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One Smart Christmas Cookie

Posted in Compositions, tagged , , , , , , , on December 22, 2025| 5 Comments »

I’ve been entrusted with a very special gift.  Papa asked me to take care of it for him. It’s a gift for my Nana.

We decorated their house today for Christmas.  Well; Nana and I decorated – Papa sat in his big easy chair and grumbled in his best hum drum Grinch like renditions.

Papa’s attitude doesn’t seem to bother Nana.  She’s got him figured out.  She absolutely has his number. She’s known the key to him for a very long time.  Let’s just say, she’s one smart Christmas cookie.

My Papa has a loud booming voice. His voice can be frightening if you don’t know him like we do.  Nana explained to us Grandchildren a long time ago that Papa was like the marshmallow man – hard and crusty on the outside and soft and mushy on the inside.  So, we aren’t fooled by Papa’s loud cranky act anymore.  Like Nana, we all know that he’s just a big old softie.

“I don’t know why you put yourself through this every year,” he harrumphed to Nana after grouchily ordering her to move out of the way of the television because she was blocking his viewing pleasure.

“I like the extra light and glitter from the tree,” Nana replied demurely.  “Not to mention the vibrant Christmas colors and ambience it brings during the darkness of winter,” she smiled.  “Feel the love,” Nana giggled as she threw and imaginary air kiss in his direction.  Papa shifted uncomfortably in his chair and pretended to be irritated by Nana’s gesture. Their drama made me laugh.  As grumpy as Papa acts, he is enamored with Nana!

To be honest, the small living room was a disaster.  Boxes of ornaments, ribbon and tinsel littered the coffee table, couch and floor.  My Grandparent’s two dogs were curled up on what seemed the only available space of carpet and their cat lay beneath their artificial tree in the corner. The tree at the moment was barren other than twinkling colorful lights.

It seemed like disorganized confusion to me but Nana knew what lay stored in every box.  I was excited to help decorate their tree.

“This is the box we’ll start with,” Nana grinned opening an old shoe box like it was a pirate trunk holding treasure.

Just then, the oven timer sounded.

My Nana is an expert at multi-tasking.  She was baking and doing laundry while decorating the house with me for Christmas.

“I’ll be right back,” she chirped cheerily as she floated over the sleeping dogs without disturbing so much as one hair on their backs then around the myriad of boxes littering her path to the kitchen with nimble agility that surprised me.  My eyes could have deceived me but for a second, I was sure she had wings! I blinked though and they disappeared. It could only have been my imagination.

The house smelled divine. (If there’s a heaven, I’m sure it smells like Nana’s house. No matter the time of year, there’s always an alluring, mouth watering scent in the air.)  During Christmas season, it smells sweet, spicy and mint chocolaty with undertones of smoky pine.  Earlier today, Nana had baked ginger snaps and shortbread cookies.  Now, she was pulling butter tarts out of the oven.  She’d confided in me earlier that she wasn’t fond of butter tarts because they are too sweet for her liking, but that they were a favorite of Papa’s so she made them for him as a special treat every Christmas.

Butter tarts have raisons.

 I don’t like raisons.

Speaking of raisons, you have to watch my Nana.  She is extremely kind with an excellent sense of humor but can be a devious trickster. Being a smart cookie, you never see Nana’s pranks coming!  Let me explain:

One time, when I was younger and visiting, Nana gave me some cookies for a snack. Before I tried one, I asked what type they were. She said they were dried grape cookies.  I do like grapes!  They’re delicious.  So, I tried a bite. The cookie was delectable. Part way through my second cookie, Nana asked if I knew what a dried grape was.  Being an innocent, I said, “No.”  You can’t imagine my horror when Nana, smiling from ear to ear, told me that a dried grape was the same as a raison!  Then, she had the audacity to say that is important to try ingredients in different ways because you might like it one way but not another, and at least now, I would know that I liked raison cookies!

Another time, she got me to taste straight cocoa before she mixed it into icing sugar for a cake she was frosting. It was disgusting, bitter and dry. When she tried to get me to taste the chocolate frosting, my eyes bulged and I shook my head.  Again, she grinned from ear to ear and actually started to laugh as she tried to convince me that this spoonful would taste good. I didn’t really trust her but I tried a taste.  The icing sugar had transformed the cocoa into something wonderful.  Still, I’m not sure I’ve forgiven her for the bitter cocoa tasting and, I don’t like raisons in butter tarts!  There are a few in our family who don’t, so Nana bakes a special batch for us without ‘dried grapes,’ thank goodness!

