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Buy Yourself Some Roses

My cat Sam is an active little cat, with long legs that propel him in a single bound over several pieces of furniture to his perch on the cat tree.  They also enable him to gallop wildly around the apartment, launching paper, ornaments and anything else once stationary, into space.

He is at once my inspiration and my critic.  His energy calls me to action, to create art, books and blog.  Sam then shows his gratitude by eating my works.

Always glad to see me after work, he covers me with kisses, nips and wads of white fur head to toe.  I ignore him to my peril; he is a four footed demolition crew, and if I dare to go to bed before he is ready, his mournful cries make one think he is dying a slow and painful death.

See my books A Pleasant Day with Sam and Another Pleasant Day With Sam.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sam inspired me to create a new book, Buy Yourself Some Roses, about getting your dreams.  But I really learned how to get my dreams before Sams’ help when I decided to make time to do them.

But not just any old time.

I tried and failed a thousand times to schedule my free time to do what I love.  Scheduled so much I began to hate my free time!  I could not follow it long.  Frustration!

My first book, way back in 2005, was done in only 5-10 minutes each morning before I went to work.  I was amazed at how much drawing I could do in such a short increment of time.  Also surprising was how hard it was to limit myself to a few minutes (I was often then late for work. . .)

I have since learned from books like The Miracle Morning by Hal Elrod, that mornings are the best time to do your dreams.  So I began to allot one half hour to my art and one to physical exercise before doing anything else.

Since that decision, I have published 8 books in only 2 years and started this blog.  I suffered an injury (as noted in previous blogs) that derailed my exercise routine, but I am now back on track.

I know that right action combined with the right time will make your dreams reality.  Treat yourself as number one, the one that matters first in your busy days.  The one who deserves a dozen red roses.

Check out my new book to see for yourself.  Just ask Sam!

My cat will show you how easy it is to get your dreams.  Amazon.com

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A New World Order

We are on the verge of establishing a new way of doing everything on this planet.

And this will be done by women.

Any ideology, religion or whatever that subjugates women is doomed to become extinct.  These are the very platforms that have wreaked so much havoc in our world.  They need to be thrown out. Because everyone, everyone – man, woman, child, creature, planet – is bone weary of bloodshed, disrespect of body, person, creature and environment.  Fed up with constant destruction, denigration, poverty, pollution.

Women represent life, love, replenishment, rebuilding, rebirth, nurturing, justice.  Positive qualities that will ultimately save our sorry state.

Our space exploration program needs to find a habitable planet to send those who want to continually blow everything and everyone up to, so they can war until they are all spent. There is no place or time left for such bad behaviour here any more.

There is only one rule to live by.  The Golden Rule.  And women are golden.

Many have tried to corrupt us to become killers and destroyers, but they cannot ultimately succeed.  Our nature is not thus and the majority of us just aren’t buying it.  Women need to embrace the phenomenal inherent strength of their gender. Go forward and change this world into the paradise it was intended to be. Just look at what the Me Too movement has accomplished.  Empires destroyed.  Just from our collective voices.

The time for change is over due.  This is not to demoralize or emasculate men.  It is not to pit one religion against another, to wave banners, or select one political system over another.   This is to restore our world, which benefits all everywhere.  That is what needs to be done now.  A new world order.  Women are leading the way.  I suspect they always have.

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Life (and Death) is Messy

When my Mother died and I was a bit distressed about the details, my Brother gave me good advice “Death is messy.  Let it go.”

Well, so is life.

Low self esteem used to be a big issue, but a greater problem exists in our society – perfectionism.  The two may be related.

People want everything perfect, our standards impossibly high and for, what, exactly?

Does having the perfect anything bring happiness?  Joy?  Egads – satisfaction?!

Satisfaction comes from accepting what is, the flaws, those minor annoyances that make us human and our lives unique.  Perfection, if it can be attained, cannot be sustained.  Satisfaction comes from making do.

I know people who are miserable over millimeters.  They measure everything, demand symmetry that only micrometers could detect.  They live in fear and torment because life will not give them perfection.  But I ask, what does having everything perfect give you?  And do you think that anyone even remotely cares or notices?  Seriously now.  Life is very, very messy.

Flawless.  What do you have that is flawless, except in your own eyes?  It is by your own standards.  To you your car is a piece of junk, to another it is like gold.  Your spouse is a chump, to another, Adonis or Aphrodite.

