Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: A Writer’s Blessing.

October 18, 2015October 18, 2015 / boo king / Leave a comment

I walk my ginger cookie dog Rusty every morning in the hour just before dawn. It’s a sweet time. A gift from heaven.

Peaceful. Quiet. A writer’s blessing.

The hush before the alarms go off. The kettles plug in. Showers turn on. The Today Show announces another incomprehensible tragedy.

We walk the same circle route every morning. I’m a creature of habit. So is Rusty.

He likes to poop in the same spots. I carry white plastic grocery bags to scoop up after him. It’s all part of our daily dance.

This morning, when we got to the bend in the road, the glorious spot at the crest of the hill, I caught a glimpse of eternity.

The lights below flickered like halos as the world awoke.

At that moment I wanted to fly. Spread my arms. And take off. Rusty has floppy ears that were engineered for flight. I have big hair.

We can do this.

I stopped and looked out at the glorious sunrise and thought how lovely and endless these days are. Filled with the promise of forever.

But they aren’t of course.

I thought of my mother. How this particular orange of the sky would have inspired her to paint.

What a view. Oh God what a divine view. Tears came unexpectedly.

One day, if I’ve done this right, I will be the memory. I will be the gentle tear brushed from the cheek of one of my children.

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: Reflections in Mud Puddles.

April 13, 2015April 13, 2015 / boo king / Leave a comment

I love sunny days and large blue skies. The brightness and optimism of the unblemished firmament that stretches from horizon to horizon, and takes me back to my Northwestern Ontario wonder years. No matter how bad things were on the ground I could always look up and see that immense sky, and get a glimpse of God’s miraculous hand at work. I remember it then, and still experience it now, the feeling of peace and comfort knowing that I am connected to something so big and so powerful and so utterly wonderful. What an awe-inspiring and breath-taking view.

But lately I’ve found a reason to like rain. Or more precisely, what remains after it rains. I’ve acquired an entirely new attitude towards the potholes that pepper the country road where I walk. For they are the conduit to the glorious mud puddle, my new favorite thing.

When I was a kid I liked to stomp through them in my black rubber boots. Or after a warm summer shower I loved to go barefoot and sink my toes into the soft buttery ooze. I used to ride recklessly through them on my bike. But as I grew older they became wretched annoyances to avoid. Little nuisances and painful reminders of the relentless rainfall on the West Coast from the beginning of November till the end of April. I’ve done my share of cursing after being splashed and sprayed by passing vehicles. And I am not amused by those who quip, “well at least we don’t have to shovel it.”

But about a month ago, as I was walking along the country road at lunch, I saw things quite differently. It was as though I was seeing a mud puddle for the very first time. Like I was wearing magic glasses. And instead of avoiding, I sought them out. What caused this sudden transformation of vision? Why did my perspective change? What captured my imagination?

It was one of those serendipitous happy accidents. It had been pouring miserably earlier in the day. By the time I headed out for my walk, the sun was grandstanding and showing off its brilliance. It aced the surface of the mud puddle at just the perfect angle for me to see. I mean really see something so ordinary but suddenly so utterly extraordinary. Something I’d seen a million times before. Yet at that precise moment it was as if for the very first time.

I saw a reflection. And it was a beautiful sight.

Tall and stately evergreens. Gnarled and naked Garry Oaks. Blades of grass blowing in the breeze. Cloud formations. The sun, a blinding orb overhead. Telephone poles with wires stretching like tightropes. Street signs and other directions from above.

In the past month, I have sought out muddle puddles. They have brought new meaning, joy and wonder to my lunchtime walk. I’m the crazy lady crouched on the ground snapping photos on my iPhone of these fascinating little pools of dirty water. The smallest one I’ve photographed was about six inches, the largest about six feet long. I feel like Alice in Through the Looking Glass peering into another world filled with magic and all things curious. Everything is distorted. Depth perception is challenged. Shallow one second. And bottomless the next: like I could easily fall in and be lost forever in the shimmering darkness. Seeing such gigantic things like trees and telephone poles reflected and held so spellbindingly inside something so small. The juxtaposition takes my breath away.