I can see from where I’m standing near the Christmas tree that Nana has the tarts out of the oven and has placed them on the cooling rack.  Now, she’s heading to the laundry room to put wet clothes in the dryer.  There is a door going outside from the laundry room and apparently the dogs think she is taking them for a walk. The living room has erupted into chaos as both dogs try to beat the other to the door first, trampling the cat who decided it should check out the new eats in the kitchen along with Papa.

Looks like Papa lost the trek to the kitchen. Their big lab just bumped him as he was about to stand-up knocking him off balance and pushing him back into his easy chair.  He’s perturbed and trying very hard not to cuss in front of me.

I can’t help it.  It’s comedy at its finest.  I burst out laughing.  “I’m sorry, Papa. It really looked funny.”

Papa really looked grouchy now.  He had his best Grinch face on.

Nana re-emerged from the laundry room completely unaware of the chaos.  She then arranged some cookies and tarts onto a plate for our taste testing pleasure.

When she came back into the living room, she placed the baked goodies on a coffee table near Papa.

“Careful, the tarts are still pretty warm,” she warned.  “I’d have put more of the shortbread cookies out but it seems someone couldn’t resist them.”

Papa finally smiled.  “You really do make the best shortbread cookies I’ve ever tasted,” he gushed without guilt.

“Yes,” she chided.  “I’ve found the key to your heart.  It’s your stomach! That’s the last of the shortbread cookies and it’s the second batch.  Now, I’m out of butter and can’t make more unless we get some groceries.”

“We’ll go later,” Papa motioned in my direction. “I have a bit of last minute shopping to do still.”

“That sounds great.  I’ll make a small list for you to pick-up and I’ll finish decorating while you’re gone,” Nana nodded in agreement, “but, I’d like to get the ornaments on the tree before you leave.”

Nana smiled as she pulled a little ornament out of the old shoe box.  “This has always been a favorite of mine. Your Dad made this when he was in Elementary school.” She held the little ornament gently.  It was a tiny woolen mouse with felt ears lying in a hazel nut shell. As she hung it on the tree I looked inside the box to see many of the little trinkets and ornaments made by us grandchildren as well.  Most of them I recognized as they decorated the tree yearly like the little felt snowman and penguin or the Plaster of Paris hand prints of each grandchild painted then hung with a ribbon.  A variety of angels, glittering balls, snowflakes and icicles lay inside the box along with bells.

“I like to put the bells close to the bottom of the tree,” Nana advised.  “The cat’s favorite spot is under the tree while its up and she plays with them. I like hearing her make the bells ring. Did you know that some people believe that when a bell rings, a new angel is born?  I think we can use as many of them as we can get.” Nana rang the little bell furiously.  “I believe there are multitudes of angels around at Christmas time. They help to open people’s hearts and spread love.  Can you feel them? I can!”

“Did you and Nana ever have real trees?” I asked Papa trying to involve him in the decorating process.

He and Nana exchanged knowing glances and started to laugh.

“Our Charlie Brown trees,” they said in unison.

“Yes, we did,” Papa shared.

“Every one of them had character,” Nana laughed.

“All of them had some type of defect or huge branchless holes! We never managed to get the perfect tree.” Papa stated mater-of-factly,   “But, your Nana managed to make them look pretty good!”

“The first year we got married,” Nana shared, “we didn’t have a lot of money so we had no tree stand. Instead, we had a bucket filled with rocks to stand it in but it kept falling over. Finally, I got some string wound it around the tree and tacked the string to the wall.  That tree had more than one bald spot which I filled with tinsel. It actually turned out to be quite beautiful.”

“Then there’s the year I ran over an evergreen tree at the end of our driveway with the semi-trailer,” Papa shook his head and rolled his eyes. “It was flattened on one side with no branches but your Nana being who she is took an ax and finished cutting it down. Then she drug it up the driveway to the house and decorated it for Christmas.”

