Remembrance Day 2014

In Flanders Fields 

In Flanders field the poppies blow 

Between the crosses, row on row, 

That mark our place; and in the sky 

The larks, still bravely singing, fly 

Scarce heard amid the guns below. 

We are the Dead. 
Short days ago 

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, 

Loved and were loved, and now we lie 

In Flanders fields. 

Take up our quarrel with the foe: 

To you from failing hands we throw 

The torch; be yours to hold it high. 

If ye break faith with us who die 

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow 

In Flanders fields.

 ~ Major John McCrae, May 1915 

 The red Flanders’ poppy was first described as a flower of remembrance by Colonel John McCrae (1872-1918), who was a Professor of Medicine at McGill University of Canada before World War One. Colonel McCrae had served as a gunner in the Boer War, but went to France in World War One as a medical Officer with the first Canadian Contingent. At the second battle of Ypres in 1915, while in charge of a small first-aid post, he wrote In Flanders Fields in pencil on a page torn from his dispatch book when a close friend and former student, Lt. Alexis Helmer, was killed in the battle. Helmer was one of 6000 Canadian casualties in just 48 hours. 

Colonel McCrae, while still serving in the field hospital, caught pneumonia and meningitis and died on January 28, 1918 in Boulogne, France. His volume of poetry, In Flanders’ Fields and Other Poems, was published in 1919.

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By way of thanks to those who have served so that we could live in a country where freedom is taken for granted and for the sons and daughters of Canada who serve now so that we may continue to enjoy that freedom. 

In Memory Of

CPL. Nathan Cirillo, October 22, 2014

WO Patrice Vincent, October 20, 2014

Lest We Forget

In This Moment

In This Moment

This is the beauty of today, on the west coast of Canada.

Truly, this is the season that stirs my soul and makes me glad to be alive.

Delicious autumn!

My very soul is wedded to it,

and if I were a bird

I would fly about the earth

 seeking the successive autumns.

 ~George Eliot

I wish you quiet moments in the weeks to come, to sit and watch the leaves change and to soak up the goodness of the season.

The Road Less Travelled

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveller, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

~Robert Frost

*Images shot at Pitt Lake & Davison's Hole, Maple Ridge, BC

Buried Treasure: An Altered Page Collaborative

Seth Apter is at it again! Today he's invited bloggers to join him in reposting Buried Treasure in the form of favourite posts from our blog archives. I have to tell you that it was no mean feat to come up with content for today-I've been blogging for 7 years and had almost 1300 posts to sift through! It took me an entire week, but I've chosen a couple that I hope you'll enjoy. (Again, if you've followed my blog all this time or now if you missed them the first time.)

It's been interesting combing through 7 years of my life. This blog has really become a snapshot in time of my artistic life. It was interesting to read back through it. I actually gained alot of insight about how I've evolved as an artist.

Anyway, here are the two posts I decided to re-share. To discover more buried treasure, click here to see the lists of participating artists on Seth's blog.

*****

Where I Am From

May 5, 2006 

After seeing this post by Amy Powers of Inspire Co., I thought I'd do the "Where I'm From" poetry exercise/meme, using a poem written by George Ella Lyons called "Where I'm From," as a model. Enjoy!

Where I Am From

I am from summers spent throwing stones

into the muddy Red River,

Just to hear them go ker-plunk.

I am from bicycles with banana seats and baskets

And shrill little bells that we rang just because.

I am from hours spent playing at the bear pit

Trying to master walking the high arched wall.

I am from peeling sunburns and mosquito bites,

from tether ball and hopscotch at recess.

I am from Shrine Circuses

and men with fezes riding tiny motorcycles.

I am from watching the Bombers wrapped in blankets

with a windchill factor of -20.

I am from perogies and kolbassa for breakfast,

From the Red River Ex, Folkarama

and The Museum of Man and Nature.

I am from driving 3 hours to swim at Birds Hill

And paying 5 cents for Strawberry marshmallows.

I am from jellied salads and Pick-a-pop,

from the Golden Boy and speaking French,

From Uncle Bob and Marvin the mouse,

and "Beefs & Bouquets" on the radio weekly.

I am from watching spring break up on the Assinaboine

from playing from sun up to sundown,

From trips to Dutch Maid and Bonnie Bell lip gloss,

from scraped knees and stealing crab apples of neighbourhood trees.

I am from growing up in daycare listening to Queen,

from seeing Star Wars when no one knew what it was yet,

from Holly Hobby and Little House on the Prairie

and making god's eyes from yarn and popsicle sticks.

I am from onion topped churches with funny crosses,

from riding buses and being cold to the bone.

I am from the ear shattering sound of winter silence

from disco, polyester turtlenecks and wool hair ties.

I am from lilacs and boulevards,

From knowing my neighbours and

considering them family.

I am from belonging to friends

*****

The Work of My Hands

January 19, 2011

 Today I decided to focus my camera on my hands. My hands have become a big issue in my life because 3 years ago, I lost all the feeling in my hands. It was caused by the damage MS did to my spinal cord. I can now only sense hot, cold and pain and those sensations are blown way out of proportion. (A paper cut feels like I've chopped a finger off, touching something cold or hot hurts.)

 When I first lost the feeling in my hands, it was pretty scary. I was in the process of being diagnosed and so I didn't tell anyone, other than my close friends and family. It took a long time for my brain to adjust. I had to relearn how to do everything you do with your hands, on my own. It was very trying, struggling with even the simplest of tasks. I got frustrated alot and many times I thought I'd have to stop making art, the thought of which was just soul crushing.

If you put on a pair of oven mitts and then spend even an hour trying to go about your normal day, you'd have a small glimpse into what it feels like to live with no feeling in your hands. Try buttoning something or zipping a zipper, brushing your teeth or tying your shoe. Not so simple now, is it?

I feel a sense of awe at how the body trouble shoots the things it can't heal. After about a year, with alot of hard work and persistence, I managed to regain understanding between my brain and my hands. The communication between them is not the same anymore-instead of using a cellphone, they are using two tin cans and a string, but it works. It means I can sit here and type this post. It means I can make art. It might take me a little longer-somethings are still challenging, but I still get the job done.

When I think about my hands, I can't help but think of my Gramps. He suffered multiple strokes over my lifetime. He was a gifted carpenter and cabinet maker. He worked with his hands his whole life, even when he too was robbed of the feeling from neurological damage from the strokes and the effects of diabetes. I think about how hard it was for him and he never complained-he just quietly went about his business. He taught me everything  about resilience, grace and courage.

So that is why I have turned the lense towards my hands today. I wanted to honour how they serve me and in turn serve others in my life. They are powerful tools. The work they do is sacred and vital and I look at them with awe and respect.