. He was convinced she was there, hovering about him in death, a busily-engaged wraith. Just as she had been in life, a vigorous and complaining presence. He adored her still. She loved him still. He spoke with her incessantly, and he could hear in the deepest places within his viscera, that she responded.

Oh, her responses weren’t always calm and approving of him; they were weighted with her usual picky observations and pithy denunciations. She upbraided him for his untidy mind and untidy work habits. Her own most placid and satisfying times, it always seemed to him, was when she was busy with her housework. And those were the times when she would endearingly, hum the melody to that old Disney-produced film from Alice in Wonderland. She had thrilled to that silly film, and the rabbit's song always possessed her when she was busy: "I'm late, I'm late, for a very important date, can't stop to say hello, goodbye, I'm late, I'm late, I'm late, I'm late, and if I stop...I lose the time I save..."

He could hear that refrain at the oddest times of night and day. It seemed to serve as a prelude to her addressing him. And when she did it was invariably to remind him of his obligation to become what she saw in him.

“Too bad, Ted, that you’re so loathe to become a better person than you are. I know you have it in you, you’re just so comfortable being a sophist, a cynical social critic viewing the world through that conservative lens. Try to think a little more compassionately”, she would urge him, “of the great mass of humanity whose existence is wrought with the despair of indigence.”

He no longer shrugged off that kind of patter. He thought more deeply about human nature and humanitarian impulses came slowly to him, but they did emerge. And he began to respond to the never-ending requests from every imaginable source for charitable donations. He even once, went out himself in an effort to give himself over to door-to-door solicitations for local charities, but he found the experience so psychically debilitating, he never repeated it.

It did, however, encourage him to give more generously himself. And when he discovered that some of the charities he responded to with such generosity were nothing less than scams, he felt cheated, angry, and he took it up with her in an evening conversation.

“Hazel, are you there? I’ve tried, you know, I’ve tried to be a more generous person. I know you were always the one who gave to charity, not me, and I scoffed at the meaningless of it all. You know, don’t you, that I’ve changed. But Hazel, I think I was right in the first place, it’s a conscience-sop, nothing more; those charities have no real function other than to drain people of their hard-earned savings. I think I’ll give it a pass, now.”

How she berated him, making him feel badly about betraying her values in death as he had in life. “Ted, you can’t do that! There are legitimate needs out there that have to be met!” she wailed. And he quailed. But adamantly refused to himself to tolerate the thought of wasted savings going in some social-deviant posing as a humanitarian’s, savings account.

He turned instead to honouring her commitment to the news. He took out newspaper subscriptions once again to the many papers she had insisted on subscribing to, and once completed poring through them, meticulously placing in the garbage, insistent that neatness and comfort required that one be merciless in getting rid of items no longer needed. Whatever she read was securely stored in her head, her memory banks had never failed her, and she had no need of retaining waste products.

He, on the other hand, did his best to consume the news, but nothing seemed to stick with him. As soon as he read anything, he would let it slip past his consciousness, and be forgotten. And, unlike his wife, because he knew he might have to resort to checking back on news items if she ever decided to quiz him about the daily news, he maintained a stack of them. At first it was only one stack, and then it grew to two, and kept increasing until the living areas of their home became a warren of newspapers with narrow corridors from the rooms he used most for access to the bedroom, kitchen, bathroom.

All other rooms of their modest home had become utterly stacked beyond access with years-worth of newspapers. Growing yellowed and brittle, but still legible, if he could but make his way through to them, somehow discover the whereabouts of specific issues. He had stacked them with care; all the papers of one publishing source stacked in one room, by date.

It had become a mindless compulsion. He no longer even glanced at their contents when he draw the day’s papers in from the front porch. He left them sitting on the kitchen counter throughout the duration of that particular day, then before withdrawing for bed, he picked them up and carefully tucked them into any remaining interstices in the rooms assigned to them.

If there were insects or mice or rats curious about the news of the day, nesting within these opportune stacks of paper, he would have no knowledge nor any curiosity about their presence. But he was aware of his wife hissing at him that he was not being neat and tidy, cluttering up the rooms of their house in this manner. "My dear", he responded gently, "everything is neatly and tidily stacked".

