You asked for it!

Imagine - I actually asked a stranger to take my pic. I've never done that before, but wanted a memory of this vacation.  It's very hard to see my beaded hair.

So tonight, I took my own pic. Not very flattering, but you can see the beaded hair. I only got a few on each side. Tomorrow, I will wash it out.

Ibis (or egret, I'm not sure) fishing in the early morning.

Shoreline

Lots of boats here

Can't you just feel the spray on your face?

The market place in Marigot (capital on the French Side)

More boats

Cruise ships in harbour

Good- bye, St. Maarten!

The Power of Choice

I was at the bottom of the well.
Crying.
I was stuck. It had been going on for too long;  so I came to a decision.
I Chose to leave those tears behind,  pick myself up and fly away.
South. Where the energies are warm and strong.

I Chose Travel, rather than Drowning.

"Who did you go with?"
"Nobody... just me."
"Ohhhh, you're brave."
"No, I"m not."

I Chose to travel alone, rather than wait for somebody, anybody to go with me.
I Chose my own time.
I Chose my vacation, and went to Sint Maarten, the Dutch side of the island (the other side is French).

It did me the world of good.

I listened to the timeless rhythm of  ocean waves; their gentle voices reaching out to soothe my soul.

I allowed the softness of sweet ocean air to caress my skin; its tenderness a balm for raw, sore nerves.

I waited expectantly every morning for the peachy-golden glow of  a Caribbean sun to wake up the earth. As the softness of first light transformed into the passion of a strong and fiery yellow sun, I relaxed into that heat; the warmth spreading throughout my body, awakening a faint stirring of joy. A feeling I thought had been lost, buried, forgotten; a subtle shimmering from somewhere deep within my being.

"Braid your hair, Miss?"
I blinked. Sat up in my chair. Where had she come from? Wasn't it rather early to be working the beach?
I looked around. There were more people here now. Had I fallen asleep? I looked at my watch. It had stopped.

The brightly clad, plumpish Island woman looked at me curiously. She was waiting for my answer.
"No thanks," I started to say, sinking back into my beach chair. Then I changed my mind. And sat back up.
"Yes, I'd like my hair braided. Let's do it!"
"Welcome to Sint Maarten!" she sang with a friendly smile and a swish of her skirts. She plunked herself down, reached into her bag and brought out a multitude of coloured beads for me to Choose.

I Chose pink and white and blue beads.
I Chose to lighten up and have fun.
I Chose to open up and breathe.
I Chose Life.

The Power of One

One teardrop glistening down the windowpane.

One butterfly perched on the back of a garden chair, the day after David died.

One bloom on my mother's hibiscus plant. I was presented with this lipstick pink bloom on Mom's birthday a number of years ago. It hadn't bloomed in the two years previous and hasn't bloomed since.

One chickadee at my feeder. As you know I haven't had any birds at my feeders this winter.

The other night I had gone to bed obsessing about wanting, needing to dream of David.  I had read that if you focus on a person before going to sleep, you will dream about him/her. Makes sense, however I was so obsessed with forcing my thoughts back into our memory bank, that I prevented myself from falling asleep, my mind going round and round in circles. And the dream never came, of course. So, I made up my mind in the morning,as I took my cup of coffee over to the window, to just let things happen naturally, in the time they are meant to. With that thought in mind, the chickadee appeared! That was February 4th and I haven't seen any since.

One person living in
One house
One person driving
One car
One place setting at the kitchen table
Cooking for One

One can mean aching Loneliness; a river of tears washing down grief-stricken cheeks. Sad, alone, empty,  unbearably quiet, echoing rooms.

Yet One can mean Solitude, getting-to-know-oneself in the depth of that stillness, a time of reflection, of learning to stand alone, of  listening to the gentle inner voice of....One being.

A Dinner To Remember

Valentine's Day will soon be here. Memory takes me back to another Valentine's Day about a year or so after David and I were married.

Always the romantic, David decided to take me to an elegant restaurant for the occasion. So we dressed up, hopped in the car and drove up the mountain to Auberge des Gallant, a well known, but rather secluded Inn at the top of Rigaud mountain (which is not really a mountain, but a hill).

I was impressed by the massive stone fireplace in the lobby. Our table was not quite ready, so we decided to make ourselves comfortable in front of the roaring fire. A waiter brought us each a glass of rich-looking red wine to sip.

It wasn't long before a hostess appeared to take us to our table. We had requested a table by the window, since at this time of year the deer come out of the woods to feed. They come right up to the windows as food is put out especially for them, adding a uniqueness and charm to this restaurant.

