Intersection of Timelines

Intersection of Timelines?
The air smelled fresh on a cool but sunny Autumn day in Kirkland Lake. There, the sky can be more beautifully, vibrantly blue than in so many places I’ve been.
That day my husband was working out of the New Liskeard office of a company where he was employed as an insurance claims adjuster. Our teenage children were both at school in Englehart where we lived. I decided to visit my parents’ home in K.L. after experiencing an unusual feeling of nostalgia.
It was a perfect day for family tea and conversation, then a solitary walk through familiar places. I marvelled at the clarity and blueness of the sky as I strolled the same streets I’d walked so many times before. The familiarity of those streets and sidewalks felt so safely ‘comfortable’ and ‘predictable’. I sipped those feelings like a cup of favoured tea as I came to the intersection of three streets close to my former home.
As I began to cross the road, I saw something that remains vivid in memory to this very day.
I stopped to watch as a car drove by. Waiting for a car to go by so as to cross a road without cross walks is nothing out of the ordinary but this was different. As this vehicle slowed down at the intersection, I faced the driver’s side with a clear view of the man driving. He seemed completely oblivious to my presence as I waved enthusiastically to acknowledge my husband at the wheel of that car just a few feet away. I thought ‘How strange! He’s supposed to be in New Liskeard today.’ Just then I noticed that he was wearing a different coloured suit. Gray, not the navy blue suit he wore when he left that morning. ‘Why would he need to change suits?’ The car held a surprise for me too. It was the same make, model, and colour of our car but as it passed I clearly saw that the license plate was not ours!
I stood at that intersection transfixed with overwhelming feelings of bewilderment, and all the ‘what ifs’ of past and present choices speeding through my mind. Years later, after watching the movie ‘What The Bleep Do We Know’ about Quantum Physics, I wondered if I had played the role of ‘the Observer’ witnessing a ‘Timeline’ of different life choices on that truly strange Autumn day. I wonder…
(A true tale that still puzzles the family—Shelley Wilson)


May your Spirit shine brightly, Shelley

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How I Became A Tree

Was it fairy dust and magic wands?The Spirit of Trees in the park had called me to a solitary walk among them. I was happily enchanted by their beauty and strength as I walked past or stopped to gaze up and touch them with tenderness and reverence for Life in them. I was about to leave the park when I decided to stop for a drink of my bottled water. As my thirst was quenched, I noticed a grey Squirrel several yards away watching me. I became still and silently observed its fearless, direct approach with fascination. Without hesitation the Squirrel began climbing one of my unmoving legs.

Well, I didn’t plan to become a Tree, but there I was standing silently among the beautiful Trees of a park with a grey Squirrel climbing up my leg. It was clearly intent on reaching my upper limbs and head.

I reacted by swiftly bending to gently stop the Squirrel’s ascent with an offering of bottled water at the level of my knee. The confused creature paused, looked into my smiling eyes, then quickly backed down. It showed no interest in the water as it scampered a few feet away to stare at me curiously.
My body felt immediate and grateful relief from release of the grip of sharp claws. I had imagined a graffiti of scratches on exposed skin of my trunk and face. I began to tremble and chuckle at the same time.
Now two male Mallard Ducks waddled closely before me. One stopped within a few inches of my sandalled feet. He looked up without the slightest sign of fear or caution. Like the Squirrel and I, the Duck stood rooted in silent wonder.
After a brief eternity, the Duck rejoined his companion.
I was amazed. ‘I have no food to offer’ I thought. ‘Why are they acting like this?’
Then I recalled the previous weekend at a ‘Roots’ gathering to support the Ancient Forest Alliance. It was a mix of instructive talks about Nature and Energy, guided meditations, music, forest walks, Tree hugging, sharing perspectives, plant and artisan sales. I bought a bottle of herbal oil mixed with the Spring resin of Poplar buds for medicinal skin care. Applying it with another mixture of cream containing organic Bee products for my face, hands, and feet became part of my daily self-care. ‘Ah, of course, I must smell like a Tree!’ I mused.
This memory led me to pondering about ‘Tree Energy’ in my stroll through Beacon Hill Park. I’d lovingly touched several old Trees with a silent blessing for each. I even asked one Tree to kindly impart some of its ‘Tree Energy’ so as to calm and clear unwanted ’empathic Energies’ I’d recently experienced. A peaceful stillness breezed through me, leaving a grounded and serene visceral feeling. This happened minutes before I encountered Squirrel and Duck. It was ‘medicine’ and ‘communion’ with Nature at the same time. Everything is Energy.
Did I look like a Tree? Well, before I decided on my walk to the park that morning, I chose to wear taupe brown pants, a top coloured with muted shades of green, and a Spruce green vest. They just felt ‘right’ somehow.
Looking back now, I have to laugh. I’d worn Tree colours, Tree scent, and Tree Energy. That’s how I became a Tree.

