As a society, words have fallen into degradation. We now use acronyms in place of words. Correct spelling has been replaced with numeracy and symbols. Expletives have replaced speaking with intention. On the whole, words have lost their meaning. Is it any wonder that society has shifted into moral degradation? Time seems to be a factor. A rushing to know, a rushing to respond, a rushing to live. As I sit here, writing, by a babbling stream, I am reminded that flowing water cannot be rushed. It must flow and follow its path. There are no shortcuts. It cannot separate and jump ahead. It must wait its turn. It is amazing to watch, really. How is it constantly moving, and yet holds to its pattern of movement? No one criticizes the stream because it takes too long to reach the river, or the river to the ocean, or the ocean to the cloud. It says what it needs to say, elegantly and eloquently, punctuated by obtrusive stones, logs, or waterfalls, adding richness to its delivery. Why are we so drawn to water? Because it requires us to slow down. It asks nothing of us, except to share a moment of existence. It reveals to us what we didn't know before, what we didn't think before, and how we never felt before. How does it do this? Because we take the time to listen. The only conversation we hear is the reflection of ourselves. Imagine if, as a society, we treated others this way, too. Giving them the dignity of sharing a moment of existence by listening to them. Hearing not just their words, but the spaces between their words , taking note of what this reveals inside of us, not as a means to rushing to respond, but as a means of understanding. A means of slowing down. That is where the meaning of words is. It is in the unspoken-ness of their feelings. The words behind the words. The ones struggling past moss covered logs, or embedded stones, or the ones rushing over waterfalls. They are there for a reason, and we'll never find that reason if we don't stop and listen to the stream. Once we have learned how to listen to these spaces, we learn how to improve our own words. Words can be spoken without rushing to a point. They are now pathways...a streaming of consciousness, from one existence to another. Perhaps that is why words are immortal. They are carried in the heart, penned from one soul until they are read by another. Our truest connection to one another is not dependent on time . It is in spite of it . Words will always find a way of connecting one soul to another. Are you listening?

From the earliest moments of our infancy, we are mystified by boxes. Clumsily learning the dexterity of our limbs and extremities, the mystery of them occupies our attention on end. In a basic way we learn our first skill of organization, and of mystery. As we grow, we learn their purpose. This one organizes toys. That one organizes books. Another holds old love letters and sentiments. Yet another holds a very special surprise for an unsuspecting friend. And then there are the dreaded boxes... MOVING BOXES. Boxes filled with your life's meaning and belongings. Boxes that seem to grow in both weight and mystery the longer they remain unopened. And then you begin to wonder if you need what is in them at all. They seem to lose their value. Boxes represent decisions, feelings, motives. The real problem comes when we reach an age, or perhaps more accurately, a mentality, when we start putting people in boxes. TYPE A. TYPE B. This one belongs here. That one, there. The "Quiet Ones". The ones that don't fit in. Too this. Not enough that. Maybe some of us feel like those boxes that have been left alone in an empty hallway, undiscovered, or too complicated to expend energy on. We just label them as "FRAGILE" or "OLD JUNK". Worse still is when we are passed on to be someone else's problem. Boxes are meant to efficiently organize and categorize. But have they become a sloppy means of labeling, and thus fearing, what we do not understand? Have we lost seeing the genuine value in the INDIVIDUAL? Or maybe we make the unfortunate mistake of "boxing" an individual, using a label as a vain excuse for self-exaltation. We can't see their worth...because we don't want to. It makes us uncomfortable. It makes us question ourselves. And rather than walk a moment in mystery and intrigue, we quickly close the lid, shove it into the corner, and walk away.