He lived the life of a recluse. Distant family members took little interest in his presence beyond occasionally dropping a note. With no response, even that tenuous contact stopped. Neighbours, long accustomed to his curious manner of retreating from society were comfortable in greeting him familiarly on the rare occasion he was seen on shopping expeditions, or cursorily caring for his property.

He was known as the “Paper Hermit”, for people had glanced on occasion into the front vestibule of the house when he would answer the doorbell.

It was only when a considerable length of time had passed when he hadn’t been seen around and about and the weeds on his untended lawn had grown to startling proportions that anyone thought something might possibly be amiss, and contacted the authorities.

No one heard Hazel admonishing Ted about his lack of housekeeping skills. But he was thankful to be with her again, and grateful to be the subject of her never-too-tedious remonstrations.

The Fall Forest

There presents to our delighted eyes
season-premature colour in the overall
canopy of deep green, as leaves have begun
their long descent on the early fall landscape.
The forest floor is rich and moist from a long
succession of rainfalls, and the rich hummus
resulting from seasonal decomposition.

Mushrooms have sprung up everywhere;
the small brown puff-spheres sending their
spores in a generous spray of brown mist;
the orange-peel brightness of others, the
shelf fungi with their concentric swirls,
the large yellow lethal amanita muscaria
platters, and chanterelles their edges nibbled
by squirrels. The dazzling-white delicacy
of coral fungi gracing decaying wood fibre.

The carillon-clear shrieks of bluejays ring
through the woods as goldfinches coyly
whisper their presence through branches
and a pileated woodpecker calls mockingly,
alights then thrums unresistant tree bark.
A flicker boldly proclaims his presence, careless
of our presence. The wind delights vultures,
careening on updrafts, their dihedral-shaped
pinions embracing the wide, blue sky.

There are yet blooms of purple asters and
goldenrod beside the woodland trails. The
tender pinks of wild geranium punctuate
the architectural green. In the folds of a bog,
ferns grace the arras in abundance, fireflies
resting on their fronds. There are pussy-toes,
their fluffy-white clusters astride the paths,
and the vibrant cherries of lethal baneberry
clamour for attentive admiration.

At Mulvihill pond the water ripples softly
in the pestering wind. Small leopard frogs
leap from rock deep underwater, cautious of
overhead warning shadows. Puffed white
clouds amble the wide expanse of azure
heaven. Orderly schools of minuscule fish
unison-flit around the lake perimeter. Tadpoles,
comically rotund, pose as lake ambassadors
below an aquatic garden of waterlilies.

To Have And To Hold

Oh, how we danced on the night we were wed;
shy, self-aware, uncomfortable with the gaudy
display so unlike what we would have wanted
for ourselves, a deeply private ceremony, but
cultural expectations, the faces familiar and
strange, made this a very public and exposed
event. Anxious to be ourselves, not merely
what others saw in us, a generic heritage
display of tribal procreative imperative.

We vowed our true love, though a word was
not said; We had much earlier exhausted our
need to reassure one another, long since pledged
ourselves, so eager to assume our new lives
of ardently driven proximity; no distance of
place, thought, purpose separating us in our
yearning to be as one with each other toward
the enduring prospect of the eternity of our lives.

A word was not said, there were stars in the sky,
except for the few that were there in your eyes;
Not stars, but a stellar constellation of potential
as tenderness and care embellished the occasion
persuading me that I was as cherished as you were.
Not stars, but reflections, as we looked deep within
the pools of our eyes to drink deeply of the vision
we each recognized irrevocably and finally as one.

Dear, as I held you so close in my arms, the angels
were singing a hymn to your charms; Were we so
angelic at eighteen years of existence, precociously
seeing in one another at fourteen, our futures
awaiting in reaching eagerly, instinctively toward
each other ... resulting in the closely-guarded
conspiracy that bid us wait out four years before
our companionship, need and assured destiny
would finally become our reality in marriage?

Two hearts gently beating and murmuring low,
my darling, I love you so! And so, my darling,
over the years it has been thus; our hearts beating
gently beside one another as we shared over a
half-century of life, exploring our world and one
another, ourselves creating the miracle of new
lives, and sharing the privilege of celebrating them
as well. This, our inheritance as man and woman.