The most magical thing about the muddle puddles is this. Like snowflakes, no two are the same. And even the same puddle is different depending on the preciseness of my presence, the direction of the sun, how it skims the surface of the murky water, and of course the angle with which I peer into it. Standing. Crouching. On my knees. These all affect what I see.

As a writer I can usually find words to describe most things. But in this case, words are inadequate. In fact, they fail me. Hopefully the photographs don’t. I hope they have captured some of the miraculous that I have witnessed, the dirty beauty of the earth, the sky, the sun and the wind, and the surprising unpredictable moment of confluence of all perfect things.

Technical note from a completely non-technical person: all photos were taken with my iPhone 6 using the Instagram App, with the Nashville filter.

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: My Mother’s Hands.

August 1, 2012 / boo king / Leave a comment

Long piano fingers so elegant and lovely.

I miss Ma. Sharing cups of tea. Or lingering conversations on a quiet summer evening. Laughing until we cried. Long walks through the neighborhood. Enjoying the pleasure of each others company. Mother and daughter stuff. All such lovely things that I cherish and hold dear. But of all those things, it is her hands that I pine for. Reach out and wish that they were resting next to mine. Hand in hand. Beautiful. Comforting. Tender. Reassuring.

Her touch was my first. My touch was one of her last.

Her fingers were long, thin and graceful. Pulsing with veins. Like indigo rivers across translucent terrain. We used to call them piano fingers because they could easily span an octave of keys. She never played an instrument. Except the music of her heart.

Her hands were hard working. Dependable and strong. They understood the connection between soap, water and a scrub brush. A dish rag and a scouring pad. Intimately. Thoroughly. Hardwood, tile, linoleum and wall to wall. Down on all fours. Scoured and cleaned. Washed and wiped. Polished and shined. Gleaming with pride.

Ma loved clean laundry. Before washing machines were automatic, she filled her wringer washer daily. Pulled her family’s clothes, piece by piece, through the hard rubber rollers. Filled her wicker basket then meticulously hung the day’s laundry on the line to dry. Wooden pegs and twisted wire. Summer or winter. Spring or autumn. The sparkling laundry fluttered and flew and often froze. Board stiff long johns and flannelette nighties. Her magical hands orchestrated it all with ease. Held it close and let it go.

Hands that could cook up a storm.

Her hands were a sight to behold in the kitchen. She cooked and baked. Stirred and tossed. Kneaded and coaxed. Folded and cut. Meals were prepared with tenderness. Cookies were baked with love. Cakes were dressed and adorned for every occasion. Table was set. Dinner was served. Dishes washed and carefully put away. Countertops glistened. The floor was swept. The refrigerator hummed with contentment. Such power in those hands.

A paint brush found its place to dwell. Between her thumb and pointer finger. Strokes and splashes across the canvas. Dabs and feather light lines. Details drawn. Smudges and smears. Oil on canvas. Flowers and trees. Fruit in bowls. The Sleeping Giant. Artistic. Expressive. Imaginative wondrous hands.

Her hands held books and magazines. On topics diverse and sundry. Her hands were eager to learn. To grasp the meaning of life. To find the truth. To seek wisdom. To scratch her head when none of it made sense.

Fabric was transformed in her hands. Curtains from calico. Tablecloths from cheerful colorful cotton. Dresses from wool or the softest silk. Jumpers from baby wale corduroy. Skirts that twirled and flared. Slacks that zipped or buttoned. Shirts were crisp or casual. A surprise dress at the end of a school day. A new wardrobe to start the year. Machine sewn. Hand stitched. Embroidered edges. Guide me home.

Hands that gripped life and love and held on tight.

The exquisite hands that caressed my newborn head. Supported me while I learned to walk. Clasped my hand on my first walk to school. Tended to my scraped knees. Wiped the tears from my eyes when my heart was torn and broken. Touched my shoulder with the language of love. Embraced. Hugged. Carried. Stroked. Hands that gripped and held on tight. To love. To life.

Young hands. Mother’s hands. Old hands. Grandma’s hands. May they reach down from heaven and touch this daughter’s heart tonight.

My Thing About God