There are flaws and sometimes blatant mistakes in all I create.  Errors in perspective, colours, proportions in my art.  Spelling, grammar, punctuation in my writing.  I do the best I can, I am not deliberately sloppy, but I am human.  Many creatives are using computers to make flawless drawings, mesmerizing photo’s and films, and it is all good, but a tad sterile.  Don’t we all love the bloopers?  The vapour trails in a sky in a film about cavemen?  3D printers are awesome, but I’d rather have something made by hand.  The flawed item has a bit of its’ creator in it.

Which, by the way, we are.

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Joy List

What do you do when a project you enjoyed is done?  When the book is published, the house built, the vacation over, you got your degree?

Well, you start another!

Better yet, have several fun things waiting for your attention.

I don’t have much celebration time upon completing a fun project.  I have several more waiting in line for me, some have been languishing for years!  So I have a cup of tea and start the next thing.

Don’t presume I am a type A person, or I am super busy.  I have plenty of down time and I am rather phlegmatic.  But anything I enjoy I can spend long periods of time at (including doing nothing).  Yesterday I spent 8 hours preparing and publishing our latest book, with only a few pee breaks.  When you love what you do this is nothing.  8 hours is 5 minutes.  Joyless activities are 5 minutes equals 8 hours.

Joy is my reason for living.  I don’t have any purpose or meaning beyond that.

Laugh, sing, make some noise – enjoy your life!

I wish I had that philosophy 40 years ago, but I do now and am striving to make Joy a full time habit and get back those lost years.  There are a lot of meaningless, tedious things I still need to get rid of.  So I encourage you to make joy your priority and don’t waste another minute.  Even if joy is a cat on your lap purring your time away.  Don’t you believe for a second that your life needs to be full of things you have to do that you loathe.  It does not!  I have lived this lie long enough!  Have to, should do, must do . . . ugh!

Have a joy list, those are the only projects worth pursuing.  When you finish one, there’s more joy waiting for you.  Isn’t that a great way to live?

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Pat Ltd.

Well, it finally happened.

That sore knee I’ve been experiencing since last summer locked solid at the worst possible time.  Our office was being renovated and that entailed a lot of heavy lifting, moving, cleaning and leg bending, only my leg wouldn’t bend.  At all.  And, oh, was it painful!

X-rays revealed nothing, so I dragged my leg, literally, to a physiotherapist.  Without going into details, in an hour I was walking and bending my knee.  Following his exercise instructions I am now 70% better in only 3 weeks.

The whole point of this story is not that I am stubborn, loathe going to doctors, and would like a bit of sympathy (although it is all true). I discovered something new about my favourite subject – taking action.  I harp on this topic and yet am so obviously guilty of not doing it at times, or at least, not doing the right action.

There is never any absolute certainty as to what is the right action to take until after the fact. Hindsight is always 20/20.

Some things call loudly for no action, let sleeping dogs lie, as it were.  I pretty much know when that happens, although sometimes I can’t stop myself.

My knee reminded me that I am guilty of assumptions and errors in judgement, and I have false, unfounded limiting beliefs.  Heavy stuff.  And, oh yeah, I’m just a human.

I accepted an unacceptable situation and did not take action because:

  • I’m getting old
  • This is normal for my age
  • I am paying for all the running, cycling, ballet, gymnastics etc. I did in my youth (and all other unmentionable, but fun activities)
  • I am gradually just going to totally seize up
  • I’ll never be able to do physical things again
  • Physiotherapists are not real doctors and can’t help me

Wrong on all counts!  Turns out my ‘real’ doctor had not a clue what was wrong with me, except to suggest physiotherapy.  The sports medicine Physiotherapist took one look at me, knew exactly what it was and how to fix.  There was some yelling involved.

I am grateful for the painful experience.

I did not realize I had so many limiting beliefs until they were tested.  Not only can I now walk, use stairs, and have graduated from the school of funny walks, but all the things I used to enjoy are once again, possibilities.  Sometimes it is good to be wrong about stuff.

When I get discouraged I can read about this experience and perhaps challenge myself to discover and overcome newly revealed limiting beliefs.  That is, take action.

Or not.

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A Thousand Pictures

One of the best ways to preserve photographs is to create photobooks.  It is also one of the most expensive.  However, people are more receptive to look at your work in a book than a photo album or heaven forbid, a slide show.  Nothing can chill a heart faster than “Let’s look at slides of my last vacation!”, unless of course, you signed up for a guided tour beforehand.

In the 70’s if you saw someone haul out the 500 lb. slide projector after dinner you were in big trouble.  Worse, your Mother dusts off the album of you in your diapers and plops down beside your beau.  Yipes!

A picture is worth a thousand words, but for some, a thousand pictures is worth only one word.