Five-Arch Bridge

Living shades of Roman-era aqueducts;
there is something beautifully stern,
yet sensuously voluptuous at the sight
of those stone arches, holding the
narrow walled bridge over the granite-
floored rapids fording the Mississippi
river, at the picturesque, time-tardy
town of Pakenham, in eastern Ontario.

Evoking from deep within a sweet
nostalgia for a time before our own,
when at the turn of the 19th Century
around a farming community within a
dreamily bucolic landscape the
excitement of emerging technology
heralded the infancy of the new
age of vastly advanced techniques in
aqua management, to power mills
and locks and lifts and hydro power.

The river is wide and wild in its
tempestuous rush, roiling with
its powerful flow, elements of its
original downstream dam still
revealed, raw and neutered, but
powerful in image and our readily
awed imaginations. White,
wide-winged gulls rest in their
cohorts on granite rocks, rising
lazily to sweep along on the wind.

Marsh marigolds, freshly reflecting
the bright orb of the sun above,
glow insouciantly at the water's edge.
The horizon barely there, the sky adrift
with white wisps echoeing the fiercely
foaming water. The old stone mill
stands beyond the bridge, a sentry not
forlorn, but recalled to use for this era.

All I Have To Do Is Dream, Dream

Little did we imagine when we
were young, very young, that
when we were dancing to popular
tunes there might be many to
inspire our futures together,
clasping one another, dreamily
pacing and swaying to the gentle
love songs of our far-distant era.

Little did we imagine we would
enter marriage and adulthood,
memory yet swaying in unison to the
sorrows of others' lost loves, of
others' vanished dreams, yet we
emerged unscathed, love intact, to
dreamily dance on our kitchen floor,
grey heads together, you guiding me
as we move with recalled grace.

It has been so very long a time since
we were together young, as we
observe a grandchild at the age we were
when we became inseparable. The
intervening years, many and fulsome
with memories of the ties that bound
and the sublimity of the love that
overwhelms yet, and endures.

And there it is, that old melody
of the dance floor. Again we dance to
that song with the knowledge that
we have dreamed our life, not away,
but into its incandescent state of being.

The Dawning

Reminiscent of an primordial
atmosphere, dark streaks of bruised
purple dominate the receding dark
of the night sky as dawn lays its claim
to day. A cascading series of whistles,
shrieks and groans tumble from
the surrounding canopy of trees.

In the distance, grey trails of
vapour and white mists veil the
mountain slopes Fear recedes as
dawn breaks night's clasp and the
sky's helmet clears to blue, revealing
a pitiless sun, swiftly drying sodden
green, soon to shrivel foliage in its
ferociously torrid onslaught.

Three hominids humped before
the embers of a fire laboriously
masticating feed on what their
omnivorous, rarely-satiated appetite
craves. Forgotten now their cowering
desperation during the prolonged
onslaught of thunder and lightning
threatening to reach deep within
the cold shelter of their cave to
deafen, irradiate and drown.

Another of countless survivals.
In the cowl of the morning they will
deploy to gather nuts, seeds, fruits
and seek the easy prey of small, furred
creatures whose bones their teeth will
grind to the marrow, sustaining them
for yet another day's existence.

Mid-day is the time to shelter from
the unrelenting fury of the fiery orb
that, sending probing rays into every
unshielded interstice, turns rocky
surfaces to infernos. Warm-blooded
organisms scurry toward sheltered
havens. That brief time between sunset
and the dismal, darkly-cold curtain of
night, another hunting respite.

Then the mellow light of dusk, swiftly
transforms to black; opaque reality
becoming nothing at all, as objects
vanish and cringing animals seek refuge
from fierce night prowlers. Cold descends,
fires flare, shuddering bodies cling for
comfort. At night, come the bestial,
life-ending predators silently gliding
on padded feet, quietly springing,
bloodily triumphant in claw and fang.

Life's Journey

In over sixty years, what really
has changed? In the vibrant memory
of ourselves as mere children, we
orbited one another, the gravity
of curiosity and awakening
drawing us to a certain tandem.
Little did we know that would
preface our future. But it was
most certainly thus realized.

And in that time we loved and
cherished, bidden by our need for
one another as our lives became
as one, inextricably interbound,
woven for the eternity of human
existence, which is, in fact,
determinedly finite in nature
and elderly expectation.