“Well, I couldn’t see killing another tree when you’d already mowed one down!” Nana defended.  “Besides, that turned out to be the most magical tree we ever had.  I put the flattened side toward the wall.  You couldn’t really tell…”

“Yes you could!” Papa argued incredulous.

Nana’s eyes sparkled and she started to giggle.  “Do you remember the presents around that tree by the time Christmas came? And, we had so much company. It was such a memorable year. That was the most magical little tree we ever had.  Plus, I believe that’s the last real tree we had.  After that, we got an artificial one because out here on the prairie, trees are hard to grow so I’ve come to appreciate the ones that grow everywhere else.  It’s such a shame to cut them down.”

An unusual softness seemed to envelop Papa as we shared memories of their Charlie brown trees and past Christmas’ not to mention that he seemed to really be enjoying the baking within his easy reach.

I watched as he wolfed down another butter tart eyes alight with every bite of the sweet morsel.  Nana being the smart cookie she is knew full well what the key to Papa was.  His hum drum Grinch behavior had never fooled her for an instant.

Finally, Papa and I left Nana and made the 45 minute jaunt to town for groceries and a bit of last minute shopping.  They live on a farm away from the hectic towns and cities where the landscape is pristine with clean fallen snow. It’s extremely pretty and I enjoy the drive into town. It’s fun shopping with Papa.  He buys in bulk and you never really know what he’s going purchase – groceries aside.

We arrived in the nearest town glistening with snow, lights and festive Christmas decorations.  People milled along sidewalks and clustered here and there perusing store windows before entering.  Papa and I hit the grocery store and quickly amassed Nana’s shopping list then we headed for the mall.

Strained, rushed shoppers clamored along the hallway mindlessly bumping into one another.  We just drifted along with the flow until something caught Papa’s eye and he stopped.

“Let’s go in here,” he pointed.  The store was bright and adorned from ceiling to floor with Christmas glamour.  Papa went straight to the counter and spoke to the clerk who then retrieved the item Papa requested from a backroom in the store.   I was surprised at the speed of the purchase.  As well, it was the end of the shopping excursion.

“Did you know,” Papa asked on the way out of the mall, “that God put angels on earth without wings so that they could blend in and not be discovered?”

“No, I didn’t,” I answered confused.

“Your Nana’s an angel. Even after 40 years, she still has the key to my heart,” he whispered. “If you catch her in the light just right, you can see her wings.” He confided in awe.

When we got back to the truck, Papa handed me the gift. “I’m going to trust you to take care of this gift for me until Christmas. I commissioned it for your Nana months ago.  This will be our little secret.” He opened the gift box to reveal its contents. Lying inside on a soft bed of cotton was a small golden key embossed with wings shaped like a heart at its crown. Down the stem of the key words were engraved, “For my angel.”

I’ve been entrusted with a very special gift.  Papa asked me to take care of it for him. It’s a gift for my Nana but it’s an actual key to Papa’s heart.  This gift giving season is going to be epic.

As Papa bent over to start the ignition, the light touched his head just right. That’s when it happened – I saw his halo!

May you all have a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!

 

Thank-you for following, reading, sharing and commenting – The Trefoil Muse

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635 Days

Posted in Compositions, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , on December 1, 2025| 12 Comments »

After 635 days, I’m not sure where to start. 

It’s probably best to start with an apology.

As the author of a blog, I had an obligation to advise you, about my unplanned absence.  Instead, I unintentionally ghosted you. It was inexcusable.  Can you find it in your hearts to forgive me for the length of my inexplicable sabbatical?

Can I even pen something you would care to read after that length of time?

I feel like an imposter sitting in front of this computer screen; once again the author with trembling fingertips hovering over the keyboard while anticipating the excitement of unleashing words.  I am having trouble settling in. Words didn’t abandon me. Instead, they were compiling day after day only waiting for the moment I would allow them to flow forward onto the page. It’s like an impromptu meeting which leads to an unsolicited script.  Where do I start?

I’ve often been told that I have a gift with words. To me, writing isn’t a gift.  It’s an actual calling.  There’s something inside me like a magnet that draws me to put words on a blank piece of paper. I literally cannot help myself.  Will this be a gifted piece of literature or an utter failure?

Could I actually be an imposter? At the moment, I definitely have imposter syndrome!

