Forgiveness

When you are mired by circumstances and feeling like there's nothing good in your world, you just have to pull your head out of the darkness, and remember the light.

Errant blogging

Sometimes you think you have something to say. I thought I had something to share when I started the blog. Blogging is putting a piece of yourself out there for the world. You wonder as you write if it will be read. You wonder if you're just blowing off steam, or even ego pandering. Eventually you realize you have to actually have strong opinions, or passions, or a big view of the world in order to commit to a blog.

Keeping it real is often a harder thing than first anticipated. So, now I have to look at keeping it real. Do I  want a blog that reaches readers, or am I looking for a venue for self expression. Can it be both?

I'm not a very political person. Nor am I religious ... although if I had religion, it would be music.
I'm not a health freak, but I do appreciate health and learning I have to be more actively pursuing it. I apparently have a curiosity about plants, and birds. I love and have always been in love with the ocean. There's nothing better than a rock high above the ocean where you can look down on seabirds below and just breathe.

I'll be looking for the answers, and looking for the passion that will drive me to develop a blog that does both.

It's a feeling, not just a place

Sometimes someone gets it right. Sometimes someone understands that it's the feeling of the place, not the physical or even geographical rhythms. Writer Lisa Moore got it right in this article I'm pleased to share with you here.

Rock, Dreams and Desire

Musical moments No.1

Please allow me to share some musical eloquence from a trio who hails from my city. The group is The Once. The name means " I'll get to it". In Newfoundland and Labrador, if you say "da once" it means you'll get around to doing something in your own time, or maybe not at all.

This amazing group of musicians would be classed as folk artists. They sing/play traditional songs, and write in traditional fashion. There are other links to find and play their music. But this radio concert, performed in Chicago June 16, is a prime example of why they are winning respect all over the world.

When you click on the link, scroll down to Folkstage: Live in the Levin Music Performance Studio 
to get the connection to listen. I'd love to know how much you enjoyed this.

http://www.wfmt.com/main.taf?p=4%2C5%2C14

So many fine musicians in the world. It's my pleasure to share just some of those from Newfoundland and Labrador.

Leave a tip

If you had a bucket list
What would it entail?
All the things you thought you missed?
All the things you failed?

If you could just leave a tip
A wish, or some advice
A coin to toss, a switch to flip
A way to break the ice

What would you say to those seek
a way to look within?
Who cannot even take a peek
at what they could have been.

I know I make excuses when
life slaps me on the wrist
if I could only find a pen
I'd write a bucket list.

Singing at the edge

Atop a cliff at the easternmost point of North America there is a set of old army bunkers, with tunnels cut through rock to chambers that once housed soldiers on lookout and defence during World War Two.
The acoustics in the hewn rock chambers are otherworldly.
If you've ever enjoyed singing in a stairwell, or an empty church, then you've only had a taste of how it feels to sing in the bunkers.
For a time, I was fortunate enough to have some good friends who were talented singers. One of the real joys of that time was getting together to make music.

Singing in the kitchen was fun. We took it out and sang at some pubs, more fun. Even better, it was food for heart and soul.

At the end of that period things in our lives began to change. My best friend was moving away. Another was starting a new job and couldn't get together with us anymore. Without these friends, our singing would not be the same. It was the end of something very special.

We decided to go to the edge of the continent to sing in the bunkers, knowing our opportunity might not come again for a very long time. We chose an a capella song recorded by Sinead O'Connor called "In This Heart." and a gaelic song called Mo Run Geal Dileas.

It was a bittersweet day as we walked the boardwalk to the cliffs overlooking Cape Spear, but it was auspicious in more ways than one. On the way we had seen the fleet-footed Cape Spear foxes, a rare sight, and the first and only time I've seen them in all my visits. It seemed like a marker of sorts, an exclamation point at the beginning of a sentence.

We filed into the bunker, feeling a little nervous,  and laughing at ourselves. There were a few people about, but they were climbing the rocky trails, looking for whales and icebergs (I believe both were out of season).

We stood in the largest bunker, with dank and dripping walls. Beer glass was strewn about the floor, a testament to someone's party the night before. We turned to face the ocean, looking down the barrel of a long cannon pointed towards Britain. The cerulean sky was framed by rough hewn stone, with rivulets of calcium and rust etched against the sides. The dank stone chamber was graced with an ocean breeze. We could feel the presence of ghosts, the spirits of the hill and the nameless pagan gods and godesses that must inhabit such a magical place. The edge of the island, the edge of the continent, the edge of the land and the edge of the sky. And all of us on the cusp of change.

We sang, and as the sound swelled to fill the tunnels, I could feel every hair on my body standing straight up. I felt the spirits stop to listen. In the back of my mind I wondered what people climbing the hills would think, with this haunting harmony issuing from the hills, echoing across the cliffs only to be washed away by the roaring waves.

As we sang, a new harmony came echoing through the tunnel, a male voice, anchoring the female chorus. We didn't stop singing until the song was over. As the last notes died away, we heard footsteps coming down the tunnel. Our guest singer was involved in the Nova Scotia folk festival. He invited us to come sing there and to record our songs on the spot in a mobile recording studio he had parked in a nearby lot. Although we could not due to other committments, it was a lovely end to our bunker excursion.

We left the hill that day happy that we'd made the trip, and sad because things would never be the same. But the memory of those breathtaking, hair-raising, exquisite moments is a treasure that warms me and still brings a tear when I think of it.

"In this heart lies for you
A lark born only for you
Who sings only to you"

Hare and gone

There are times when natures stages an event that leaves you gasping in awe. It often happens in surprising circumstances, in unlikely situations and without warning. Each one witnessed is a gift to be held in esteem and treated with the wonder and respect it deserves.

I've been lucky to have witnessed some amazing shows of nature considering I've been city bound most of my life. This one comes to the surface of memory readily.

Picture an early morning drive to work, in the middle of the city. Cutting through a backstreet with a few woods lots, my husband and I drive up a hill to see a hawk swoop down on a snowshoe hare racing across the road ahead. The hare makes a frenzied leap in an effort to gain the cover of bushes alongside the road. It is oblivious to us, as is the raptor.

The bird extends its claws, and with wings beating in slow motion, plucks up the struggling hare in mid leap. Working hard to gain height, the hawk, with kicking rabbit clutched tight, rises right in front of the hood of the car, eye level and closer than I ever thought I could be to such a tableau.

We watch as the desperate hare almost works its way free, but its struggles weaken. The hawk grapples with it a moment longer as it gains height. We see the hare give up, perhaps accepting its fate, perhaps with a vital organ pierced by a wickedly sharp claw. The hawk swoops into a patch of forest behind a well manicured garden and disappears.

It took only seconds, but felt like minutes. There seemed to be all the time in the world to notice things like the way the Red tailed hawk's feathers tipped and curved as it controlled its strike. Its markings were first blurred with speed but at the strike it seemed to stop mid air, and then you could see the speckles and darker rings at the tip of its wings, a ruffle of feathers at its neck pulsed slightly. It was many shades of brown, ranging from a dun colour to a rich warm rust. Some hints of ochre. It made no sound except a rush of air, which I should not have heard in the car, but perhaps my imagination supplied that detail.

There was time to see the expression in the hare's eyes, note the contrast of the white soft fur of its underbelly against the coarser, slightly darker hair on its back. See how its legs dangled, futile and helpless.

The scene was deadly and beautiful at the same time, like so much of nature's wonders tend to be. We stopped in the middle of the road with the sun just over the horizon behind us. We turned to each other and in one breath exclaimed, "Amazing!"

About 4-5 seconds had passed.