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Photo by Gail Harvey, no reproduction without permission
Thanks! The peonies excavated from the weed-fest that was our yard are exploding as the lilacs brown to sleep nestled amidst lush green leaves. At this time of summer I’ll always think deep sweet thoughts about my late friends, writer extraordinaire, Timothy Findley, October 30, 1930 – June 21, 2002 and Cleo the most-missed wondercat, April 5 1989- June 23, 2008. True friends are never forgotten, but grief can slowly turn from ache to celebration for having known their love at all. You can transform any negative or painful situation or interaction by digging deep and find the old gratitude pipeline.
There’s an old expression that is just so powerful and useful and transformative I’m surprised more people don’t lean on it harder in tough times. “Thank you” [along with its strange companion, “Please”] was drilled into us in childhood when I was growing up, and I see it is making a comeback in some parental circles. One of the downsides to the impact of internet communication tools is the rapid erosion of thanking. In all quarters. Expecting gratitude from another isn’t the point, because giving has to be a fully generous act or it is not soulful. But when someone thanks you, observe how beautiful it feels and observe also the customary responses to it, in a variety of languages: “You’re welcome. No problem. It’s no trouble at all. My pleasure.” So different from variations on “Gimme” energy followed by silence. All you can really do is be thankful and verbal about it. Learning to be thankful shouldn’t really be a doctorate level seminar at the old School of Life…
Enjoying and re-enjoying Dave Brubeck’s classic “Take Five” as often as I can these days. There’s something about this piece of music that makes the idiocy of sitting in traffic [such as it is out here] at an ill-advised under-construction roundabout less annoying. The drums! The sax-magic! Good music keeps a girl from writing letters to the local paper asking how it is that a native protest inspires such anger and outrage when a main artery of the community continues to be taken hostage by poor planning at the start of our busiest season and effectively divides communities, causes all kinds of air pollution as people idle in wait [or wait idly?] and in so doing, harms seasonal businesses, too? As there is little point in writing such letters to our local papers, I simply turn up the Brubeck and the Ginette Reno and focus on higher things. Like strawberry picking and the happy news that my mom is enjoying her dream trip very much.
Movie love: it’s not just for the hibernating months of winter. Ironically [or not], just as the weather heats up and the mosquitoes begin buzzing, we finally watched Frozen River. Astounding film, tight and powerful script, written and directed by Courtney Hunt, nominated for best original screenplay Oscar, lost to screenplay for ‘Milk’ which was based on true-to-life events of Harvey Milk’s life yet was nevertheless categorized as ‘original.’ Go figure. If you haven’t yet seen Hunt’s brilliant movie about human trafficking and smuggling across the St. Lawrence River, run out and rent it. Timely indeed.
Canadian documentary film-making lost a giant this past week: Allan King, 79 succumbed to brain cancer but left us with a virtual canon of heartbreaking docs ranging from Warrendale to the gut-wrenching Dying At Grace to his most recent, a sharp-eyed exploration of racism as it plays out in the lives of young black men, Empz 4 Life. You can order his films on dvd at his website: www.allankingfilms.com
After working at one job all morning, I’m off to my other work. Both are classified as work, yet both have the joyful energy of play. I’m lucky. And so is the man fishing peacefully from a boat on the glassy millpond this beautiful almost-summer day. I hope he knows it.
Reading: Food Matters, Mark Bittman
Listening to: The Saddest Song, Morphine
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