Rainy Days

'Rainy days make me feel like dirt.' 

My head jerked up and I almost gasped out loud. I didn't hear the beginning or the rest of the conversation, but this comment caught my attention. Because I definitely do not feel like dirt on rainy days.

I love rain. I love rainy days. I wish for rainy days and sometimes I'm sad when the sun comes out after the rain. 

I think I partly love rainy days because of the endless possibilities. Sewing, reading, shopping, baking. That is if I can't go to work because of the rain. But even if I'm working inside and can go to work I have endless ideas of things to do at work. 

I also love rainy days because they are melancholy. I once read a saying that said 'sad is happy for deep people.' I don't know if I'm a deep person, but sad/melancholic things, like rainy days, make me happy.

 

Throwback

I don't actually like fireworks. Bold statement from a girl who stays up late to watch them and exclaim over them, I know. But they make my head hurt. I try, but I can't even get super excited about the glittery fuzzle that most of the fireworks end in. I may comment on the ones that are better than the worse ones, but mostly, while I'm watching fireworks, I let my mind wander. And if I do watch fireworks, I prefer to watch where I can block part of the bright lights with some trees or something with natural beauty. 

 This next part is the throwback part, originally posted in July of 2019. 

 

July[4] 

We sat up on those rocks together                      Not much disturbance, just me and her                Both of us awed by the situation                        The dark sky exploding with man’s creation  

Her eyes full of wonder, she uttered exclamations,                                                          As she waited and watched in anticipation        Of the booming, the splendour, the smoke, the sparks                                                                    That were man’s creations, blowing up, leaving their marks  

For me a different awe of disturbance and sadness                                                                 How does pollution and smoke fill one with gladness?                                                                The brightness and haze eliminated my view     Of the stars and the moon in that great vastness of blue  

Which one of us was correct? I wondered,         As man’s amazing creation covered up God’s splendour                                                                She sat there excited; I sat there in shame.       But her and I, we’re one and the same.

Lego Firetruck Helicopters

'Heeeey' whines a 4 year old voice from across the room for what feels like the 100th time. 'My Lego firetruck helicopter broke.' I want to say 'Kiddo, that's what happens when you make the bad guys push the good guys off the side of the table. Besides, there's no such thing as firetruck helicopters.' But instead I take a deep breath and think about this 4 year old and his 4 years of life.  

 

My mind takes me back to another day. A short video. Children playing. A woman's voice, first normal, but within a few seconds it's an angry voice. A loud, angry voice shouting expletives at cowering children who were just doing normal children things. And this little 4 year old boy sits, intently focused on the screen in front of him. The screen that is playing out normal life for him.   

 It's a hard life. The life where you never know which adult will erupt at you next for something you didn't know not to do, or something you tried, but failed, to do all on your own. A life where you hear about or watch fighting and ghosts and shooting on TV for a few days a week, and then at your other 'home' you are reprimanded for playing the same things you hear about and see. A life with a semi-normal routine between two homes that easily changes if suddenly you inconvenience one home or the other.  

I think about this all, and I realize that what Kiddo needs is security. That he's testing me to find out if I will be there when he needs me.  

 

So what do I do? I leave what I'm doing, give tearful Kiddo a smile and a hug, and go and rebuild that Lego firetruck helicopter.

Now Boarding Flight (insert number here)

