Capricious? Not Nature!

Red Rose blooming within encompassing October snowfall
We most certainly did enjoy it while it lasted;
several delightful days of Indian Summer,
that brief idyllic, illusory return to late
summer, a rare and appreciated kindness
of nature, too briefly offering a surcease of
the wind, cold and icy rain of late fall,
hauling us ineluctably into frigid winter.

How we revelled in the mild atmosphere,
the kiss of gentle breezes, the still-warming
sun placidly beaming its rays from the wide
blue bowl of heaven. Trees still holding fast
their diminishing veil of pale golds, blushing
pinks,with the acrid fragrance of autumn
heralding stern winter held in abeyance.

In these northern climes what a difference
a day makes. Just as we became comfortable
with moderation...the warmth...cessation of
cold...harrying wind and rain, nature, in her
teasing exhibitionist folly, re-introduced the
reality of the seasons. Returning winter's
approach with her wildly impish humour.

Wind swept remaining leafs from tree branches,
sending them skittering in colourful whorls
down streets abandoned to excessive cold,
sleeting rain, descending temperatures. Until
finally, with nightfall our disbelieving eyes
witnessed the courage of a single blooming rose
blanketed with snow in the garden as it slanted
its white presence in the provocative wind.

The Woods, Transformed

Our life-long love affair with trees was crowned
with the discovery of an extensive forested ravine
contiguous to the urban landscape where our new
home resided decades ago. That ravine, in the years
since, has endured as a source of communion with
nature, as close and comfortable as a stroll from
our front door toward its closely aligned entrance.
Daily, the ravine beckoned compelling us, and daily
we eagerly responded, finding respite there from
quotidian concerns and mindless routines holding
far less appeal than the ravine's meandering trails.

In the spring, a succession of wild flowers
coloured the procession of days, growing ever
greener as trees found their leafage and the
warmth and bounty of summer proceeded to
offer edible jewels; strawberries, raspberries,
blackberries, thimbleberries for the delectation
of those who recognized their value. In the
summer, leisurely rambles through the cool
interior, its creeks running swiftly through
the valleys with dragonflies, bees, beetles and
sweet songbirds enlivening the atmosphere.

In the fall months, small furry creatures of
the woodlands bustle about busily storing
up caches of nuts and seeds to see them
through semi-hibernation - and the wild apple
trees shed their bounty of apples, moist and
sweetly-piquant to the intrepid wild-fruit
lover. The woodland trails sifted deep in autumn
leaves, presenting a confetti of bronze, tan,
orange, gold and scarlet. The pines shed a
tonnage of rusty needles which wind and rain
wash in thick layers of valuable compost.

Winter reveals the presence of mice, owls,
raccoons, foxes, hares and grouse, all
leaving distinctive prints in new-fallen snow.
At night, ventures into the ravine's depths
bring the howls of coyotes, competing with the
owls and ravens in hunting prowess, seeking
unaware and escape-tardy morsels. Soft black
velvet of night presents on the ravine's perimeter,
but within, a magical aura of bright shimmering
pink and mauve lights the environment as clear
as day, guiding snow-muffled treads.

A catastrophic ice-storm wrought horrendous
damage to the ice-weighted boughs and tree
limbs, and tree tops came shattering to the
forest floor. The twin, century-old pines that
had stood in binary sentry position amidst a
fork in the trail were impacted, as one lost its
venerable mast, struggled for survival, finally
agonized into death. Its twin, beset by a malicious
infestation struggled to survive, even after youths
set fire to its hollow interior. Alas, municipal
work crews took the initiative and toppled the
majestic tree; our landscape truly transformed.

Grey On White

Nothing whatever reserved about that
tiny creature.  She was happily outgoing,
so at ease, that diminutive canine companion
of the elderly woman that she was not at all lost
in her absence, among a crowd of people.
Her bright eyes alive with curiosity darted
everywhere that activity piqued her attention.

Not, in fact, much happening, other than a
slow succession of mostly grey heads and
greybeards arriving for their pre-surgery
appointments at their community hospital;
not inclined, under the circumstances, to
good cheer singly nor among themselves.

Yet the sight of the sweetly animated,
grey-haired dog, placidly seated among
strangers, so alive to its gregariously-
accepting instincts, gave the gift of laughter
to those assembled, awaiting the tedium of
the pre-operative protocol, where blood
pressure would be monitored, X-rays
ordered, blood tested, innumerable questions
fielded in preparation of a life event as
difficult to absorb as it was to deny.

Worried self-concern was transformed
to quiet observation as smiles swept creased
grey faces formerly distracted by miserable
thoughts weighted with fear of the unknown.
The nurses moved among the decrepit throng
with clean and tidy efficiency, tossing coy
comments to the tiny toy poodle, scrambling
someone's coat into a semblance of comfort,
lightening everyone's palpably dark mood.

The little dog submitted to pats, smoothing
its beribboned topknot, gave calm attention
to peoples' nods, smiles and conversations,
constraints of strangers suddenly eased by
its calming presence.  It dozed in people's
willing warm laps alternately to gracefully
straining its minuscule presence to arch forward
in rapt interest, missing nothing whatever.

Certainly not the arrival of a frail, barely
ambulatory figure, inspection and instruction
both completed; that of its beloved mistress,
as the poodle's adoring fixation on the figure
demonstrated, while it leaped toward the
outstretched arms.  In pure reciprocal
loving embrace, the little grey head resting in
close communion against the wizened white head.