Our waiter was very French, of course.
He set out tasty tidbits, a basket of bread, and water in crystal glasses.
Resisting an urge to pick up a tasty tidbit with my fingers, I politely stuck my fork and knife into what looked like a toast triangle.

That was the wrong thing to do! It was hard as toast usually is, and flew over David's shoulder to land on the floor! Thank goodness nobody was looking.

Surprised by the flying toast tidbit, David knocked over his wine glass. Fortunately it was almost empty, so he quickly put it right again.

By this time I thought I'd better be safe than sorry, so I chose an innocent-looking roll from the bread basket. It was crusty on the outside, but nice and soft and buttery on the inside.  I'd just finished eating it when Monsieur Waiter appeared at our table with a whisk.
"Vous permittez, Madam?"
 I was taken aback. Permit you do to what? I hesitated and then nodded my head, wondering if he was really going to sweep up the breadcrumbs I had carelessly spilled on the white linen table cloth.
He did.
David choked on his water.

Monsieur Waiter then asked for our orders.
"I'll have the duck," I decided, wanting to try something different.
"How would you like it cooked?" asked M.Waiter.
Again I hesitated. I didn't know there were different methods of cooking duck. Doesn't one just roast it?
"Sanguine?" asked Waiter.
I nodded again.
David gave me a funny look but then went on to give his order.

Le canard (the duck) was presented to me on a bed of rice surrounded by tender-crisp vegetables. It was rare. Eewwww. I could not eat it.
"Didn't you realize that when you ordered?" David asked me. "Send it back."
"No, no, it's o.k." I'd lost my appetite for it anyway. Just ate the vegetables and rice, which were very tasty.

A young couple sat down at the table behind me. I could hear M. Waiter asking what they'd like to eat. It was obvious they spoke no French, so the waiter had to speak English.
"Perhaps a salade, Madam?" he asked the lady. "A lettoose salade?"

David and I looked at each other, then quickly looked away, in case we burst out laughing.
Lettoooose? Lettoooose? What else would a salad be made of than lettuce?
O.K., it could have been cabbage, but that would be cole slaw. Or potato salad, or greek salad. But really it was the poor man's pronunciation that had us chuckling in our napkins. 

Coffee arrived in delicate china cups. I picked up the silver cream pitcher and poured some into my coffee. It didn't look like cream; it looked like milk. A small sip confirmed my suspicion.
I asked M.Waiter for cream. He looked horrified.
"Non, Madam, we do not have cream."

Well, excuse me. I thought. Isn't this a French restaurant?  Don't they put cream in all of  their sauces?  Well never mind. We stopped at Tim Horton's on the way home and picked up coffee to go - double double for David and just cream for me.

We had had a delightful evening and laughed about it for years.

Do Spirits Cry?

I sat at my kitchen table one sunny morning a day or so ago, looking out the window into the snowy backyard. That window was new; a lovely and spacious bay window David and I had installed the winter before he died.
Looking through it is always bittersweet. Sweet memories,  dreams now of our life the way it was, mixed with the bitter reality of loss. 

The hedges surrounding our deck  were laden with snow. There were no birds. A few icicles hung from the roof, but not many.

I have tulip bulbs sprouting in a glass dish on the window sill. The cat was curled up on a kitchen chair, napping in the warm February sunshine. It was unseasonably mild for this time of year and some of the snow was beginning to melt. I turned my face to the morning sun and began a conversation with David as I usually do.

Movement drew my eye to the window pane.

It was a lone drop of water, glistening in the sunlight. 
It sat there for a second or two, then slowly trickled down the glass, like a tear drop running down somebody's cheek.   

Where Are The Birds?

I've been open, willing, and extremely happy to receive all the signs David has been sending me.  "Proof" if  you will that there is an Afterlife. "Proof" that energy does not die. "Proof" in our strong connection.

But there is one thing that puzzles me. Pulls at me.

There have been pens lying in the grass, butterflies sent to comfort my weeping soul, a hot spot on his side of our bed, just where David used to sit and sip tea before settling down to sleep, caterpillars curled up in the garden, playing "dead", but coming "alive" a few minutes later, and the Bird Story.

You remember the Bird Story. The one where I was looking after my grandchildren back in the summer. I'd just come into the house, to catch the childrens' show on television about the little bird who needed to fly free. He thanked the tearful child who had looked after him all winter, told the child he loved him,  but now it was time for him to go and join the rest of the flock. To fly away to freedom. Sad, but a very important life lesson.

Then there was the hawk messenger. I had seen it flying from my back deck a week before David died. And then once again, in our meditation the night before……

My birthday weekend, I spent at the home of Firstborn Son and his family. They had invited me so I wouldn't be alone. Early morning, as is my custom, I took my cup of coffee over to the kitchen window to watch the day begin. It was still dark, but a hazy light allowed me to just make out the shape of a rabbit, nibbling something under their crab apple tree.

