Thursday, August 4, 2016

We've Gone Beyond Summer...

It's been a long time since I've posted. Life gets busy; days pulse into weeks and weeks merge into months and before you know it, a chunk of time has passed once again. So be it. It is simply the way things are from time to time, but more often, I'm hearing from many folks that life feels this way more often than not.

I've missed the blog. I've enjoyed the people who've commented on how they've enjoyed the posts. Blessings to all of you.

We are in the midst of a drought; the kind of drought we hear of in other parts of the world where lands go weeks or months without rain. Everything dries up. Things go to dust and that dust coats all surfaces, lying on the roads and amid the straw-toned lawns, parching everything. We are more than 120 centimeters less of rain this summer in Ontario.  Is this a result of global warming? Possibly. Probably. Oceans are warming up and ocean currents affect jet streams, air currents, weather patterns, period. 

We started out in May with everything lush and green and in new, full bloom. Lilacs blossomed, wild apple trees snowed with pink blossoms, tulips and other early season flowers adorned gardens everywhere. Birds sang; lawns spread out like lush emerald velvet.

Then came late June and everything changed.

The heat that has become a frightening trademark of the last few summers, set itself up like a stubborn camper refusing to move on. Temperatures have soared up to and remained mostly in the 30 plus Celsius range (in the mid to high 90's for those of you using Fahrenheit; that's difficult enough, even when you have rain. 

But the rain has evaded us. In the last two and a half months of this damning heat, we've seen only a few, brief sprinkles; just enough to tease, but not enough to quench the relentless thirst that is turning this land into near-desert. Lawns have turned to a crunch ochre hay; plants and trees wilt, their leaves no longer smooth and crisp. Most wildlife is hidden, trying for respite in the shade wherever they can find it. Everything is desperately thirsty. I'm not hearing birds sing in the mornings, or even the evenings (where even dusk won't cool much). Instead, all we hear is the melancholy whine of cicadas, reaching an ear-splitting pitch before cutting off.

And the land waits...tired, broken, begging for rain.

I tried to plant a vegetable garden this summer. That was a futile goal. Even with watering every evening, long enough to soak the ground well, some plants have died from the excessive heat. Wild animals like rabbits and deer and other have taken all the tomatoes, green beans, peas, chard, beet tops in their quest to find anything with moisture. Who can blame them? Not me.

I always put out water for the wild critters; I lay out pans and bowls around the property and woods and ensure that I fill them with fresh water morning and night.  I see squirrels, chipmunks, other animals lying flatly on branches, seeking shade, their eyes half-shut from the tenacity of it all. This heat simply will not give any of us a break.

We experienced a few episodes called 'brown-outs' where the electricity almost goes off; lights flicker and dim and the whine of fans slows...before winding up again; the drain on the infrastructure is phenomenal. 

If you are in this heat, take a moment to place a bowl or pan of water out for the animals. On the way home today, I saw a tiny grey squirrel hop to the edge of someone's dry fountain; a grey stone ornament meant to provide trickling water. I had no water at that time to offer the poor animal, and I thought 'where do they all go to find a drink? Where?' Backyard pools? Perhaps a leaky hose somewhere that can bring a small trickle of survival to some thirsty being.

If you are reading this and live in this kind of heat, I hope you can find a bit of water for the others out there, who need a drink of water. In some places in the world, clean drinking water isn't easy to find. One thing is a fact; all of us need water. All of us, no matter the being, be we human, mammal, or otherwise. Water sustains us. Water is necessary.

Rain is necessary. 

Let's ask for rain; refreshing, life-sustaining rain before riverbeds sink and ponds dry up. 


Friday, September 25, 2015

Life, Writing, Changes

Life can bring you in different directions, sometimes every few years, and often sooner. Such has been the case for me. I continue to write, but haven't been marketing as much - focusing more on the writing itself for now. Marketing can come later.

I've begun a new, non-fiction project with an Animal Communicator friend of mine that has involved me becoming an illustrator, as well as a co-writer. More on that when the timing is right, but I have to say, I've also enjoyed designing the illustrations.

As well as being an author, for the last decade, I've worked as a massage therapist, reflexologist, and energy healer/Reiki master. Then in the last few years, 'life' has prompted me to start moving towards making some other changes. One of those is to recognize, embrace, and bring about my natural inclination, and desire, to work in channeling: mediumship, and also in animal communication. For those of you unfamiliar with either field, mediumship encompasses the ability of a person (channel) to interact/communicate with deceased loved ones on the Other Side. This has always come naturally to me, but has taken me until my later adult life to fully recognize as something I'm also meant to do. I've always received messages from Spirit, have always known that Spirit exists, and  have had fiction inspired by Spirit. So to take it to the next level, on a professional basis, is the right step for me to do.

Animal Communication is the ability of people and animals to converse telepathically. Telepathy is not 'science fiction' nor a skill gifted to only a chosen few. Everyone can communicate telepathically if they 'put their mind to it' (and yes, the pun is intended). Gut hunches are a form of intuitive communication, be they via sensations, sudden thoughts, or impulses/urges. 