Autumn Glory

It is a pensive season.  One that heralds a spirit
of celebration and mild regrets.  Fall is a time
of harvest, bounty of the earth's generosity
in sharing with us a cornucopia of edible
fruits of the ground, the sun and rain of
summertime.  The grains and seeds, roots
and vegetables that sustain us testify to
our dependence on Nature's largess and
our seasonally-grateful memories.  Yet
reluctant to view the passage of yet another
year, when we mourn the reality of fleeting time.

Still, this is the season bringing twofold
pleasures - those that entrance the critic's
eye in a brilliant exposition of botanical
ripeness and splendour - with deciduous
trees and shrubs blazing the landscape in
memorable shades of Nature's ineffable
palette.  The absorbing landscapes of
mesmerizing dusks and dawns; the sun
setting lower on our horizons, preparing
for the winter equinox, offers scintillating
sky-full blushes of rose and mauves, the
firmament ablaze on the cusp of darkness.

Those low-slung and immense, bright
harvest moons clinging to the roof of the
sky, then slipping toward the horizon as a
breathtaking disk of light and promise eases
our lament over summer's escape.  Garden
tools are placed in storage, as the last of fall
flowers fade, and gardens are placed in an
hiatus of deserved rest, to be resuscitated
many cold winter months hence.

Creatures of the woods sufficiently sentient
and inheriting their species' memories, seek
to provide stored seeds, nuts and forage to
take them toward hibernation and beyond.
The lakes, woodland creeks and rivers will
bond into ice, aquatic life taking refuge
where they may.  But here, these gentler days,
the wind abates as the atmosphere briefly relents.

Affording us in its grace, a briefly tenuous
backward look at the warmth and beauty that
were unreservedly ours a few short months
earlier.  Shorter days are now inexorably
closing us within winter months.  But now,
right now, the delectation of Indian Summer
with its bright, insouciant transit, is ours.

The Fascinating Past

Old King Tut

No, he wasn't old, at all, since he was a boy king, thought to have been 19 in 1324, B.C. when he died, having reigned for nine years. That was 3350 years ago, if one can fathom that time-frame, and in that sense it makes him old. But although chronologically he was not old when alive, physically his condition was that of an old man, having to get about with the use of a cane, and suffering severe degenerative conditions, along with a club foot.

He cannot have been too sprightly in the prime of his life, poor Tutankhamen. When his royal tomb was exhumed by Howard Carter in 1922, it was a sensation, because of the condition of the site, the splendour of the items found with him, and the exceedingly beautiful gold-worked death mask that topped his sarcophagus. The find was a sensational one awing the world, mesmerized by the legend of the boy king.

And the mystery of a curse said to have afflicted many in attendance at the excavation made everything surrounding the legend and the reality of King Tutankhamen a thrillingly fascinating discovery. Now, a team of scientists from Egypt, Italy and Germany making use of the most advanced DNA techniques has reached the conclusion that the king's physical disorders weakened his immune system making the health-vulnerable man susceptible to malarial-caused death.

His genetic endowments were grimly inappropriate for a long and healthy life. He is thought, through the tests, to have been the son of Akhenaten, the pharaoh whose paeons to the sun-god made him known to have been the first monotheist, and whose legacy of sacred buildings dedicated to Aten, the disc of the sun, were destroyed by those who followed him. The boy king's parents and grand-parents too have been identified.

Akhenaten was known to suffer from severe genetic problems caused by a disease that damages the body's connective tissues whose symptoms include a short torso, long head, neck, arms, hands and feet; pronounced collarbones, pot belly, heavy thighs and poor muscle tone. The six daughters he had with his wife Nefertiti all exhibited the same physical characteristics as their father. Unusually tall, likely to have weakened aortas easily ruptured leading to death.

Akhenaten never had artists copying his image for posterity alter his physique, and he was proud of the outstanding beauty of his wife Nefertiti. Nefertiti is thought also to have been a very close relative of her husband, further reasons why genetic problems surfaced in their offspring. Brother-sister marriages were common enough in early societies, particularly among royalty. Cleopatra was said to have married her brother.

Consanguinity in marriage does not produce healthy specimens; genetic vigour is irremediably impaired. Even much later, among European royalty throughout the later centuries up until the 18th Century, intermarriage in families was common. Charles Darwin, the great expositor of natural selection might have been thought to know better, but he married his first cousin, Emma Wedgwood.

King Tutankhamun's need of assistance in perambulation was verified by the discovery of over 130 walking sticks found in his tomb. The genetic tests recently completed, headed by the Supreme Council of Antiquities in Cairo, concluded that his and perhaps four other mummies from his family were infected by a parasite causing an often-deadly form of malaria.

(From front to back) The mummies of King Tut’s mother, King Tut’s grandmother, Queen Tiye, and King Tut’s father, Pharaoh Akhenaten, are displayed during a news conference by the head of the Egyptian Supreme Council of Antiquities to announce DNA results meant to reveal the parentage of Egypt’s famed King Tutankhamun at the Egyptian museum in Cairo on Feb. 17, 2010. Two years of DNA testing and CT scans on King Tutankhamun’s 3,300-year-old mummy and 15 others have provided the cause of death and the firmest family tree yet. (REUTERS)

The mummy of King Tut’s mother is displayed during a news conference by the head of the Egyptian Supreme Council of Antiquities to announce DNA results meant to reveal the parentage of Egypt’s famed King Tutankhamun at the Egyptian museum in Cairo on Feb. 17, 2010. Two years of DNA testing and CT scans on King Tutankhamun’s 3,300-year-old mummy and 15 others have provided the cause of death and the firmest family tree yet. (REUTERS)

