Notes: TT* = Throwback Thursday. Source: gifsoup
Mother and Son are texting last night.
Dad is in the Group Message.
Son with monosyllabic responses.
The intermittent bing bing bing signaling the back and forth.
Dad is silent. Observing the exchange from a distance.
Pictures come across from El Salvador. Magic.
There he is. Smiling.
What was he? 7 months old? 9 months?
I’m holding him up by his arm pits.
His little hands gripping mine. Trusting.
Warm water splashing over us.
He bows his head towards my chest to duck the spray.
I pull him closer.
He rests his head on my shoulder.
He squeezes his hands into little fists and rubs his eyes.
And looks up.
Those eyes. That smile.
I squeeze him tighter.
And feel his skin on my chest. On my fingertips.
And smell the Johnson’s Baby Shampoo in his hair.
Hold that moment.
at the speed
this video took me back.
Saturday mornings in January.
Crisp, cold mountain air.
A sparkling layer of frost on the snow.
Running in Sorel boots to the outdoor rink,
Snow crunching under each foot fall.
Rushing to lace up our skates.
And we go.
And we go.
And we go.
If you close your eyes and listen
You can hear
The steel blades cutting the ice.
The chop, chop, chop of cross-overs to accelerate.
The spray of fine ice crystals from a hard stop.
Take me back.
To our Golden Pond.
This Canadian’s Heaven.
- SMWI* = Saturday Morning Work-out Inspiration
- Credits: Video – Thank you Rob @ The Hammock Papers
n. an image that inexplicably leaps back into your mind from the distant past.
You are immersed in the passage of time. Sometimes you can feel the current moving. Sometimes you forget it’s there, only to be reminded again, another in a series of passing moments. A moment is defined by its momentum. It keeps moving. We think of a memory as somehow dead. As a memorial, anchored in its own time and place. A half buried reminder of what was once here. You can’t just hang on to things. You have to let go. You have to move on. It’s hard to imagine that certain memories are still alive. Still fighting against the current. Struggling to keep up. That certain images still have the power to leap back into the present. So you look across the room at someone you know. Maybe they’re all grown up. Maybe they have children of their own. Maybe you’ve known them for 50 years. But in your eyes they are still the same goofy kid you once knew. It’s not just the moments that we remember. Not the grand gestures and catered ceremonies. Not the world we capture poised and smiling in photos. It’s the invisible things. In minutes. The cheap raw material of ordinary time. These are the images that will linger in your mind, moving back and forth. Still developing.
~ John Koenig
It was cold.
A bone rattling winter morning.
Brother Rich and I are waiting for a ride to hockey practice.
We’re stomping our feet.
And banging our mitts trying to warm.
The hood of our green, ’55 GMC pick-up, is coated with frost.
A frosty floral design.
“I dare you to lick it.”
“You dare me to lick it?”
“What do I get if I do?”
“You won’t do it.”
“I won’t do it?”
Pudgy boy shoots his devilish grin.
I wheel around,
And, lick it. [Read more...]
~ JFK, May 29, 1917 – November 22, 1963
Image Source: Dopediamond
Our sneakers dripping with mid morning dew.
We’d reach the plateau.
Our eyes held in rapture.
Not just any Green. An ethereal magnificence.
In Spring, it was an unfurling of a carpet on the forest floor.
In Summer, the ferns rose.
They climbed, fed by hard, warm rains.
Knee-high under the cover of deciduous trees.
Chest-high in clearings.
Emitting an earthy fragrance, fresh and cooling, filling our lungs.
In Autumn, Green gave way to a harvest of Gold.
Tips of fiddleheads crumbling as we batted them with our hands in our climb.
Rising particles of fine dust in air behind us.
We’d reach the creek.
A trickle now.
We’d kneel down, the moss cushioning our knees.
Lips rushing to slurp the cool water.
Pausing to catch our breath.
And, then back.
Back down the mountainside.
Our footprints cutting shadows through the ferns.
Leaving their imprints etched in our consciousness.
It’s so close.
So close today, 40 years later.
Thousands of miles away.
I close my eyes,
My skin tingles from the coolness under the canopy.
The Canadian Cascades lingering in my nostrils.
There it is.
The Sea of Green.
“You have to begin to lose your memory, if only in bits and pieces, to realize that memory is what makes our lives. Life without memory is no life at all, just as an intelligence without the possibility of expression is not really an intelligence. Our memory is our coherence, our reason, our feeling, even our action. Without it, we are nothing.”