(Earth Day 2016)
(a true tale)

Sent from Outlook for iPhone

Fragile Thread


Fragile Thread (my digital composition)

fragile_thread

Thoughts of you come to mind. I wonder how you are.
We haven’t communicated in so long. Too much time and distance…
I sit by the patio door, now open, with a cup of tea resting on the table by my chair.
I am silent and quietly aware.
A gentle breeze flows in. I know its presence through my chilled skin
and the sight of leaves shivering on the vine and shrubs outside.
Now sunlight informs me of a fragile spider thread. It’s attached to the vine at one end
but no longer connected at the other.
Fascinated, I watch this fragile thread as the breeze lifts and carries it directly to me.
Ah, I see!

short story by

Shelley Wilson
July, 2014

 

May your Spirit shine brightly, Shelley

Happy Birthday

 

(Fragile Thread-  my digital music composition)

 

Happy Birthday!!!!

**My Four Wishes For You**

*May you see what others cannot see.

(Know the Oneness connecting all Life.)

*May you hear what others cannot hear.

(Observe your continual conversation with Life.)

*May you live a long life.

(Let go of judgments to embrace Love and Respect

for every stage of Life in your ever-changing body.)

*May you seek the powers of self-mastery, excel in

your artistry, and rejoice in the beautiful freedoms

of ‘imperfections’.

(Feel the true joy of co-creating happy imperfections

with your Creator, Life Itself.)

Best Wishes,

*Shelley*

May, 2012

May your Spirit shine brightly,Shelley

True Love

 

(Fragile Thread-  my digital music composition)

 

True Love

Love is the highest mountain

of timeless Wisdom,

the deepest valley

of Reason and Common Sense.

Love is the unclouded sunshine

of inspired Intelligence,

the clear, renewing stream

of Unselfish Caring,

the universal sea

of Joy In Sharing.

Love is boundless, glorious,

and ever-triumphant Life

expressed in countless ways,

even beyond our human days.

 

February, 2008

 

To Bee Or Not To Bee

To Bee Or Not To Bee
I had supper in the screenhouse outside with Cynthia, Chelsea, and Mom. Just after we finished eating, a large bumblebee flew into the tent in the middle of our conversation about personally experiencing ‘claustrophobia’. The bee buzzed around the walls of the tent looking for a way back out. Did it feel a little ‘claustrophobic’ in there? I wondered. Someone said “Kill it!” as they evacuated for fear of being stung. I stayed, saying “No, don’t kill a bee. We need them!” In a few minutes it found its way back out, no doubt due to my coaxing directions. ha ha Then everyone re-entered the tent and sat down. I was overcome with a wave of tiredness, so excused myself for a nap. A few hours later, I awakened in a remarkable state of awareness. I was lying on my side. I felt like my head and neck were plugged into a high voltage energy source that increased in intensity and sound volume as I accepted the experience with gratitude. I can only compare the sound to the buzzing of countless bees. It was most peculiar!!! This was different from my meditation experiences of blissful ecstasy. What could it bee??? Talk about ‘getting a buzz’!!! ha ha I wonder if this is what the bees hear when they get together??? I thanked the bumblebee for its unexpected visit.
(May 3, 2006)