"We're Lucky Rabbits!" David was fond of saying. Even at the end. We were lucky to have each other. I was pleased with this "sign" on my birthday. Daughter-in-law, coming up behind me, took one look at that rabbit and had a different interpretation. "Fertility, isn't that what rabbits mean?" I choked on my coffee, but kept a straight face. "Hmmmmm," was all I said.

Not long afterwards, we were sitting around the breakfast table, when my eyes were drawn to movement in their backyard. Two cardinals perched on that crab apple tree. Then two more. Then a whole gathering! I was amazed! I had never seen so many cardinals all at once. They filled that tree. A message from David for sure.  Later I looked up some facts about cardinals and read that they mate for life.

What's puzzling me, is the lack of birds in my own backyard. There have been none at all this winter. Our bird feeders are full. David used to enjoy sitting in his comfy chair by the window watching winter birds. We had finches, chickadees, some cardinals and blue jays, juncos, and woodpeckers in the trees. This year there are none. Every morning I watch for them. None. I've taken down the feeders, washed them, refilled them,  but it changes nothing. They are full. Swinging eerily in the cold winter air. Not a bird in sight. How strange. Did David take the birds? Are they escorting him somewhere?

I was at my doctor's office (yes, it feels strange to be seeking the services of a physician for a sore thumb joint, when all I had to do before was ask hubby). My doctor is a very kind, patient, and compassionate person. I came for a minor problem and yet she took a good amount of time to sit and talk. To ask how I was doing. When I mentioned my enigma over the lack of birds in my backyard, she said, "yes, that's strange, but I had another patient who had that very same experience. The winter after her husband died, there were no birds at the feeders, or in their yard. The next year they all came back, but that first one, they were gone."

Ah, so I'm not going crazy, or somehow repelling the birds with my sorrow. They will be back, at least I hope so. Has anybody else heard of this?

My Christmas Present

I did not want to do Christmas this year. But Christmas came anyway.
Christmas morning, I decided to go out for a walk. I was spending Christmas at my daughter's; the evening had been fun, especially watching the little ones opening their gifts. But this morning, I needed to be alone, so left them warm and cozy in front of the fireplace, toys strewn all over the floor.

I opened the front door to a cold morning. However, bits of sunshine were peaking through the clouds, so out I went. Not having a plan at all, I just walked, automatically turning my face towards the sun. After about 10 minutes or so, I realized I was in the neighbourhood of David's childhood home. Somehow my feet had taken me in that direction.

I stood on the sidewalk gawking at his childhood home. Taking some deep breaths of clear cold air I tried to absorb precious energy waves of Christmases long past.  I imagined David as a little boy, opening Christmas presents, playing street hockey with friends, eating turkey with his family. David with a smile on his face looking out at the world with those sparkly brown eyes - the ones I'd fallen in love with.

There was nobody about, so I took my time. I wasn't quite sure what people would think of a middle-aged lady anchored to the sidewalk gazing at an ordinary house. Was she going to knock on the door? Or was she just going to stand there all day in the freezing cold?

Eventually I turned away. Probably should get back, I thought to myself. I'm getting cold and the kids must be wondering where I am. Ahhhh, but in the distance I could see the Lake, the sparkly, silvery Lake, luring me with its charm. What is it about water? Whether it is winter or summer, I feel the irresistible pull of a lake, river, or ocean. Just a little farther, they seem to say. And I'm never disappointed.  

So I continued down the sidewalk all the way to the end of the street. Then the sidewalk ended in a footpath which led to the Lake. As I got closer to the water, I braced myself to be hit in the face with a cold gust of wind, but the air was still. The scene in front of me was beautiful in its serenity; snow-covered evergreens at the shoreline, silvery ice crystals adorning water's edge, soft clouds, calm water, all was quiet and peaceful.

Without warning the glorious Sun burst forth, transforming the soft greyness of the landscape into shimmering, shining gold. It was as if David had popped out of the clouds to greet me with a joyful:
"Hi Sweetheart, Merry Christmas! I was waiting for you to get here!"

I stood there absorbing the golden sunlight, feeling David's love and warmth enveloping me. What a nice Christmas gift! And well worth the long walk and cold toes.

Just then a dog ran up, startling me by rudely sticking its nose right between my legs! The owners were horrified, and called out an apology, but I just laughed and petted the dog. 

"Ha! Still trying to get between my legs, are ya David?"  Smiling to myself I started back towards Daughter's home.