King Tut’s grandmother Queen Tiye is displayed during a news conference by the head of the Egyptian Supreme Council of Antiquities to announce DNA results meant to reveal the parentage of Egypt’s famed King Tutankhamun at the Egyptian museum in Cairo on Feb. 17, 2010. Two years of DNA testing and CT scans on King Tutankhamun’s 3,300-year-old mummy and 15 others have provided the cause of death and the firmest family tree yet. (REUTERS)

The mummy of King Tut’s mother, seen through a glass case, is displayed for the media during a press conference with Egypt’s top archaeologist Zahi Hawass at the Egyptian Museum in Cairo, Egypt, on Feb. 17, 2010. Two years of DNA testing and CT scans on King Tutankhamun’s 3,300-year-old mummy and 15 others have provided the cause of death and the firmest family tree yet. (REUTERS)

The mummy of King Tut’s mother, seen through a glass case, is displayed for the media during a press conference with Egypt’s top archaeologist Zahi Hawass at the Egyptian Museum in Cairo, Egypt, on Feb. 17, 2010. Two years of DNA testing and CT scans on King Tutankhamun’s 3,300-year-old mummy and 15 others have provided the cause of death and the firmest family tree yet. (REUTERS)

Tourists look at the displayed mummy of King Tut’s grandmother Queen Tiye, seen through a glass case at the Egyptian Museum in Cairo, Egypt, on Feb. 17, 2010. Two years of DNA testing and CT scans on King Tutankhamun’s 3,300-year-old mummy and 15 others have provided the cause of death and the firmest family tree yet. (REUTERS)

General view showing three mummies from left to right, King Tut’s mother, grandmother, and Akhenaten “Tut’s father”, are displayed during a press conference by the head of the Egyptian Supreme Council of Antiquities to announce DNA results meant to reveal the parentage of Egypt’s famed King Tutankhamun at the Egyptian museum in Cairo, Egypt, on Feb. 17, 2010. Two years of DNA testing and CT scans on King Tutankhamun’s 3,300-year-old mummy and 15 others have provided the cause of death and the firmest family tree yet. (THE ASSOCIATED PRESS)

The mummy of King Tut’s father Pharaoh Akhenaten, seen through a glass case, is displayed for the media during a press conference with Egypt’s top archaeologist Zahi Hawass at the Egyptian Museum in Cairo, Egypt, on Feb. 17, 2010. Two years of DNA testing and CT scans on King Tutankhamun’s 3,300-year-old mummy and 15 others have provided the cause of death and the firmest family tree yet. (REUTERS)

Community Extensions

Now that represents a useful expedition.
Venturing out for the purpose of perusing
the goods offered for sale in a charity-based
emporium of donated materials whose
original owners see no further personal
need for. In one fell swoop, shoppers may
convey to the Sally Ann thrift shops objects
whose ownership they are prepared to
dispense with, in a gesture of altruistic
community largess. Far more gracious and
soul-satisfying than hawking still-useful
and desirable belongings at those irritatingly
ubiquitous neighbourhood garage sales.

Helping the environment by re-using rather
than discarding perfectly sound possessions.
Gadgets, electronics, toys, tools, kitchenwares,
books, videos, footwear, clothing, linens and
furniture can all be found in good and sometimes
mint condition. There, where sturdy North Face
outdoor gear can assume a second life, where
books by authors you're curious to read, but
hesitant to spring for, become affordable at
veritable bargain prices. The atmosphere
conducive to relaxed browsing, the clientele,
like those who donate, struck with similar values
of conscious communal enrichment.

Everyone profits from the exchange. Those who
donate, knowing their valuable discards will prove
useful to others, and those who purchase, with the
assumption that interminable land-fills are too
invested with waste that is not to be wasted. Most
of all, the exchanges offer huge monetary benefit
to a venerable charity whose care and compassion
offers hope and sustenance to those in society
whom the givers and the takers never quite see.

Changing The Guardians (Of The Public Purse)

They've been out stumping, the candidates
and their bushy-tailed supporters, zealously
anxious to sell the homeowner on the merits
of their esteemed choices; good enough for
them, should be for you, too. Soon as one
candidate leaves, his antagonist arrives to
negate if at all possible, any positive
impression the former may have left you
with, leaving instead a sour feeling at the
so-obvious attempt to manipulate, not
impress with a spirit of public service.

On this occasion it is municipal. We are
headed to the polls to (re-) elect the scoundrels
who infuriated us the past four years by their
slovenly care of the taxes they extract from
property owners in this fair city, the country's
national capital. That old adage of the ballot
box representing democracy's revenge sometimes
rings true, and we're prepared to throw the
conscienceless wastrels by the wayside, right
by the curb as it happens, for tomorrow's
neighbourhood waste day, right on schedule.

Some of us are, in any event; that too-scant
few dedicated to the principle of attaining the
representation we deserve. Of all such proceedings
this level of government, with its closest impact
on our quotidian lives, draws the scantest interest
and voter commitment. So, by default too often,
we obtain the results we feel we do not deserve,
yet in retrospect those are the results we deserve.

The prevarications, circumlocutions, evasions,
inanities and downright infuriating lack of
competent administrative skills, initiatives and
intentions to produce an atmosphere conducive
to representing the social contract reflecting our
shared values and imperatives frustrate and
confound the citizen-taxpayer. Good humour and
patience decline in direct proportion to obviously
diminishing quality of vital social and civic
services. We seem damned whichever way we
choose. A serviceable explanation for the pathetic
level of voter interest in the vaunted process.

Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Stars

The amazing speed of light an impossibly
distant galaxy has sent toward the posterity
we represent is astonishingly difficult to
balance by frail human minds. Brilliant
cerebrums whose understanding of
technical, scientific, mathematical models
of nature's dabbling in physics and gases
and organic potentials leave us gasping in
disbelief. But then, what do we mortals know?

Travelling through the organized chaos of
space and atmospheres we conclude from
spectroscopy and quantum mechanics - and
radio telescopes continually scanning the
immensity of the Universe still unfolding its
unknowable presence, we deduce that life
forms other than the familiar may indeed
exist. Beware, cautions the world's foremost
astrophysicist: some things are best left
as they appear; untouched mysteries.

Organisms may colonize other planets on
other galaxies in the vastness of the dark
surrounding us punctuated by brilliant pinpricks
of heavenly light. On solid or gaseous surfaces
holding life's molecular-organic promise, that
divine spark may have given life. Somewhere.
As close as a sister planet, as far as one of more
ancient derivation, the light of which, travelling
at 300,000 kps has taken 13-billion light-years
to be received on Earth, and recognized.

There can be no certitude, only a preternatural
twinge of possibility inferred by stellar-fixated
minds of genius whose knowledge has been
predicated upon those of rare insight of our race
from primeval times to the present. We exist,
why not, how not, other forms of intelligent
awareness. Of course, 13-billion years represents
an exhaustively-engaged time even when no one
is counting. And to traverse that distance in time
and icy, blank space represents a wearying affair.

So if we were to forward a message of greeting
trusting that at some primordial event amino
acids precipitated life, what guarantee it yet
remains? It is not without the bounds of
possibility that some capable life form has itself
messaged us out of a sense of non-human curiosity
and receiving no response, as we do not deign to
notice stray and puzzling appearances of strangely
fey creatures, but make haste to destroy what we
find fearfully offensive, we may never really know.

Woodland Brigand

He follows swiftly, determinedly shadowing
us, to challenge our presence, that blackly
furred mite, for this is his place and we come
bearing gifts. Your swag or your life! he charges
toward us. Our toy poodle feels himself to be
more than capable of defending us all, but no
need. Stumpy pulls up just short of our boots
and swivels his absent tail in avid expectation.

We fumble to discard those peanuts whose
shells are inadequate, searching for large,
plump specimens suitable to proffer toward
his nimble awareness. Secure in his clever paws,
her permits our departure. Then hunts us down,
time and again, as we proceed along the leaf-deep
forest trails, dispensing nuts elsewhere for
discerningly anxious but nowhere-near-as
existentially precocious squirrels as is he.

He is disarmingly amusing, cleverly self-
availing. Aware of the caches, yet deigning to
approach straight to the source of the deposits.
Where the crowds of squirrels that converge
in our wake share a dim associative recognition
of our presence and purpose equating with
largess, he alone instantly understands
the relationship; no mystery to him.

His homage secured, he turns his back to us
and leap-frogs over stumps and branches,
his short fluffy fur where a long furry tail
should be, winking whitely at us,
like an impish rabbit, swiftly receding...

Until next time, when he confronts us once
again, demanding stand-and-deliver!
And we most certainly will - the brazen little
highway-squib. Our very own, up close and
quite magisterially personable, wonderfully
well adapted woodland brigand.

Smiling At Me

It has always been this way, since
we were children, and beyond. When
he faces me the contagion of pleasure
pervades our intimate atmosphere.
As our eyes move toward one another,
there it is, the warmth of his smile,
generously flooding his face and
unfailingly touching my heart.

Lest we forget. That none is nearer
nor dearer, the reflex as familiar as
seeing one's own face mirrored. I exist,
therefore you are. I am here, and close
beside me, you are too, precisely
where you belong. Close by me, to share
any given moment; close to touch,
to grasp and to clasp as near to our
beating hearts as space and place.

That smile beams toward me, warming
my soul, bringing the urgency of love
to bear at every possible hour of our
days. The fulfillment of our shared lives,
expressed in that smile exuding care and
treasured love. Sometimes, the smile is
not enough, and a deeply prolonged hug
must elaborate the soul's compact.

Porcelain Dog

She is dainty and delicate, a veritable
living treasure. Like a family heirloom,
she has much importance to us. Antiques
are held in high regard and so too is she.
Her status is that of an elder, a survivor
who despite her years, still captivates and
amuses us with her arcane wit and sense
of dignity tempered with the airy and sweet
insouciance of the worldly. The energetic
determination of one intent on seeing
the future for as long as absolutely possible.

Her black coat, still softly silky and glossy
is now tinged with grey. Her large and
luminous eyes that once noticed everything
are slightly occluded. Her ability to interpret
whatever we enunciate has been impacted by her
diminished hearing. Her alacrity in joining
us for daily perambulations in the woods
persists, as does her stamina, however.

She remains our companion, accompanying
our forays and wisely holding her counsel.
The homage she deserves is never overlooked,
for it is she who rules the household. Her
graceful conformation and spirit of enquiry
reflect sterling endowments she has unstintingly
shared with us over our many years together.

Like fine bone china of rare provenance
and outstanding beauty, Her Grace is handled
with awe and huge respect. Her aloof and
regal bearing denoting her station in life. In
her advanced years she so much appreciates
a small blanket gently enfolding her slumber,
a light-weight coat indoors in winter, nicely
personalized with the designation "Princess".