Imagine you are a child. You receive a gift of a box of crayons. Not just a few crayons, but the 120 count box of crayons. Your senses delight as you learn the nuances of all the shades. You see how some colours bring light, and some add depth. You learn that "green" is not just green. There's yellow-green, blue-green, turquoise, chartreuse, olive, loden, sage...to name just a few. A whole new world of understanding has been opened to you. You've forgotten what life was like before, now that your world has been coloured. You even grow to learn how colours can represent emotions, and learn to use them as an emotive outlet. Now imagine that someone or something strips you of that gift. You still have the capacity to understand and recognize those colours, but you cannot access them, and you cannot feel them. Your coloured world has grown dim and lifeless. You cannot return to your previous understanding of life. You have felt too much. You now must navigate this barren wilderness, You try desperately to explain how your world has been altered, but no one seems to understand. Living with trauma is living devoid and stripped of what once coloured your world. It is waking up every day, waiting, anticipating something to collapse. 'Thinking positively' and 'hoping for the best' are like non-existent crayons. Everything is "green". And it feels as if this monochrome world is the only thing you can feel. The only thing that feels safe. But the worst part is that you experience that "robbery" over and over and over. It comes without notice, without warning. You could be brushing your teeth, or tying your shoes, or washing dishes...and it hits you like a wall. Suddenly your fragile stasis is shattered. Memories run like a shockwave through your vitals. Your mind is trapped. You can not rationalize your way back to where you were a moment ago...because something has just hijacked your world and coloured it green...and that is ALL you can see. Never mind whatever occupation you had when this moment hit. Now you are consumed with trying to steer yourself back to rational thought. To say it is a struggle would be a gross understatement. Exhausted, clamoring for breath, you fight your way out of the panic, to reach something real. So there you are, straddling a high wire of what once was and what is. And you alone must pave the road to find your way back down...over and again. And you think you're tired? I know the courage it takes just to breathe.

"Life happens while you are making other plans." This familiar sentiment holds true. Changes in life may happen suddenly, with no warning, or they may come very slowly, even imperceptibly. Sometimes changes occur when we decide we are ready for them. Or they may be thrust upon us at the worst possible moment in time, and we struggle to keep our head above water. Some changes can be so life-altering that it feels as if we are frozen in time. Life gets stuck on PAUSE...A droning monotony of clockwork, a pointless ticking of existence, day...after day...after day. Its as if another world, another life, has ebbed into this crack of space and time, holding us hostage to the life we knew before. We are faced with a dilemma: Do we accept it, do we fight it, or do we do nothing? The reality of life is that everything changes. Nothing stays the same. As my husband eloquently put it, "Even the landscape changes...and so do we. We do not stay the same person forever." The landscape may teach us quite a lot about change: When to bend, when to break and let go, when to go with the flow, when to fight like a lone dandelion pushing through the crack of the sidewalk. There are lessons all around us. We just need to learn to be open to them, to understand them. Like the mountains and valleys we all have highs and lows. And as we meander and traverse the path of our individual journey, may our steps be healing to ourselves and to others. And when we fall, may we have the courage to speak up and ask for help. With grace, may we let go of the things that hold us back. And when we need to be strong, remember that lone dandelion pushing through the concrete, proud to stand alone, to stand up, to exist, to fight for survival. The question remains: Are we sinking, are we swimming, or just treading water?

Animals are amazing. They are teachers, they are untameably wild with passion for life, and yet so easily domesticated to be content. My cats are my best therapists. Nyan, ("Bubsy"), the male, is inquisitive, intellectual, cautious, emotional, and sensitive. He always knows how I am feeling before I do. He picks up on the slightest nuances of my behaviour. When I'm sick or sad, he wedges into my lap in a way that reassures me I am not alone. If I'm particularly down, he puts on a performance as court jester, reminding me that sometimes a little levity is as comforting as a cup of tea. And then there is Sadie Jane, the female feline. She knows her own mind and no mistake. Sadie is my hero. She greets each day with an ownership and confidence that I quickly recall also belonging to the lion. Fearless, she grabs life with both paws, claws unclenched, effortlessly ready to catch or attack whatever comes her way. And this she does. Yet this seeming fierceness is contradicted by her softness. With uncompromising gentility she sidles up to me and then suddenly flops into her classic pose dubbed "The Super Snuggle". Happily, she will purr like a locomotive for as long as blood flow to my legs allows. On gloomy, overcast days I take their advice: Sometimes its okay to take the day off and lounge for twelve hours. Likewise, on sunny days, there is always something to do. Cats do not beg for acceptance. They do not pander for compliments. They do not flatter. They tell it straight. If they are unhappy, they are going to tell you about it. And when you love them with the respect they deserve, they loyally love you in return. You don't need a degree in psychology to understand each other and communicate. Its all about TRUST. Its a lesson that true strength is found in gentleness, and true gentleness is founded in strength. And as life lessons go, I'd say that's pretty powerful. Like a gentle lion roaring inside of me, I think I'll follow their advice.