Related Posts: Running Series.
“Your memory is a monster;
you forget —
It simply files things away.
It keeps things for you,
or hides things from you —
and summons them to your recall
with will of its own.
You think you have a memory;
but it has you.”
~ John Irving
I found today’s editorial message in the NY Times to poignantly yet beautifully capture the spirit of today.
“If you listen carefully, you can almost hear the silence at the heart of Memorial Day — the inward turn that thoughts take on a day set aside to honor the men and women who have died in the service of this country.
It is the silence of soldiers who have not yet been, and may never be, able to talk about what they learned in war, the silence of grief so familiar that it feels like a second heartbeat. This is a day for acknowledging, publicly, the private memorial days that lie scattered throughout the year, a day when all the military graves are tended to, even the ones that someone tends to regularly as a way of remembering.
It always seems strange the way the fond, sober gestures of memory coincide with the last flush of spring, while the trees are still lit from within by their chartreuse leaves. The year is still rising, just. And yet it is something you often see recorded in the books and diaries of men and women at war — the sharp interruption of beauty, the moments, hours even, when the vivid tenacity of life itself feels most tangible, even in the midst of death. On a bright, beautiful Memorial Day, you feel, as clearly as you may ever feel, the profound separation between the living and the dead. This is the strangeness of the day, because that separation is a source of both joy and loss. [Read more...]
“There is a language older by far and deeper than words. It is the language of bodies, of body on body, wind on snow, rain on trees, wave on stone. It is the language of dream, gesture, symbol, memory. We have forgotten this language. We do not even remember that it exists…”
What a task
and not by the century or the year, but by the hours.
above me, and above the sting of the wind, a sound
I did not know, and my look shot upward; it was
faster than the ones we usually see,
and, being the color of snow, catching the sun [Read more...]
Shut down PC.
Stuff my briefcase with weekend reading. I Smile.
Another form of Exercise in futility.
I won’t get to it.
Slump into car. Spent.
4-day week. Felt like six.
Pre Good Friday weekend traffic backed up on 95.
Stealing glances at blackberry.
Flicking through iTunes list.
Land on Mellencamp. John Mellencamp.
Hurts So Good.
When I was a young boy
Said put away those young boy ways
Now that I’m gettin’ older
So much older
I love all those young boy days
Memories flood. Awed.
How? How a mere few bars can take you back.
To a moment. In 1982. A technicolor and edited version. [Read more...]
Here are my Uggs. Pictured on Nemo’s 19-inch snowfall. The mounds of wet snow on the driveway were no match for the King and his Uggs this morning.
While I was shoveling, I took a walk down memory lane.
Four years ago, Susan and Rachel dragged me to Lord & Taylor and asked me to try them on. (Ugg Sheepskin boots originated in Australia and New Zealand. This brand is headquartered in Flagstaff, Arizona.)
I pulled them on. And, trudged around the Ugg display.
My rant commenced. “What do Australians, New Zealanders and Arizonians know about winter and snow? Have you forgotten I’m Canadian? This is amateur hour.” [Read more...]
I’m in the car off to work.
I’m scanning my playlist to find a match to my mood. I’m challenged. Nothing seems to fit. Nothing that is, except the weather.
Mind pans back ten years. A sunny day in Miami. A lazy Sunday afternoon. She loves car rides. The sun roof is open. Andrea Bocelli is crooning on the cd player. We’re crossing the Rickenbacker Causeway. The City center is on our left. Biscayne Bay’s shimmering aquamarine blues are on the right. A warm tropical breeze is gushing through the windows. I look over and her eyes are closed and her hair is blowing in the wind. A portrait of youthful bliss. An indelible image that can be pulled up at will. [Read more...]
In a tribute to our Veterans on Veterans Day in the U.S. and Remembrance Day in Canada, here is Eva Cassidy with her beautiful and moving rendition of Danny Boy.
↓ click for audio (Eva Cassidy – “Danny Boy”)
…But when ye come and all the roses falling,
And I am dead, as dead I well may be,
Go out and find the place where I am lying,
And kneel and say an Ave there for me.
And I will hear tho’ soft your tread above me,
And then my grave will warm and sweeter be.
For you shall bend and tell me that you love me,
And I will sleep in peace until you come to me.
Image Source: Lemonzers