I’ve been missing in action for almost two years as a publishing author. Maybe I’ve lost the knack – another storyteller vanishing quietly into the ethos of history.  I hadn’t intended to be gone so long while pursuing other interests and for that, I owe you more than a deeply profound, heartfelt apology.

I owe you words, a vocabulary of them. 

Holy, 635 days! That’s nearly two years worth of compiled experiences and observations to share! Let’s see if I still have what it takes to tell a story.

Many of you who follow, ‘The Trefoil Muse,’ would like to know where I’ve been, how I am and why I literally disappeared into an unknown abyss without explanation – no words at all. It’s a very strange scenario for a writer.

I’m not sure I can explain it fully. Honestly, it’s a mystery. Even to me!

I didn’t just wander down a path less travelled. Rather, it was more of a migration toward something new and exciting.

The avenue I decided to pursue required me to spread my wings and fly in an advanced, innovative technological field. Needless to say, I am one of the first female pilots of Commercial RPAS (Remotely Piloted Aircraft Systems) in Canada.  I am very proud of this fact.  However, the field is new and ever-changing with a surprising amount of competition.  Dedication to ones flying skill is paramount not to mention the wherewithal it takes to stay on par with ongoing programming changes.  Technology advances at a maniacal speed. Flying a RPAS requires in depth knowledge with quick thinking, catlike prowess when focusing and huge ongoing learning curves at all times coupled with moments of extreme frustration. Despite all efforts to the contrary, let’s face it, we cannot control Mother Nature! While I excel in the technological field, it is overtly time consuming as it can take 24/7 commitment which leaves little time for other interests. Anyone now days can understand the ups and downs regarding technology, especially if you live and work in a rural area, so I won’t drone on about it.  The short story is that I burned out to the point of unplugging and not wanting to see a computerized anything.

There is nothing worse than dreading a job you once enjoyed. 

The other side of that is that if you enjoy what you are doing, it isn’t a job at all. 

My brain needed a rest. 

I needed to unplug from technology.

It turned into a very healthy choice.  It’s been awesome! The break allowed me to pursue other interests and hobbies.  I experimented with new mediums. I’ve learned that I really like to work with wood; whittling, relief carving, pyrography, weaving and painting.  There’s something about the smell of wood, not to mention the excitement I feel when watching my project come to fruition. It is only akin to the feeling I get when having written something extraordinary to share with you.

I have missed my blog.  I miss painting with words and weaving sentences into stories.  But, most of all, I miss you!

This is the six hundredth and thirty fifth day.

Can I still write something you would like to read? 

I look out the window and see a magical wonderland.

Will you forgive me fully if I write something beautiful now?

Snow is falling today. It’s the type of glittering snowfall that makes me feel nostalgia. White feathery flakes are drifting down from the heavens. They are thick, heavy flakes; laden with moisture.  It always makes me wonder if Angels are molting when feathery thick snowfall like this falls upon our barren dry land near the end of a mild autumn; it’s almost like it was heaven sent. Perhaps it is the answer to this prairie dwellers prayer.

We need moisture out here on the Alberta prairie, any moisture we got earlier this year dried up long ago then we entered back into drought like conditions.  Snow is a welcomed sight to my weary eyes. It gives me something to look at other than dirt, yellow grass and barren trees.  I am enjoying how the outside world looks covered in a downy quilt of white snow.

Surprisingly, a flock of Canadian geese just flew low over the house – dark, shadow like figures with undulating wings cascading through the milky atmospheric haze.  It appears that this particular flock of geese is having trouble navigating.  Instead of their typical V shape, they are a honking chaotic mass of disorganization flapping crazily along a now white colored landscape as if blinded by heavy falling snow.  Everything about this scenario seems unusual including the fact that these geese have not migrated south yet. They appear to be lost.  

My Canadian geese sightings have been scarce this year and the few gaggles that I have seen are similar to this sighting. The flocks seem confused – there is a lot of flapping and honking but, none are listening to the other while crowding each other so closely that they are blinded to what lies ahead. Everyone wants to be a leader but nobody actually wants to lead.  Proving that just because you want to lead doesn’t mean that you can or should – bad leaders are dangerous.  My hesitant guess with this flock is that they are lacking an appropriate leader which has caused chaos. Eventually, out of chaos comes clarity.  May a qualified or experienced leader appear at the helm soon to guide our feathered Canadians home in a successful migration. 