During the season of cold, snow and ice, she
wears boots, prancing in them like a Lipizzaner
through snowy trails, while wrapped in warm
doggy coat, complete with its own reviled hood.
Younger, these winter dress-ups embarrassed
her and she felt much put upon. Now, she helpfully
raises paws, tucks in her head, to assist in the
enveloping, protective garb. We are not loathe
to pay obeisance to royalty where it is due.

Fall's Leafy Harvest

We are slushing and shushing noisily
through woodland trails deep in fallen
leaves. The surrounding deciduous trees
almost bare, protective canopy fast
disappearing. The evergreens, however,
bright green, even while the pines are
dropping needles like rain in the wind.

Clasped in my fist, the bag of daily peanut
offerings. As we begin the long descent
into the ravine those curious crows fly over,
then settle nearby, to watch us dispensing
peanuts in the usual cracks and holes in
tree bark, on stumps and in crotches
where our customary clients are already
gathering in anxious expectation.

Tiny red squirrels aggressively give
entitled chase to the infinitely larger
blacks and greys. A saucy chipmunk
busies itself gathering what it can stuff
into its pouch, blithely ignoring the
officious reds. We leave behind us, as we
progress along the trails, satisfied clients
who seem to know tomorrow is another
day, and the day after that, as well.

For they appear like clockwork, poised
and anticipating, some bold enough to
face us around the corner of tree trunks
at eye level, awaiting their deposit. None
ever so bold as the little black tail-less
one for whom we save the special,
three-chamber peanuts, his alone.

He runs directly toward us, stops a few
feet shy of our small dogs, and awaits our
homage. It is not long in dispersal and
Stumpy avails himself, then stations nearby
as we watch him destroy the casing, bits
flying, and excavates the fresh nut meats,
one after the other, turning them in his
clever paws, counting one-two-three.

We know that when he looks down
keenly at the ruined shell to convince
himself he has not missed a nut, he
will speedily return for another, and yet
another until satiation, when he leaves us.
The three crows, dark marauders, watch
the proceedings. They are accustomed to
politely waiting by as they settle down
beside the caches to take advantage of a
lull in squirrel traffic, and avail themselves
before flapping off, mission accomplished.

The acrid flavour of leaves underfoot
crackling as we submit to our perambulation
and the still-vivid colours of newly-fallen
foliage celebrates fall, under the clarity
of the wide blue sky and warming sun.

Spectacular Whimsy

Patience, dedication, determination. Ultimate Folly.
Awe-inspiring.

Antoni Gaudi
Sagrada Familia
Barcelona, Spain
Construction commenced in 1884
Art Nouveau has the most arcane effect when committed to church architecture. One of the many buildings of this genre designed and built by Antoni Gaudi in Barcelona. The Cathedral was begun in 1884. Work on this spectacular building has been ongoing ever since. It remains, to the present, uncompleted.
The four striking towers were only completed after Gaudi's death.
This building is representative of the most highly imaginatively-designed church in the last century. It transcends any influence which might have been derived from the international Art Nouveau movement, and intimates the Expressionist movement in twentieth-Century architecture.

This is a veritable monument to the powers that reside above, to the compulsive belief of a man captivated by images of nature who used his classical training in architecture to develop his own idiosyncratic style, incorporating Nature and all her flora and fauna, as though the designer of this ultimate fancy equated Nature herself with the Heavenly Host and with God Himself.

It is a marvel of unstinting fantasy and it is a glory to behold.

Photographs: J.S. Rosenfeld, 2010

Willing Myself To Waken

Another night of one of those haunted, haunting dreams. Not my idea of a dream, it is a nightmare from which I cannot escape. There are just so many versions of the same frightening prospect of being lost, not being able to find my way home. Much worse, being separated from my life-companion, searching for him desperately, and only finding him when I finally wake up. Rescued from another nightmare.

I read too many of those personal accounts of dreadful acts that people commit against one another. When the human psyche goes berserk. But that's only part of it. My husband also has similar disturbing dreams. Where he cannot find his way home, despite his anxious determination to come home to me. It's all that travelling he had to do throughout his working life, he tells me. It's the memory of loneliness, of impersonal hotel rooms and foreign destinations.

For me, it's more that when he travelled I yearned to hear from him, to feel him close again beside me. He was always good about that. No matter where he was, halfway across the world, he would telephone me, and that was comforting. He would come home from his workplace appearing quieter than usual. That should have tipped me off to a forthcoming trip, but it always surprised me when he finally explained he would be off again.

To places throughout the length and breadth of Canada, in the United States, Mexico, Japan, Great Britain, Ireland, China. At first I thought how utterly privileged he is to travel like that and see the world, and I had to scold myself if I ever remotely revealed to him my sense of apprehension. I made a deliberate attempt to be pleased for him. And when he returned from one of those weeks-long trips, I'd listen carefully to his perceptions and experiences.

Travel by proxy. What had seemed exciting and romantic early on in his career, became a dreary re-occurrence. Some deep-seated fear must have lodged itself in the depths of my being, in some dark and secret place where it is dredged up from time to time, transformed to one of those impossible dreams. Last night's was not quite typical but then not quite atypical.

We were young again, young parents of a family of three pre-adolescent children. We had travelled somewhere for a holiday; not an exotic vacation, since at that time we did not stray all that far from home, although I've no idea where, in the dream, we were. Suddenly, my husband was somewhere else, not with us, he had told me he had somewhere he must go to, and would soon return. But he did not, and I was left with the children in some strange place.