All animals communicate telepathically, all the time. It is the normal way for them to converse with each other, with their humans, and with the world around them. They are natural energy-readers. Sometimes, for instance, we may feel 'prompted' to check our dog's water bowl suddenly as we look up and glance at our dog's face. We may think 'oh, I suddenly thought to check if he/she has enough water', when in fact, the dog has sent you a telepathic thought requesting more water. For the thought to 'appear suddenly' just like that is one instance of our mind/receiver having received the sent message.

It is up to humans to recognize that we are all telepathic beings. Telepathy knows no one language; it is a universal, spiritual mode of communicating which allows inter-species to communicate, as well as people to communicate with each other. How often have you suddenly received a thought about a loved one you haven't seen/spoken to for a while, only to get a phone call a short while later from them for a specific reason? Have you ever felt a sudden sensation of pain or unease in your own body, for no apparent reason, to later find out that a loved one had experienced an injury or illness at that precise moment? Again, this is an example of telepathic communication.

Not only can we communicate telepathically amongst ourselves and our animals, we can also communicate this way with our loved ones who have crossed over to the Other Side.  Now, I'm not here to challenge anyone's individual spiritual or religious beliefs; everyone is entitled to believe and follow what they feel works best for them and to disregard what they feel doesn't.

That said, I'm blogging about what works for me, what I've experienced over and over again as both a medium and an animal communicator, and the sheer joy it has brought to many people when, having no information on their loved one other than name, or a photo, I've been able to bring through, for the loved one on the Other Side, details of information that can be validated by their loved ones.

So it is with great excitement that I will soon have a new website offered that discusses my endeavors into the field of Spirit, as well as writing. I will keep you informed.

To those who've followed this blog over the years, thank you for your readership and input. It is always appreciated.

Monday, July 27, 2015

Catching Up

As is usual with life, some months can fly past where many activities crowd one plate: such has been my schedule. I've spent the last two months opening up a section of woodlands on our property that had been left in upheaval by the previous tenants. Soon enough, we'll have forested walkways, a spiritual circle of stones in which to offer meditation and other healing circles, a campfire pit to try out Dutch oven cooking, amid many other delights. 

I've embarked on numerous writing projects in this time, one a brand new one in a completely different direction (non-fiction) with a healer friend of mine - won't say more at this time, except that we are beyond excited over our idea/proposal.

While many people complain of 'the heat', I can't help but bask in this humid delight. The vegetable garden has gone wild; tomato plants are hip-high; rivers move slowly and gently, everything is rich with bloom, and evenings fade out to amber in waning can you ask for anything more? Watched a delightful lightning show from a thunderstorm a few nights ago while fireflies continued to dance along the lawn, in the rain - it didn't deter their enthusiasm. 

Below, a photo of our beautiful pond at dusk - here is where I sit to get many of my writing ideas and my general inspiration. Blessings. 

Short Story in nEvermore!

It is with great delight that I announce that my short story 'The Ravens of Consequence', co-written with author Michael Kelly, is now out in the newly-released anthology 'nEvermore', edited by Nancy Kilpatrick and Caro Soles and published through Edge Science Fiction and Fantasy Publications. Stories are based upon the influence of Edgar Allan Poe, all with a mystery or horror slant to them. Please check it out; link below.

Monday, April 20, 2015

April's Deluge

We're almost through April. And as is typical of central Canadian spring weather, seasons tend to fall onto us, like anvils dropped from a height. A mere three weeks ago we had two feet of snow on our lawns and the only grass that showed were slim strips of sodden yellow peeking out from beneath six months of arctic fury.

Then temperatures began to creep up, sneaking in, like mice going for crumbs, lest the winter cat spy this insidious movement and pounce. Snow began to collapse on itself as the strengthening sun eased it into steady droplets; the sound of winter melting, drip-drip, and water trickling into gutters.

There exists a hiatus between the seasons, this held breath where we shift from one plane into another; where which clothing to choose remains unsteady - shirt or sweatshirt, fleece or cotton - while plastic bottles, soggy paper, and other remnants of recycling boxes lies spread over lawns and tucked into every corner where wind directed its spontaneous creations.

It's been brought to my attention that you can now hire a dog-feces collector in preparation for spring cleaning: that's right, folks. Jobs exist where you can gather up the winter's collection of turds, for a fee. I have to wonder what the prerequisites are for this kind of job? Does it bring new meaning to the term 'shit happens?' 