Monty Python had a fabulous take on this: “Here’s Ted beside the house…and there’s Ted in front of the house, and oh, look!  There’s Ted behind the house…” while the captive audience tears up and throws each handed picture away.

One of my Mothers favourite photo albums was pictures of people she went on a trip with to Portugal.  She couldn’t remember who they were, she was just happy to have had so many friends at once!  Mom loved to be adored, she was a bit of a diva.

I loved a photobook a friend did of her trip to Africa.  It was so good I requested some of the photo’s for myself.  Others however bring their books out as bragging rights to exotic places I’ll never get to see.

Perhaps the worst bragging rights belongs to Professionals, who being paid to give a talk on their chosen profession, begin the talk with slides of their pregnant wife.  Eeewww!

The absolute worse case belongs to a sales rep who came to our business with an album of his wife giving birth.  In colour.  He insisted we look at every picture (and there were a lot) while he gave us a running commentary.  Ugh!

And then there was the man who dropped off a photo album for me at my office, which contained pictures of women in bondage.  Sorry – but that did not go unpunished, I reported him.

So come to think of it, all my photo’s of Sam, sunsets, forests, lakes and the odd awful selfie don’t seem so bad after all.  I won’t make you look at all of them.  Maybe, just one….or two…

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Vega Bound

A brand new 1974 Chevrolet Vega station wagon was the first, and only car I ever owned.  A gift that I drove for the next 12 years with love.  Quarter panels were replaced, entire car repainted once, the in-line 4 engine replaced by a blue Buick V-6 (now she flew!), and that beautiful little car took me everywhere!  I cried buckets when I had to let it go.

Those days I loved to drive.  I would leave for work early just to take the scenic route, and often did not come home until way past sunset.  I loved the road.  I loved cars.

Though I never had the pleasure of owning another vehicle, I rented one nearly every weekend.  Mom and I explored every road that presented itself.  Fond memories of back roads through heavy forests, encounters with wildlife, including a moose!, discovering pristine lakes, rivers, streams, waterfalls, and roads that seemed to go on forever.

Despite the pleasures of quiet drives in the country, I was also very fond of muscle cars and drag racing.  I date myself with reference to nitro funny cars and modified stock, the glory days of Don ‘The Snake’ Prudhomme, Grumpy Jenkins and the like.  Spent weekends glued to the stands at such events as Sanair, Indianapolis and the Gatornationals, and every summer Sunday at Luskville.

Over the years I kept my love of automobiles barely alive and was saddened by this.  My Mother died and I stopped driving, boyfriends with cars that took me canoeing, camping and on weekend getaways have gone.  My income too small to support a vehicle and hope to retire too.

I lost touch with the modern vehicle until last year, I decided to rekindle my automotive affections and attended a car show.  I spent my time looking under hoods, listening to sales pitches, and exhausted myself eyeballing beautiful works of metal, glass, plastic and fiberglass art.

I fell in love with a white Jaguar XE and could have sat in that car all day.  My finger prints are still etched on the steering wheel where they pried them off.

A Chevrolet Traverse also caught my eye.  A real SUV, not a glorified hatchback, that caused me to dream of hauling camping gear, canoe and paddleboard off into the sunset once again.  Ah, to dream.

Alas, with all this fantasizing, the best I could do was subscribe to Automobile Magazine for 3 years and read it cover to cover.  A most excellent written drive!

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Maple Heart

Every year, end of May, early June, the maple trees on our property rain down thousands of helicopter seeds.  Great quantities accumulate on the roads and pathways, creating a loud grating sound when rearranged by wind, shuffled through by feet and sadly, crushed under tires.

And every year I carefully select the plumpest, most ready seeds and plant them.  Typically I plant 20, or slightly more, my ability to limit myself dwindles as the end of the seed season does.  There is very little soil in the city, and I see potential lost in each seed that fails to find soft ground and perishes to the elements.  I wish I could give every seed the opportunity to experience being a tree, if only for a summer.

Great joy to watch them split their skins and send up miniature versions of their future selves within 3 days of touching soil.  In a few days they are already several inches tall and pushing hard to shed their shells.  I assist sometimes on those whose casings refuse to yield, and instantly two plump cotyledons spread out and seem to sigh.

Those fresh young shoots are ravenous for sunshine and in a short space of time I have my own miniature maple forest on my balcony.  I love to watch them grow.  Being pot bound they seldom get higher than a foot, but they have magnificence holding their leaves proudly out, two by two at 90 degree opposites.