Where I suddenly became alerted to the fact that the small town or village in which we had ensconced ourselves for our temporary stay, was bristling with people hostile to our presence. Men, women and children, all were alert to our presence, and demonstrated unmistakably ill intentions toward us. I gathered the children and we began our swift exodus from the town, but we were followed by irate people.

They threatened to kill us, all of us. I thought surely, my husband would appear, take charge of things, defuse this peculiar threatening situation, but he did not. We fled, and the throngs followed. We sought refuge in a house in the surrounding countryside and the people there behaved no differently, and seemed prepared to kill us there and then.

There were two children in the house, besides my own; one a toddler with a bonnet and a frilly dress. I scooped her up, said I would do to her what they planned to do to me and my children, and suddenly the situation changed. We were permitted to leave, refusing to leave the child, taking her with us. We wandered about, looking for a safe haven, looking for my husband.

Then we were confronted with the mob again and leading them was the family whose child I had abducted. To demonstrate quite how serious I was, I threatened to bash the child's head against the wall of a nearby house, and the crowd became very still, no longer belching bellicose abuse. I thought to myself, we would escape, we would be re-united with my husband, and I would retain the child, and raise her as our own.

Again, the crowd followed and confronted us with vicious intent. As so often happens when I have a nightmare that I cannot escape from, I woke. Aware in my drowsy state of the content of my dream, willing myself not to resume the nightmarish dream if I fell asleep, and despite that, when I fell asleep a few moments later, the dream resumed. In the dream I was acutely aware that I could escape by willing myself to awaken.

And I did.

The Shrinking Man

He was a familiar figure to the other
habitues, given to strolling along the
trails close by the neighbourhood of
homes fortunate enough to enjoy the
wooded ravine, so readily approachable.
This man, a gregarious personality,
loped along the trails. He leaned
angularly against the prevailing winds
and forged his way through the many
meandering trails, as a regular hiker.

He had a companion, a very tall and
very black Labrador, matching in
appearance, the towering size of its
guardian. For every two strides forward
most trekkers took, this man took one,
carrying him expeditiously along, his dog
trotting beside him. They were clearly
devoted to one another, the dog and the
man. They no longer, though, represent
familiar figures to those who recall them
with fond memories of camaraderie.

The dog had lived out the years allotted it,
and his companion mourned his faithful
dog's absence. No longer any reason to
perambulate through the woods. He was,
however, often seen about the near
neighbourhood and the rapid alteration
in the physical appearance of this man
distressed those who had long known him.

His height became vastly diminished as
his neck crooked forward, resembling
that of a turtle. Instead of a turtle's
carapace, his back had curved into the
very realization of a hopeless shell. Now,
he cranes forward, head faced down to the
pavement he now favours, walking along
the urban streets contiguous to the woods.

He is not alone now in his long rambles
through the area. For he adopted another
canine whose promise as a pup could be
theorized in the size of its massive paws.
The Russian wolfhound grew as rapidly as
its owner's immense size diminished. One
imbued with a lust for life, the other become
an amazing shrinking man, folded over
into himself, barely recognizable.

The reduced quality of life for the two
million men and women with osteoporosis
in Canada is enormous.

You Are Here...

The scenery is immense, forbiddingly beautiful. Stunning to the appreciative eye. And there you are, standing here, viewing it up close and very personal.

It has taken a while to ascend to this level, and having done so, you rest awhile, set down your backpack and feast your eyes on the glories of Nature. Enraptured by the cold vastness, the looming mountains, the iced and snowy valleys and the glowing glaciers. At that elevation it is cold, but not unendurable.

You have come prepared. And it is a bright day, with a clear sky and a burning sun.

You knew you were capable of the trek, long accustomed to such ascents, although not in this particular geography. Ecstatic to be there, to view first-hand what you imagined it must look like. You see no one else. No human being that is. The view is completely yours, to revel in and recall at a later date. Photographs will most certainly assist in the process. And these are some of those photographs.

Photographs: J.S. Rosenfeld, 2010, Spain, Italy, France

Put To Rest

The truth of the season is inevitable
and there is no remedy but to submit
to its insistent imperative. Our lovely
garden that has so generously charmed
and delighted us through too-short
summer months must now undergo its
seasonal deconstruction process.

Even while the gardens are yet vibrant
with colour there is little other option,
for overnight frosts are performing
their own feats of garden diminishment.
So up come the impatiens and the dahlias.
The exquisitely gorgeous begonias can
still linger for yet another day or two.

Out come the geraniums, but for those
still cheekily flowering. The leggy petunias,
bacopa and million bells, the nasturtiums
and marigolds, peaked and wan, join the
growing compost heap. It is a lovely day,
cool and breezy, the sun sitting high and
warm. Our overfed toy poodle basks
comfortably, enamoured of the sun.

I cut back turtleheads, Japanese anemones,
peonies and ladies mantle. The marigolds
and pansies, geraniums and bellflowers
join hydrangea on the compost heap. A spider
web is laced between a hemlock and a large
garden pot, the spider squatting in its lair
feasting on a plump fly, its size dwarfed
by that of the hulking, crab-like spider.

I work gingerly around the web, to yank
an ivy, and regret that the web accompanies
it, the spider abandoning its prey, seeking
refuge upon the hemlock. No matter, the
industrious predator will build another web.
The fly is beyond redemption, what is left of
it hanging on the delicate filaments of web.