Now we sometimes react in
amazement at the fleeting years,
graced by each other's presence.
All of life's transitional stages
experienced as a brace, and even
birth itself, yet another sharing.

From early youth to the formation
of intelligent maturity we passed
our days and years of exploration
and discovery, enriched by the
comfort of abiding care and
deep-seated, shared love.

We are equal accessories to this
binary light. Existing not as
natural extensions each of the
other, but rather complementary
necessities to lives fully lived. For
we have journeyed much, together.

Caveat Emptor

"The aftermath was more bloody,
more awful, more terrifying than
anyone could have imagined. I can
say that never did I guess the
nightmare that unfolded."

Yes, a butterfly unfolding its wings to dry,
then flapping off into the adventure of its
lifetime may influence other events that may
afterward occur, seemingly unrelated to its
existence, in a demonstration of the concordance
in nature of all elements of life and natural
proceedings emanating from the unfolding
of chance, circumstance and destiny.

Yet humankind is gifted with the discreet
options of informed, reasonable and rational
choices. Knowing that for every action there is
reaction, for every purposeful choice there will
be inevitable consequences. Such thoughtful
introspection does not grace the minds of
sociopathic dictators, careless of the impact
and aftermath of their self-absorbed decrees.

Such can, however, haunt the memories of
world leaders whose inadequately considered
choices refer hindsight to history's fresh heap.
Regrets there may be, internalized, even gravely
admitted, as elder statesmen seek to burnish
their legends and leave behind an untarnished
legacy for posterity to cherish in nationalist triumph.

The tempest of the times chained to motivations
that steered toward poor choices. Later lamenting
lost lives that weigh on a conscience, assuaged
by the self-assured belief that there was no other
choice recognizable. The leader, acting in post-haste,
reports, long afterward, at leisure. He committed
to what he felt was the correct course of action at
the time. In retrospect regretting his decision,
committing his country and its youth to sacrifice.

"I feel desperately sorry for them, sorry for the
lives cut short. To be indifferent to that would be
inhuman, emotionally warped." And he is not "that
sort", you see. He has shed tears for the sad
and sordid outcome of his decisions: "All I
know is that I did what I thought was right."

Lesson learned? Never. Mankind remains
tendentiously inhibited to the rigours of self-
discipline. And the great crowd of humanity
seek those among them to act as plausible
stewards of the public weal. A tradition we
are wedded to, in our stolid need and belief in
a higher order of responsibly-elite minds setting
a course toward justice, equality, purpose and
prosperity. The dead are mourned, tucked away
in memory and old politicians find new ways to
expeditiously and profitably get on with their
distinguished and honourable lives.

Omnipresent Wind

Wind has exerted a powerful presence,
these late days, asserting its unchallenged
sovereignty over our shared environment.
Reminding weary old decaying snags in the
forest their time has come, toppling them,
shattering trunk and brittle limbs. Last
night, between repeating thunderstorm
episodes, a young raccoon explored the
specials du jour in backyard composters.
Lightning crackled and bent the atmosphere
but he, confident in his mission, endured.

More of the same next morning, interspersed
with brilliant sunshine . Nature's game of
on-again, off-again, electrifying the day.
The ravine's creek ran deep and detritus-full,
A darkly sleek muskrat, in its element, swam
swiftly along its swollen generosity, dove and
re-surfaced, an aquatic acrobat. During sun-
peeking moments cardinals trilled. When rain
returned, all was stilled. But a brown creeper
explored contrarily the bark of an old pine.

Overhanging willows loosing leaves too early,
and tart, small apples dropping from overburdened
wild fruit trees decorate the ground below. Pine
needles, blanketing the rich woodland soil glow
orange. Overnight have sprung yellow, blue,
orange, white and purple fungi, flaunting their
brilliant presence, daring the curious to guess:
edible perhaps, or mortality's gruesome end?