I try to overwinter them, but they are wild things and need the outdoors.  One survived 3 years with me and was about 4 feet tall, but the rest perish.  Currently several have leafed out, which brings me joy commonly reserved for June.  Sadly they don’t make it, no matter how much love and attention I give them.  I dream of having a place to plant them outside, where onlookers would not question my activity or ultimately have me fined and hauled away!

My love for maple trees began at an early age.  At home a lovely sugar maple blessed my bedroom window view.  We had all kinds of trees, plants and flowers on a half acre of land.  Dad rescued a little red maple from a store and planted it on our front lawn.  I was out there every day watering and talking to it until it became one of the largest trees on our lot!

During a storm my bedroom view maple broke, and Dad was out there the next morning mending it.  He was worried I’d lose my tree!  He affixed two large diverging branches together with a bolt and chain so the wind would not further damage it.

My little pot bound home grown maples will never get that large, but I care for them dearly.  Summer is still a long ways off, sunshine scarce and the air in the apartment definitely not spring quality.  All of my plants suffer the winter blahs and some give up.  But I keep a careful eye on those tender young maples and hope they see one more season at least.

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Black and White

My shelves are overflowing with albums filled with black and white photographs of days long gone; of my Mother, Father and family.  Slowly they are being scanned to computer and archived into acid free portfolios. However this is mostly a future retirement project as it is very labor intensive.

A nostalgic love affair for the 1950’s and 60’s photo’s, film and TV has consumed me, a result of too much winter and a longing to return to my youth.  My childhood was a joyful time even in black and white.

I cherished my first camera, a bulky black plastic box with a round view finder, black strap on top and cylindrical film canister you had to load onto a reel.  Suburban flora and fauna captured in still life; squirrels, birds, the pet cat, my Mom’s elaborate flower gardens.  I’ve come a long way since then into the age of digital, but I pine for those black & white film days.  It was bulky, messy and time consuming, but darling.  I miss the hands on work of creating black & white photo’s.

When I took photography at College in the 1970’s we developed our own film.  Definitely a labor of love.  Colour developing required very expensive equipment and none of us could touch it until we mastered the black & white techniques.

I was also quite the TV and movie buff in my early years.  In this booming age of technology I have been fortunate to revisit much of this on DVD.  They do look better on a big LCD screen than the curved grey glass of our old black & white TV!  Many films and series have stood the test of time.  I was raised on long slow films so I can endure them.  Modern films bore me with jumbles of fast moving snap shots of non stop action that lack cohesion.  Nothing can beat a good story, in film, photo or black print on a white page.

On top of my bookcase is a favorite black & white photo of my Brother and Dad ready to leave on a fishing trip.  There is something about the tones and details of the greys, blacks and whites that is so pleasing to my eyes.

This is very strange to love black & white because most of my art works are very bright collages of near neon colour.   And I do love colour photography, yet . . .

There is definitely a mood to black & white that you can’t replicate in colour.  It evokes an emotion that takes me back home.

Perhaps when I retire I will pursue black & white photography once more, maybe even film!  Give my senior years a mood!

I can try to recreate some of my lost youth, but it all seems so long and black and white ago.

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350 DEGREES

350 degrees fahrenheit.

This is the oven red line* for most women cooks of my generation.  We seldom, if ever, cook anything above 350 degrees, except maybe to use the broil setting.

Men are out on the barbeque, flames towering 6 feet over their head, and they are having a glorious time.  We sit in front of the oven and wait.

A rebel cook confided to me she dared to try 425 degrees to cook some cornish hens, on the recommendation of a chef (chefs are allowed to cook at high temps).  Awesome secret revealed!  Hens crisp and brown on outside, tender and moist inside!  Now she frequents the no zone of 425 and up – even to 500!  Go girl!

Despite the fact most ovens can heat up to 500 degrees, we are seldom comfortable in that zone.  Perhaps it is the 451 fear, where paper spontaneously bursts into flames (though this ‘fact’ is not quite true).  Or we are just, so, well, timid.  You know, “It’s okay, I can wait an hour for dinner to cook”, while kids are screaming, husband is grumbling and cat meowing, loudly.  Oh sure, I can waste the only 3 hours I have left at the end of the day preparing food.  Where is that box of cookies?  Fast, delicious and instant!

A microwave does not solve the problem.  Red line is usually a minute.  Then you keep resetting.  3 times, 6 times . . .

This is a harmless, somewhat interesting and useless observation.

But this is MY blog.

*A red line appears on some types of gauges (e.g. tachometer) that indicates a limit you should not surpass too often, even though you can, as it may result in damage to the device and/or you.