Out come the tomato plants, their fragrance
arrestingly mouth-watering. Finally, time
to break off, tomorrow and the next day
promise ample time to continue. I will
trim the tea and floribunda roses, then cap
them each with a white rose hut, so they
may safely overwinter. They will resemble
headstones in a graveyard, to thrill the
children when they come calling on
Hallowe'en night threatening tricks,
happily deigning to accept the treats.

Imagine This

Imagine you've decided to take a month off from the routine of your life. Leaving everything temporarily behind, to see more of the world. And you find yourself in Europe, in a small town which will not forgo its traditions. You're in your hotel room, looking out on the street below, enjoying the sights and sounds of this quaint little town. And then you see a steady line of cattle moving through the street below, bells clanging, the occasional sound of a cow complaining at having to move along with such alacrity in this heat you're experiencing too.

What an unbelievable sight. With everyone behaving as though there's nothing unusual in it the seasonal ritual. This bespeaks a culture and a tradition and a heritage that appeals to your sense of place and humour. It's simply amazing what you can see when you travel abroad.

Imagine that.

Giving Thanks

The perfect confluence of idea and social
convention intersecting with Nature's
co-operative indulgence granting us
communion with indescribable beauty
and a touch of pensiveness. The occasion
boasts an ancient lineage of storied antiquity.

Awe-struck and thankful humans gathering
the richness of fall harvest in grains, nuts
and seeds they soon enough, in primal
need, learned to place into the freed and
fertile ground when Nature permitted spring
to banish sterile winter for another year.

We observe and enjoy our social rituals of
this day dedicated to contemplative knowledge
of our indebtedness to all that we have learned
to reap. A national holiday of recognition of our
fundamental needs so fulsomely fulfilled.

Ambling through the brilliant autumnal woods
the sky above a wide generous blue, gentle
breezes shuffling the transformed foliage, a
community takes its preprandial annual
perambulation of grace to admire the season
and the habituated reason the day is a
celebration of beauty and thanksgiving.

Why, We Ask

Today is his birthday. Long distance,
we wish him a happy birthday. Casually,
as though there is nothing particularly
extraordinary about parents' unease,
sadness at the disconcerting reality that
this man, advanced enough in his
middle years, faces life companionless.

A success in every way imaginable
from his career in science, to his well
remunerated position; a man who travels
the world to conferences, and to experience
other geographies, cultures and societies.
A home owner and an outdoor enthusiast,
he skis, canoes and kayaks, explores
wilderness areas, climbs mountains,
valuing to all things natural in this world.

He is an accomplished furniture maker,
using trade tools of a bygone era. He is an
imaginative potter, gifting friends and family
with his lovely symmetrical designs. He is a
theatre buff. He revels in picking wild seasonal
fruits, converting them to preserves. He can
bake bread as well as his mother does. His is a
firm and gentle touch of biological and aquatic
life forms. He volunteers for social campaigns
and projects to help the world toward fairness.

Why, we went to know, is this man, our
youngest child, alone to celebrate this
significant day? He will plan, we know, a
mountain trek and perhaps see a film in a
cinema close to home. With luck, a friend may
share the evening and they will dine together,
in recognition of the day. He will think, no doubt,
of his choice who spurned him once and then
again years later, while he still had hope.

Anguished parents, wishing greater inner
comforts for their child pause to contemplate
a life barren of intimacy and the potential
for parenthood, for he so loves children.
Why, they ask one another, did this occur,
this unfulfilled promise of a life tenderly
shared? How could it happen, that this
trusting, outgoing exemplar of personal
success is alone on this, his birth day?

Testing, Testing...

I experienced a truly lousy night. Woke the first time at 1:30. I easily read the clock on the opposite wall to my bed, in the soft light coming from the nurses' station, just across the hall from my room. The curtain wall was not completely drawn.

I could also see the white bulletin board on the white-painted wall, next to the clock. It read 'Critical Care Unit', the date, name of the nurse on call dedicated to my immediate welfare, and the name of the staff cardiologist who was looking after me.

The blood pressure cuff was on automatic and every time it squeezed it woke me. It was as though I was wearing my very own lively and emphatic python concentrating itself on my upper arm. The electrodes all over my chest and their tubes snaking over to that monitor beside the bed; a tall, grey hulking bulk like a medical obelisk bristling with technology, which also held the IV drip administering the drug to stop my stomach bleeding and the second blood bag, earlier transfused, had earlier been replaced by a saline solution.

My haemoglobin count, they said earlier, had come up. My heart now beating too fast, had to be slowed down. There was medication for that. For someone who prided herself on having no chronic illnesses at my age, and who never even took over-the-counter medications, this was a total reversal. I was now taking a veritable cocktail of powerful drugs. And then another ultrasound to be performed. Early tomorrow morning. Rest now.

Can't sleep? The nurse has come in at 4:00 am for a blood sample, to see if the lab could isolate the presence of those enzymes that indicate a heart attack had occurred. She swiftly draws the three vials, tenderly pulls the white sheet to my chin, gently pats my arm and departs.

And I am left with my darkly despairing, creepy thoughts. The muted sounds and soft voices from the nurses' station are fleetingly and slightly comforting.

This was a totally new experience for me. I've always enjoyed good health. Rarely saw our family doctor, because I was never ill. Except for the time I somehow contracted shingles, and that did not require a hospital stay. I cannot recall the last time I was admitted to a hospital. The birth of our three children: check. Oh yes, the last time most surely was when I had the elective procedure that ensured there would be no more children. That would be almost forty years ago.