The sky shifts endlessly, from darkly bruised
and ferociously lowering, to a whipped-cream
canvass, relenting to a blue bowl, culminating
to brief outbreaks of light, then darkness
prevails and thunderheads loose once more
torrents and gales of rainfall. The everpresent
wind, omnipotently driving all before it, has
orchestrated this theatrically staged drama,

Heavenly Host

The stunning all-sky image taken by Planck is dominated by the brightness from our own Milky Way galaxy

Read more: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/sciencetech/article-1292104/Our-Universe-revealed-Dramatic-sky-photo-gives-new-clues-happened-Big-Bang.html#ixzz0yayX7OZI

For some, shock and profound unease that
the brilliant mind in the diseased body of
an extraordinary intellect has presented the
ultimate scientific assessment, based on
advanced physics and planetary discoveries
synthesized with a generous helping of reality;
that Nature does very well for herself, in
harnessing gravity to creation, obviating
as redundant the fanciful clinging to the
belief in a Divine Presence manipulating the
Cosmos to create Being, and you and me.

You may cling ferociously to the blessing
of faith, giving meaning to your life and hope
for your future. As for me, and others who have
never submitted to faith in a higher order of
sublime existence, an omnipotent, omniscient,
controlling Illuminated Presence of ultimate
wisdom, we are not at all perturbed, nor yet
do we preen with the satisfaction of those
whose disbelief in divinity is rationally validated.

Of course, faith is not rational. It is an ingrained
phenomenon of the mind embracing the soul's
need for reassurance. To cling to the belief that
"we are not alone". That a Heavenly Father,
concerned for His flock controls events, and
to Him prayers of devotion and entreaty must
be humbly addressed without question. Nothing, no
assurances to the contrary, will disturb the deeply
placid belief in the Almighty that believers
clasp so deeply and passionately to themselves.

No one being, of human descent, is completely
knowledgeable, neither the Pope, nor science's
foremost theoretical physicist; both are fallible,
each possessed of their own very particular brand
of hubris. One born of faith, the other of the gift
of genius. Each inheriting from predecessors
thought, instinct, reaction. In the presence of God
and the absence of God alike, we exist, capable
and yet fearful of what we do not know.

Nothing will alter that. Although believers and
non-believers alike are capable of enjoying views
through a cleverly arresting series giving us leave
to admire Nature's great gifts to all living creatures,
even when the presentation comes in the guise of a
thankful paean to the worshipful God Almighty.

www.andiesisle.com/creation/magnificent.html

Solution!

She is out walking her hyper-charged little dog, a cute
mixed-breed with an over-abundance of enthusiasm
for all the challenges life offers. I've grown fond of the
little fellow over the years, although nothing to match
my emotional attachment to my own even smaller,
eye-appealing companion who stole my heart ten years
ago. When they were pups hers tormented mine, until
the victim finally stood, snarled, pounced and trounced.

An uneasy truce followed over the succeeding years,
hers glad to greet us, holding no grudges, and ours
studiously withholding forgiveness. Just as well we live
at opposite ends of the street. Her bumptiously adorable
dog, a practising dervish challenging the wind, matured
very nicely, just marginally surrendering its whirlwind
proclivities, while ours, sweetly lovable, maintained
his distrust of others until they proved themselves.

Our wee companion is gently amenable to the presence
of squirrels, chipmunks, rabbits and such; quite equal
to the aplomb they exude, finding the challenge of
the chase readily resistible. He plods resignedly at
his stubborn leisure and no endearing verbal enticements
to process greater speed lifts him from his stately pace.
Sheer boredom, a response to the familiarity of trails
too well known. Expose him to a new and different
environment and his interest aroused, he rushes
purposefully ahead, adventure of the new, triumphant.

Her little dog is muscularly svelte, not an ounce out of
place. Ours, in sad contrast, resembles a child's over-
stuffed little bear. His long, floppy ears book-ending
moistly reverential eyes, his delicate legs hoisting aloft
a sausage-fat little body. Our little fellow has, in his
lifetime, accompanied us on many adventures, and has
proven his mettle by climbing mountain tops alongside
us. He has his own companion, a black female, eight
years older than he, and as fully energetic despite her age.

Our neighbour's unsolicited advice is intriguing and,
unfortunately, somewhat revolting. She has a friend, she
waxes knowledgeably, who solved her own little dog's
weight problem thusly: "Tie a 3-to-5-lb. weight firmly
on its back. To discourage him from eating so much."
Her friend's dog, she avers, responded splendidly to
this novel weight-reduction brain-wave. No doubt.

