Talk Without Speaking

What do you do when a 4 year old stands silently, stares into your eyes, as you lie on your father’s grave? He puts his little hand on the grave itself and you are helpless to do anything, say anything. You watch, transfixed, until he runs away giggling. I have no idea. These sorts of events just don’t happen every day.

And yet some of the visit home to Ottawa was wonderfully familiar. Friends and family close by. The hub of activity of people dropping by. The socialness of the neighborhood. So comforting in the comparison, that I rarely make, to the sirened city.

Walking through the woods I am disturbed and amazed by the swallowed paths; I mistakenly thought they would last forever but it is mostly my memory now that allows me to follow them.

And as slow as the pace is here sometimes it goes by far too fast. But, don’t get me wrong, it was a great visit home. Swimming in the darkness with the clearest night stars overhead. Dancing a sweat storm with amazing friends. Getting shot by a pellet gun by my brother…..yes, it’s all just like old times, isn’t it?

take a deep breath don’t have to drown in sorrow
take a deep breath for a new tomorrow
- Tone Poem, Midnight Oil