An Old Photograph

An Old Photograph
 
An old photograph resurfaced after many years in my closet ‘Collection of Artifacts and a Myriad Mysteries’. It was a picture I took of my husband, Roger, and our two children, Alissa and Aaron, both in their pre-teens.
There was nothing extraordinary or ‘special’ about our little family, but now and then we glimpsed the special magic of Nature. Perhaps it was just our receptive appreciation of Nature that often attracted messengers of the wilderness into our lives.
Looking at that photo, I recalled the journey of that first of July, ‘Canada Day’. My memory became more vivid, feeling the sizzling heat of the day and my aching muscles as we winched and coaxed our aluminum boat and fishing gear up the challenging portage. It was a slow, exhausting process that grounded our visions of carefree relaxation floating on the lake beyond. We all pitched in to make it through that frustrating, mosquito-annoying, hot and arduous struggle. I remember taking sips of cold water mixed with my sweat and a little fly-repellant, and being just too tired to care. I remember thinking The Eternal Question—‘Why are we here?’ Then, free of the hill and burden of ‘details’ we’d brought, we were finally back on water enjoying the luxury of a working outboard-motor. As we sped along, I thanked God for the millionth time and all the ingenious humans who’d ever invented labour-saving machinery. I have never been sophisticated enough to take such things for granted.
An hour or so later of cooling breeze and boat vibrations, we decided that we’d ‘arrived’ at our unknown destination. The lightened cooler was opened once again, and we hungrily devoured our sandwiches. Mine also had the added flavours of sweat and fly-dope and fish bait. I can taste the memory even now.
Shortly after our meal was eaten and our bait was put to work, we had a visit from an unexpected guest. A messenger of Nature surfaced near our boat to thrill us with a clearly communicating display, soundly slapping its large, flat tail on the water. Everything is truly the meaning one gives to it, and from our welcoming perspective we interpreted the warning sign to be the ‘Canada Day Beaver’s Salute’. The timing was perfect! We had worked so hard to get to that ‘special place’ of quiet peace and floating freedom, like the beaver who ‘greeted’ us. I understood the natural warning of ‘Don’t anyone even think of taking these values away from this place!’ That’s when beavers shape-shift into fighting creatures much more aggressive and fierce. A sanctuary of peace and freedom is what Canadian families, and so many individual Canadians, have worked so hard to create, to continually maintain, and to gratefully enjoy. We salute all who share such values and warn those who don’t.
Then I thought, recalling that extraordinary/ordinary event on ‘Canada Day’—‘For however long we Canadians choose to unite as a country, may Canada’s national pride aways be tempered by a healthy humility as it grows to be a co-creator of a higher vision of World Unity. That isn’t too much for any Global Citizen to hope for, n’est-ce pas?’
I placed the old photograph back into my closet ‘Collection of Artifacts and a Myriad Mysteries’ with a wistful smile.
April 27, 2006

The Cow

 
With one artful brush of her cow’s tail
an annoying mosquito was hurled
with its poison through the air—
only to return with countless others
eager to critique her form
in hopes of drawing blood.
Despite these minor, frustrating attacks,
her life was a rhythmic harmony
in tune with Life’s pastoral symphony
in which she played her own small part.
As a participant contentedly standing in the imagery
of country landscape photos and paintings,
she lived her days in gentle quietude
and peaceful contemplations.
She savoured sunshine and stillness,
yet found endless fascination
in the sweeping dramas of storms.
She loved the light of early morning,
the vibrant green pastures of Spring rains,
the still waters of the pond,
the well-worn paths to the welcoming barn.
She loved resting in calm communion
with the Spirit of Nature, the joy of oneness,
the creative process of eating—
chewing and cud-chewing
of food and thoughts cows think.
Just a common cow, she vainly regarded
her black and white markings
as being special and beautiful
and regarded her milk as being a uniquely fine gift.
Like a nun, she prayed to be forgiven
such vanity and pride when the habit of immodesty
covered and hid her better qualities.
Unlike a nun, she looked at creation
from widely different angles and perspectives.
She knew that cows had been used universally
as a symbol for worship by many humans
and as a symbol for mockery by many.
Such reverence and ridicule she faced
with equanimity mixed with bewilderment
and a healthy sense of humour.
Perhaps she’d be a whale in her next life.
Perhaps a frog.
She had a strong mothering instinct,
even toward those human creatures
who’d arrogantly ‘bought’ her at auction.
She lovingly worked to nurture them
with her flow of desired milk.
She gave freely and wholeheartedly,
celebrating Life with this self-giving.
Shy and mild-mannered most times,
she was a pleasingly good-natured cow
despite the occasional naughty kicks
she gave at milking times—
and the occasional bellowing of discontent
whenever boredom weighed heavily on her fat hours.
More than not, she was content—
not from expectation but gratitude
for the wonder of her life.
She so enjoyed the creative process
she saw in her own nature,
and the comforting communion
which utterly filled her quieted mind
and heart to overflowing expressions.
Her thoughts poured out like streams of milk.
Her milk poured out like streams of thought.
Some animals responded to her
with contemptuous or jealous eyes.
Some gazed at her as if she were
a garden statuary inspiration.
She looked at herself one day
in the pensive pond,
staring in humble reflection.
There she saw all creation in which she was absorbed—
all creation as being a divine, operatic play
evolving act by act
in a glory of expressed perfection.
The cow then lifted her head heavenward,
heart rejoicing,
and in tune with her own nature
voiced a truly happy moood.
April,1992 revised May,2004 February,2006