Aching Reality

It is pure anguish, witnessing the agonizingly
unstoppable diminishment of the life force
in a beloved animal companion, one with whom
near two decades of living has been shared. All
things do end, but it is the pain of the implacable
descent into non-being that compels us to grieve,
hoping for a miraculous respite that will allow
us more of her before her live evaporates.

Small, black, the hairy little creature still
cognizant of life's allures, vigorously applying
her energy to wooded trails and the irresistible
odours of a natural environment found there.
But of the energy, too much is invested in a
nervous inability to relax the tensions of
uncertainty that now beset her every waking
moment. And they are too plentiful, those wakeful
times of endless, purposeless, confused pacing.

Forgotten now her faultless sense of direction
and memory, as she stands adrift in her mind, her
landscape newly strange, routine now disrupted,
discarded in the new discordance of her failing
sensibilities. She has become a tautly-wired,
tightly-bound, fully lost shadow of her former
self, anticipating danger where none exists, startled
by imagined threats looming suddenly before her;
inaudible sounds and sights undecipherable by us.

Her once-peerless sight and hearing have
steadily faded, imperilling her confidence. She
looks, transfixed, at scenes known only to her
imagination and not a function of clear vision.
No longer capable of reacting to our familiar voices,
reassurance now lies in physical contact, and
these she shrinks from, then softly relents. Her
haircoat, too long now, and disordered, reflecting
the miasma of her mind. Resistant to brush
and bath. Forgotten her extensive vocabulary
and communication skills, she wanders listlessly,
restively, throughout the rooms of the house
that has ever been her home, and ours.

We entice, then order her to sleep, wait by
her side until exhaustion all too briefly rescues
her from alert dissonance and the energy-sapping
wakefulness she experiences. We are resigned
to entreating her to consume her food, submitting
now to offerings to pique her failing interest, as
she paces restlessly by and beyond her food bowl
as though unaware of its purpose. In the early
morning hours, she leaves her bed and paces
about and around, lost in her fog of confusion.

She will eliminate as needed, but amazingly
sparingly, an obvious symptom of growing
bodily dysfunctionality and mental unawareness.
She is in no measure as she once, even fairly
of late, has been. Already we sorrow, in no state
of mind ourselves to recognize death's
jurisdiction, its implacable imperative over
a life long lived and happily shared.

Breathe Easy

Khuram Sher auditioned for season 6 of Canadian Idol. Sher was detained Aug. 26, 2010 as part of an RCMP national security investigation.

It's all right, everything will be just fine.
Do not unduly exercise your imagination,
quite unnecessary and in fact guaranteed
to result in a condition close to apoplexy.
Well, yes, it is true that there are viciously
determined terrorists committing bloody
havoc abroad, but remember, this is
Canada. Get a grip. Not Somalia, Pakistan,
Iran, Iraq, Afghanistan, after all: Canada.

We don't do terror. And within this country
so lavishly committed to social harmony,
so fully engaged with tender respect for the
quaint traditions and cultural heritage of
immigrants there cannot possibly erupt vile
incidents of clandestine groups fomenting
and planning to execute fanatical bloody mass
murder here, courtesy of Islamic jihad.

Perish the thought, and stifle suspicions that
that we might harbour those whose fondest,
earnest, malign intent is to divide Canadian
opinion and usher in a new age of isolation
within a readily manipulable community on
the side of victims of misfortune, an enemy
born of tribal and religious exclusion, to
defame and to persecute innocents, deflecting
attention from the stealthily creeping ascent
of brutal justice of a form unrecognized by
liberal democracies upholding freedoms.

These harbingers of a new conquest, with its
dedication to the stilling of dissent in the
claims of "Islamophobia", silencing the alarms
of clear-visioned critics, have no place in this
country; therefore they do not exist other than
in the fevered imagination of the feeble-minded
critics of fundamentalist, irredentist Islamists.
Peace and brotherhood set aside in the greater
interests of ideological power, manifest destiny.

Breathless reportage of another revealed cell of
the righteous, zealously pursuing the freedom
to opt for revenge against the Kuffar by those
cleverly integrating seamlessly into Canadian
society as engineers, technicians, IP specialists,
medical professionals. Who, conversely, pair
with niqab-wearing wives, the stuff of paranoia.
Not in Canada, Bud. R.C.M.P. and C.S.I.S.
effected arrests of "homegrown extremists"?
Take a deep breath; the charges are alleged