How will we be remembered? Likely, how we want to be remembered and what people actually remember about us will be different... perhaps slightly, or perhaps drastically. What will our paragraph say? Will it truly reflect who we were, who we endeavoured to be? Will it accurately reflect our life's work, our innermost thoughts? How can we bridge the gap? This thought is especially paralyzing when one feels frozen in time. There are moments which we may feel define us. What we do in those small moments every day may actually speak louder than any accomplishment or achievement. And what of the moments when we are completely alone with our own thoughts and feelings? Will they belie the person we show, or will they add credence to it? It comes down to how we live---essentially, our life. All of those miniscule choices and voices that make up our twenty-four hours. The choice to keep going, keep trying, keep loving, keep living. A voice of reason, of kindness, of integrity, of loyalty. Character trumps accomplishment every time.

A rolling hillside obscured from roads, teeming with wildlife, like my own private sanctuary. A stream, flowing, bending, falling, rushing, and then quietly pooling... a serenity unknown to others. Walls of trees, vines, and brambles interrupted only by a worn path like a secret portal into another dimension. These secret landscapes where we live go unnoticed by the majority, obscured from view. In part, it is that same ignorance which men permit themselves to eradicate, exterminate, and otherwise plunder an unsuspecting ecosystem, for they see only the potential of their own plans. They do not care for the gentle balance of life of which they consider of no importance. There are secret landscapes inside of us, too. Gentle balance of an inner world unseen by others, which at any moment could be plowed asunder or set ablaze, with no thought of the ripple effect. We hold these private passageways out of view, for fear of being trampled. Well worn pathways of the mind, thoughts that stream, inner ecosystems of places we go in safety- places that are secret landscapes in our mind- places endangered, protected. Oh the damage that occurs when the self-righteous push in... thinking they have all the facts, thinking they know better, thinking they will be some sort of saviour, or benevolent benefactor... when in actual fact, they cannot see the beauty right in front of them, the delicate balance of the landscape. In their power, they create not a new harbour of safety and opportunity, but ruins and rubble for the social pariah.

Yesterday, as I was busying myself with a mundane clean-out, I stumbled across some high school memories. A yearbook of forgotten faces, awards that have lost meaning, speeches redundant with ignorance and aspiration. I paused for a moment to reflect on this young girl's life who seems entirely another person. And yet, deep inside, she honored who she was. And in that moment, I recognized her. I recognized myself. A self that has been tucked away, shelved, and shushed. A voiceless echo of who I once was. But seeing that 18 year old so full of passion couldn't help but inspire me. For as long as I have been alive, I have been passionate about two things: words and fashion. Even as a very little girl, I would say my own poetry before I could write, and change my outfit 5 times a day, just for the fun of it. (My mother, who did the laundry, can attest to this.) Throughout my school age years, I never cared much for the status quo. I wore silk pajama palazzo pants to school, and wouldn't be caught dead wearing sneakers outside of gym class. I was fancy. Not popular. As a senior project for marketing , my friend and I put on a bonafide fashion show. We collaborated with other shops in school, used students as models, and wrote our own dialogue. As I reflected on my younger self I thought, "She seemed so sure of herself." And even though I would have rather taken art classes instead of marketing, the artist within me found a way to coexist and cohabit with the girl going through business education. ...Fast forward 25 years, (gulp), well, the business education served me well enough, but I had lost touch with my inner voice. I felt somehow ashamed that I was passionate about words and the art of clothing. Like those things aren't really supposed to be important, not in a survival kind of way. Ironically, it is these very things that quite literally did become a sort of survival for me through some very, very dark days. It was only when I began to honor this inner voice as being valid that I started to get back in touch with that little girl rampaging in her self-made outfits quoting poetry.

As the chill of early morning was slowly replaced by a sweet, lingering high note of honeysuckle heated by the warmth of the sun, gratitude filled my heart and lungs. Milky iridescence illuminated on my finger like the brilliance of the previous wearer, recently, tragically lost. In moments like these we are stirred to contemplate what we too often take for granted: the simple things in life. Our loved ones, the comfort of a warm embrace, sunshine and birdsong and the white noise of an active ecosystem, the warmth of a cup of coffee as the heat pours through our fingers and through our mouths, invigorating the blessed use of our limbs and our minds. Its all too easy to take these things for granted in a hectic world, until we are forced to STOP... until we are forced to suddenly appreciate the most mundane of things. Perhaps we have allowed our minds to be so engrossed in what seems to be important on the surface, that we forget to be grateful for the gifts that we wake up with every single day.