I braved the winter elements with my dog and our ever-faithful collection of designer doggie-do bags so that I didn't have to contend with the hiring of a poo-collector. It's always interesting to try and open a doggie-do bag with frozen fingers; those little bags that are shrink-wrapped by machine and where, no matter how many times you lick your fingertips to try and open the damned things, can never find the right end. You, dog, and turd freeze while trying to figure these things out. If you open the doggie-do bag ahead of your walk, the instant you step out the door and into the vortex, the wind captures your do-bag and transports it high into the sky like a miniature hot-air balloon. The dog then promptly does its business beside you, sans bag, and you both get to watch how physics occurs as steaming turd meets frozen ground. It always amazes me how long a dog turd can actually steam during a snow storm. It melts its own little oasis about itself, like a sordid island floating in a pool of slush. By the time you trudge back home to find another doggie-do bag, the blizzard has covered this art piece up, guaranteeing that you find it again in spring. You, or the doggie-do collection unit whom you've hired on your behalf.

Someone hurled a doggie-do bag up into a tree three winters ago. I'd read that these bags are supposed to be biodegradable. The contents are long gone, but the purple plastic bag still flaps in that tree, too high to reach, like a demented all-season flower. 

We are in that transition between winter and spring; as it drops rain and winds howl, the dog refuses to step outside to do her business (you don't expect ME to walk in that, do you?); we both make our way up the road, heads bent to the wet, me explaining to the dog that if she'd simply learn how to use a proper toilet (like cats do) we could avoid this entire scenario; then it occurs to me that, physiologically-speaking, a boxer cannot, anatomically, get onto or over a toilet. Their bow-legged, square-jawed, croissant-shaped body wasn't designed to fit over a tiny oval opening; kind of like trying to hammer a square peg into the round hole. It just ain't happening; that and the fact that boxer's are somewhat spiteful and would refuse to use the toilet (even if they could manage it) just because you EXPECT them to use it.

So, we continue to brave April's deluge; running through the rain and the emerging tulips, doggie-do bags screaming into the wind and scaring newly-arriving spring birds, to try and accomplish a basic task. And what we miss, the doggie-do turd team removal can locate and confiscate. Isn't it inspiring, the new job opportunities becoming available? Or perhaps we can give it a more exotic title, like 'scatology engineer'. 

Saturday, March 14, 2015

Another River Story

It's mid-March. By this time of year, people who live in the northern hemisphere want warmth. Stronger sun. Liquid water. At the moment, we have something in between.


Ice fishermen, desperate to snag one last attempt at being able to walk across almost-frozen water in an attempt to lure the possibility of a bite through a teeny hole drilled into the waning ice, sat on buckets with rods poised today, looking part sad, part hopeful. The river is waking up from its hibernal slumber. Puddles the color of old urine form in pockets along the ice as the chemistry of the river begins to change. Despite the 'polar vortex' and the miserable promise of 'cooler than seasonal temperatures' for the next three weeks, a thaw has begun. The first pockets of open water far out on the wider part of the river shine a somber blue. There's no safety venturing out on this ice much longer.

Nothing's nicer than the twinkle of sun dappling open water in summer. It sparkles like a new diamond right out of Spring's gift box. It reflects the vastness of the sky. It invites you in for a swim, a paddle, a stroll along its edges. It taunts fish with the dance of fireflies and dragonflies who drift close to its surface.

When you crawl out of a long winter, it can feel like eons since you've seen the above. Your snow-weary eyes grasp for anything of color besides the dirty alabaster wash of fading snow banks. You spot that fleck of green as a tiny weed caught in a sidewalk crack reaches for the still-weak sun and your heart soars over such a tiny gift.

Yes. We all need greenery and sun and the ability to walk barefoot over lawns again. It is essential.

Our weather forecasters with their tales of upcoming mayhem in the form of more freezing rain, tempest winds, and below zero night temperatures sound almost delightful, as if springing a box of terrible party surprises at the load of us hanging onto their words with the hope for some eventual optimism as we crawl towards the month of April. 

And the fishermen pull their ice shacks and toboggans back to their cars, their outdoor gear sodden with damp, their rubber boots sloshing through water riding the ice surface, to throw on car heaters and briskly rub hands together. Soon enough, they'll haul their boats from garages and beneath tarps, prime engines, prepare rods, reels, and bait, and advance on what we all hope will soon be the sparkling blue, once again.

This time of year is like a held breath; it contains the strained anticipation of waiting for something that lingers close by...but never quite close enough to touch.

It is almost like a dream, those hot summer nights when bone-like chunks of sun-bleached driftwood washes onto shore, and feet leave imprints in wet sand that soon fill with water. I've almost forgotten what the song of cicada sounds like; that drone so high-pitched that your ears almost hum painfully. It is the sound of high summer, of starlit nights, camp fire smoke, cold beers stacked in buckets of ice, the promise of a barbecue, the slow swing of a hammock, the scents of fresh pine needles, morning dew and sweet soil - summer, we miss you.

Open river, as you awaken again, so do we, us winter people. We open our eyes and arms together. Soon enough, we'll come to your shores and dance along your edges; we'll skip stones to tickle your surface and our laughter will be like poetry across your wind-swept waves. The gentle rocking of docks touching, the throat of a frog creating song, the melancholy note of a loon off in the distance.

The river is awakening, once again, after the long season. And so are we.