The hum and ping of the obelisk are clearly not designed to give confidence to the unfortunates who have been plugged into its diagnostic potential; the sound seems menacingly intrusive, portending conclusions that must be truly catastrophic.

I cannot find comfort. Physical nor psychological. Comfort eludes me; either within my throbbing head, nor on the bed to which I am tethered. I cannot shift too far one way or the other on the narrow, white, mechanized hospital bed. It is ill-advised to be so restless. The blood pressure cuff, suddenly alive again, murmuring in its relentlessly firm grip, and the snakes-den of tubes are not amenable to comfort.

My stomach is churning and I carefully manage to exit the bed to move the three feet to the commode to relieve myself, trailing wires and tubes. I do not flush, unwilling to have Nurse Liz come running. And finally, slowly and awkwardly settle back into the now-crumpled bed sheets.

Instantly, the nurse comes rushing in: "one of your electrode contacts has come off!" And I recognize a new "ping" as though the device has plaintively revealed at the nurses' station my wicked non-compliance.

Nurse Liz re-attaches the errant electrode, fusses with the bedsheets, again drawing the upper one smoothly over me. She smiles reassuringly, and pats my arm again before withdrawing.

Finally, I've fallen asleep.

My fretting mind, wondering how I'll ever "catch up" with my life, manage to get things done, all the routine things requiring energetic intervention - cleaning the house, preparing the garden for fall, looking after my husband - crowded in on me during the night.

A sense of dark panic: would I ever be the same again? Remain in a perpetual state, after this, as a life-depleted force? How would we ever cope?

I tried to will myself to be reasonable; things would work out. I did my best to persuade myself to let my body relax enough to sleep. Knowing full well it would be useless. What did work for me when sleep eluded, was pleasant thoughts. And under these rather abruptly untoward circumstances that had swooped down on my life, pleasant thoughts had fled the scene.

Gloom and helpless, dismal and frightening prospects for a dire future had kicked, pummelled and shoved "pleasant" out in favour of shuddering apprehension.

Try to be a little more mature, I scolded myself. You're in good hands. In the best health-care institution in the area, a medical centre of excellence. Skilled cardiologists, practised and highly professional nurses and technicians. State-of-the-art, computerized diagnostic equipment.

Sleep did eventually release me from that torment of self-induced fear.

Then my name sharply spoken. The light of dawn not yet seen through the room's narrow window. The sharp flash of the overhead light, and the crisp, three-letter explanation: 'E.K.G.", confused my foggy brain. A yellow-haired technician beside my bed, trundling her apparatus into place, repeating to my dumbly bleary face: "E.K.G."

No smile, personal introduction, nor hesitation as she peremptorily snapped, "straight on your back, please", lifting the top sheet, groping under my hospital gown, slapping cold, hard, greased
contacts on my chest, breast, arms, ankles - to take the impressions she is formally tasked to do.

I stare blankly, attempt a pleasantry. She, soundless in response, jerks the wires off the contact points, leaves the cold, sharp, greasy stickers on my body, yanks the top sheet roughly over me, and departs.

This Urban Forest

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The sun dazzles as it sends its luminous
probes deep into forest bowers, sparking
colour to life before newly-fallen leaves
surrender their glory to the muting effects
of time. The nostalgic fragrance of tannin
invades our consciousness reminding of seasons
and the passage of memorable occasions.

The sky is as azure against the dark green
of spruce and fir as the firmament has
ever been. Whipped cream posing as clouds
float in frothy wisps and bubbles against
the wind. Wind, which at ground level
sternly whips tree masts and sends crackling
branches to join the busy forest floor.

Raging in powerful blasts of pure energy,
wind looses a storm of pine needles slanting
through the atmosphere. Leaves are stolen
from branches as yet unwilling to part with
their summertime integuments, adorning
them now like fanciful ornaments.

Birds cower within the comfort of trees,
uncertain that their flight will respond to
their will, not that of the wind. The chatter
of chickadees and nuthatches spring
lightly from leafed interiors, embroidering
the bass of the wind's momentum.

The forest floor has been thoroughly
drenched by days of unremitting rain,
and broad puddles sit complacently
absorbed in their dutiful replenishment
of vital ground water, awaiting spring.

The woodland ravine's coursing waterways
slide in a swollen rush on their predestined
journey to the great, roiling Ottawa River.
Tired old bark is enjoined to relieve their
tenacious grip on a copse of dead elms.

Late-blooming asters await the hovering
attention of bees for whom the gathering
season has lapsed, and they in worn
hibernation. Acorns, seeds and ripe
cones from pines, spruce and hemlock
generously stipple the undergrowth.

The irresistible bounty scooped and
cached by squirrels and chipmunks,
preparing their autumnal storage against
the rigours and bleakness of the long winter
months. Plentiful now, their resources
depleted when snow and ice glaze the
frozen landscape of this urban forest.

Have Camera, Will Travel

Don't be envious, he says, it's nothing special. Anyone can do it. Be determined. Make plans. Be bold about it. There's much to see and much to experience. No reason why you or anyone else cannot do this. Broaden your horizons. See the world. Look at other cultures. Admire their history. Interact with the people. It's best, sometimes, to avoid the large urban centres. Focus on villages, on the countryside, on the mountains, the lakes, the rivers; in short the geological landscape. It's well worth the effort. There's a world of wonders out there. Yours to discover. Trust me.

Photography by J.S. Rosenfeld, 2010, Spain