On the way: I hate flying alone. Correction. I don't mind the flying part, but the part where I myself am responsible to keep track of all my stuff and figure out which concord to take and how to make sure I'll make it to my gate on time and even if it is the right gate, that's what makes me nervous. For days beforehand. The actual flying part, the part where the plane accelerates super quick as if it's a race, the snowy landscape below stretching out for miles all around, the miniature buildings and vehicles and roadways that seems like I could just reach down and rearrange as if I was a kid again, the part where you can feel the wheels touch ground and the sudden braking of the plane as if it was going to crash something, that I don't mind doing by myself. It's all too awe inspiring to stress about. But then- the crowds, the crush of people and the noisy chatter and the many colors of signs and the stores selling different variations of the same items and the many loudspeakers announcing different things and the race against time to get from one gate to the next, from one terminal to the next just in time to board, and then standing in the squished middle aisle of the plane, trying to get your bag shoved into the overhead compartments somewhere close to you. Those things could stress me out for days beforehand. Not to mention having to think about getting covid tests and making sure those documents are all in order. I did get stressed out. Especially because I was gone last weekend and left almost everything til last minute. But then, suddenly everything falls into place, people are super nice about giving me calls in between work, the covid test lady is talkative and gives me hints and tips, my bags are not super full (unusual!) and I even get to play hockey yet. This trip might turn out fine afterall. On the way back: 'Write a blog post,' said one voice. 'Read that certain book,' said another. 'People watch,' said yet another inaudible voice. And what did she do? She walked down the concourse with someone she had just recently met, til they had to part ways so one could leave the massive building and world of long concourses and big screens and lots of people wearing masks. She went and an iced caramel latte that was not even delicious and ambled around a few stores and back down the concourse before finding an empty chair in a relatively quiet place to sit down on. And then, she pulled out her book. But because she kept looking up at the people walking by, she didn't get much read. She pulled out her phone 'I'm bored,' she messaged one of her friends, who soon replied with some drama of her own. But still, that first voice kept nagging her. 'Hey. Now is a perfect time to write that post. You've got an empty gap of time that you need to fill up. Look around you, and you could find any number of things to write about.' Sometimes the voice was inaudible, in her mind, someimes it sounded like that of her sister's, who made the same comment a few weeks back. 'Hey, you haven't written a blog post in a while. You should start again.' Oh, but sister. I don't have the time. I don't feel like I have anything worthy to write about. My creative writing juices have all run out on me. I want to spend time with Kiddo instead of writing something that won't make any difference to anyone's day or life. Excuses. Maybe good ones, but still excuses. I was a bit stressed about the thing that they stick up your nose that dictates whether you can fly or you have to stay home. There were all sorts of documents that needed to be filled out on different apps and websites, pictures or QR codes to upload. Not to mention having to navigate airports, and the fact that I do not appreciate flying alone. And that was just before I had to go to a place crawling with excited, dramatic people of whom I only really knew about 8 of. I questioned myself a few times why I wanted to do this to myself. And if it was really worth it. But then, as I was struggling thru the list of things I had to get done yet, in between working, the day before I was to leave, suddenly the world decided to be nice to me. The one lady called right on time and got everything cleared up super fast, and was super nice about it, and it was a lot cheaper than I had expected. I got to the next stop in my day and I was kicking myself for not having the right documents with me. 'Do you have a picture of it?' the lady asked. And I was relieved to find out that a picture worked just fine, and pleased when she offered kindness and a few tips on what I was about to embark on. Things kept going on like that. I suddenly found out a few days before hand that a good friend was going to be attending the same event. I got to play a good game of hockey the evening before I left. I made my connecting flight, even though I walked off the place, basically ran down the halls and stepped right into line to board my next flight. I had a great time at the event with the people I knew, made some new acquaintances, and was the recipient of some great hospitality. When it was time to leave, I again had to have that fuzzy stick up my nose, and again, the lady who did it was kind and reassuring and said the unknowns would be all right. And so far they have been. I'm not sure where I'm going with this post. Maybe just updating you on my life. Maybe also thinking about a those cute wooden signs and stereotypical earth colored sweatshirts that say 'Be kind' on them. I would add the words 'Be cheerful' to the motto. If those people who called me, or stuck fuzzy, pointy things up my nose, or made me feel at home, or helped me in some way or other would have been grouchy to me, or made me feel like I shouldn't be where I was, I would probably have a headache right now, and wouldn't think the weekend was such a success. I'm not going to go out and buy a sweatshirt and browser those 4 words on it. But I'm going to try to be like those people. Also, have you ever wondered how the all the rug in airports gets cleaned? I'm not sure this is normally how it's done, but I saw a lady with a vacuum on one long concourse today.

Oh Come, Let Us Adore Him

'Joy to the world, the Lord is come! Let earth receive her king!' You'd think, after singing the same song over 15 or so times in one evening, you'd get tired of it. 'Silent night, holy night..holy infant so tender and mild, sleep in heavenly peace.' You'd get tired of the tune, stop thinking about the meaning of the words. 'To us a child of hope is born, to us a some is given.' Your thoughts would turn to other things, and your voice would grow quieter and less enthusiastic. 'Angels from the realms of glory wing your flight o'er all the earth..come and worship, worship Christ the newborn king.' Again. And again. And again. 'We wish you a Christmas blessing, Merry Christmas, Happy New Year.. and a good night to you all!' And you can finally run back and jump into a nice warm truck. But for some reason, that doesn't happen to me. Sure I don't always think of the words and sing solely from memory, or I cut up a few times. But I don't get tired of the songs. Maybe it's the smiles on people's faces as they open the door and invite you inside, not caring about the condition we'll leave the floor in. Maybe it's the joy in their voices as they open their mouths and sing along. Maybe it's the clear night with pinpricks of stars that makes it easy to imagine angels coming from those realms of glory. I don't know how to end this post and I don't want to take the time now to think too long on it. So maybe I'll leave it as it is and let you take it from here and see where it leads you.

When There Is No Color

'It's dark out here. There are no colors.' 

 I quoted these words (said by Kiddo when we went outside one evening not that long ago.) to my sister, who said 'I love that! You should write a blog post about it!' And I told her I didn't blog anymore and I've thought of it off and on since then. And now, when Kiddo isn't here, seems like a good time to post again, about him. 

I had never thought of darkness as no colors. Now that he enlightened me, I can totally see what Kiddo meant. Darkness has its own kind of beautiful, and I love it, but there's something about color that makes a person feel, makes a person think, makes a person dream. I guess that's why our daytime world is full of color. 

 He's definitely not dark. He's full color. He glows red when something goes wrong or when someone doesn't do something his way, when he's on time out chair. And it's bright red. But soon he's a different color. Blue when giving hugs and saying hi to everybody we meet on walks or in the store, yellow when he's playing (somewhat) happily with his little plastic shop or his diggers and bulldozers, or green when he's begging for the same books over and over again, or pushing a chair to the counter so he can very enthusiasticly help make cookies or whatever it is I'm making. My favorite is when I leave for work and he runs to the door and we go thru the round of kiss/highfive/fistbump/loveyou and sometimes some of them twice, because we forget if we've done them already or we don't want to let go or leave. That doesn't have just one color. He's all the colors. 

 You are my colors Kiddo. I wish you were here tonight to make my world more colorful.

Not My Perspectives

7 year old's perspective  

Her-I hope we're not going to the dead side of Winnipeg.
Me-Why do you call it dead?
Her-The houses are all wrecked, the trees look like someone beat them up, and the sun doesn't shine there, at least not sometimes. I think it's called the North side.

70 year old's perspective

"We can go to North Main in Winnipeg and see some of the misery, the people living in misery, those peoples' souls are worth no less than yours or mine."