The Loon

 
A black and white vision of solitude on a lonely lake,
the loon moved silently on the still water
surrounded by the mysteries of the early morning mists.
A battered canoe glided into sight,
piloted by a human male whose appearance
likewise declared a love of wilderness and solitude.
The man’s searching eyes disclosed
a shining clarity of thought miscalled madness
for want of understanding by those who judged him so.
Society had shunned him as he had shunned
the mad cruelties and rigid intolerance
of outdated, unevolved social structures.
The loon instantly recognized a companion of spirit.
With wings outstretched in a universal sign
of respectful acknowledgment and acceptance,
he voiced his shrill, reverberating salute…
The loud, clarion call haunted the visionary atmosphere
through which the poet followed his quest.
While alarming more fearful creatures, this call
stimulated the predatory instincts in other hungry listeners.
Inspired by the amazing power of this peculiar poetry,
the human echoed the lyrical call with gratitude.
Then, in silence, the loon moved further up the lake
exploring the mysterious mists beyond—
the mists he loved and could not fear.
April,1992 revised May, 2004 February, 2006

The Rabbit

 
A small and insignificant wild rabbit
quietly hopped about the challenging landscape,
refusing, when he chose, to limit his free movement
by the border fences of rigid human rules.
Passing through religious and political barriers
with the ease of a ghost,
he ignored the forbidding signs
and psychological warfare
aimed at freedom-loving creatures like him.
Overcoming his natural timidity,
he charged with determined courage of conviction
up the ominous, fortified ridge of man’s intimidation.
There he took his small but spiritually significant
stand for freedom’s victory.
Upon the ridge, he rested in silent thought.
Then he saw a greater victory head.
He filled his humble heart and mind
with an all-encompassing and all-forgiving love—
even for those tiny, malicious mosquitos
and their unending invective attacks.
The lush garden lay invitingly before him
and he rushed to his reward…
April, 1992 revised May,2004

The Mouse

 
He considered himself most fortunate to have found
a place where he could comfortably study and analyze
the peculiar curiosities of human nature.
The room was decorated in all the cliches
of impressive psychiatric offices.
Well concealed, the tiny mouse sat quietly observing
and studiously noting minute details
of human actions and reactions to the varied stimuli
of a continuous flow of words and gestures.
People moved into, around, and out of the busy office
like scheduled storms in varying stages of intensity.
He peered into the heavily burdened caseload of patients
who came and went, some with neuroses or psychoses
diagnosed, misdiagnosed, or inventively imagined.
Taking profound interest in the intimate revelations,
he silently witnessed the mental and emotional
vivisection of troubled human lives.
He observed the cautious procedures
operating on human hearts and minds—
the patient, searching probes into memories and desires.
He recognized the danger and despair of deepest cuts—
the help and hope of healings sometimes sighted.
Despite his respect for the profession,
th little mouse wondered if all the world’s visionaries,
saints, prophets, and ‘just plain folk’
conversant with God throughout history
would be diagnosed as mentally ill,
as delusional or egomaniacs at best.
With serious amusement, he considered
how they’d probably be judged on the modern couch-altar
across from all those authoritative diplomas
of today’s Scientific Man…
April,1992 revised May, 2004 February, 2006

The Cat

 
Peering through a stall opening in the old barn,
the tom cat watched as human tears
fell on a sickly, dying cow.
He’d seen many a birth and death down on the farm.
With no heart for compassion himself,
he focused instead on a hunt for his favourite prey.
The timid mouse entertained his curious interest
for a few agonizing minutes of clawed vivisection
before her death.
Life here was a demanding education in survival skills,
a harsh, strenuous reality compared with his former
luxurious life-style in suburbia.
There, he was hugged and petted with countless
caresses by loving human hands.
There, he was Nature tamed, gently reassuring
and prettily packaged for proud ownership.
Constant human indulgence and flattery
made him lazy and vain, lounging in regal splendour
until he felt like engaging in feline courtship rivalries
or teasing leashed dogs or pouncing on careless squirrels.
He passed the long and dreary winters
play-hunting catnip toys or hiding yarn balls.
He was so bored with the easy life,
the yawn of tidily undramatic lawns,
the sigh of plush rugs and cozy chairs,
the routine feeding of tame conformity,
and the false pretense of independence.
He sniffed the air one summer morning
and followed his adventurous instincts
into an exhausting journey of self-exile.
Discovering vestiges of wilderness,
the farm country, and the old barn,
he traded creature comforts for deeper needs.
April,1992 revised April,2004 February, 2006