Unusual sightings and observations have meanings to a mystic or muse such as myself.  The symbolic quality of a bird such as goose equals storytelling, fertility and fidelity, symbol of eight and infinity.

So here I am as an author magically appearing on day 635, feeling nostalgic as I watch the snow fall while observing geese and painting with words to create another storytelling extravaganza with an infinite number of words – a vocabulary of them.

Will I be back or will I just disappear again? 

The symbol of Goose is 8.  I will commit to publishing at least eight new stories in the upcoming year. The symbol 8 also signifies infinity….  (There may be a plethora of words coming for you to enjoy.)

Thank-you all for your loyal support, past and present – even during my neglectful absence I noticed my stats were active.  I appreciate all of the visitors to my blog and hope you continue to enjoy my penmanship in the future!

Again, please forgive me for my lengthy absence!

Thank-you for following, reading, sharing and commenting – The Trefoil Muse

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Life

Posted in Short Stories, tagged , , , , , , , , , on February 20, 2024| 5 Comments »

Life is a little like threading a needle.

Sometimes, you just need to stab the eye of the beast before you can proceed – then you can make, mend or decorate with stitches to create a thing of beauty.

Thank-you for following, reading, sharing and commenting – The Trefoil Muse

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Happy Valentine’s

Posted in Short Stories, tagged , , , , , , , , on February 14, 2024| 7 Comments »

Thank-you for following, reading, sharing and commenting – The Trefoil Muse

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Wildflower Wisdom

Posted in Winged Messages, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , on August 1, 2023| 8 Comments »

 

 

Move towards your dreams with confidence,

Take action to transform them into reality,

Growth from seed to bloom takes effort,

Gather the essence of your dream’s bouquet,

And, share your inspiration with others,

Such is the bounty of a wildflower’s wisdom,

Smile, it’s a beautiful day!

 

Thank-you for following, reading, sharing and commenting – The Trefoil Muse

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HOLLOW

Posted in Lessons of the Drum, tagged , , , , , , , , , on July 25, 2023| 11 Comments »

Ahead the mountains were coming together; a ridge joining the long arc of the ice-topped northern range was closing in on the eroded southern highlands, which had become sharper, higher and icier, until they were separated by only a narrow gorge.

Elsa stood in the center of it all, despondent; blindly oblivious to the magic about her.  Crisp air bit at her face and forced wayward tears from her vacant eyes while icy fingers tousled and knotted her hair.  Three crows perched on a west facing tree-line where they silently observed the morose woman. She ignored them.  To her, crows were just a stark reminder of heart wrenching days, weeks, months and hell; years of loss. 

Birth, life, death, rebirth… she’d dealt with too much death.  All of the loss – change she corrected herself; had left her empty – hollow.  Nothing of her old self remained.  Even the grass around her was dead.  Extreme summer heat and lack of moisture resulted in massive forest fires. Any greenery not devoured by fire lay neglected and clung desperately to life as it choked on ash and smoke among the charred remains of a once vibrant forest. Yet, there ahead of her hidden in the narrow gorge lay a stretch of green land.  It felt as if she had travelled a lifetime to arrive at this spot and start anew once again.

Elsa gazed about with grainy red eyes.  The smoke made her eyes burn like they’d been scalded.

Fires on the northern range continued.  They’d caused enough smoke to smudge the land of negative energy for months.  No rain, no sun, no air and extreme heat had kept Elsa imprisoned inside her home until nervous exhaustion sapped the last reserves of her mental and emotional strength.  She no longer saw her home as a safe haven; instead she saw it only as a cage.  Inside that cage, any semblance of a hopeful creative spark had been mercilessly snuffed out.  She was simply empty.  Still, her heart kept beating which surprised her. Blood coursed through her veins, pulsing, ebbing, and surging to the rhythmic beat of its cadence. She was strong – too strong and too determined; she could not give up on life.  The will to live drove Elsa to escape her plight, to search for the mythical Promised Land with the golden apple. That is why she stood here – at the center of it all; despondent; hollow and oblivious. The journey had been a long, arduous one but Elsa strode stubbornly forward in her quest toward a better existence. Elsa loathed the thought of a life filled with stagnation, boredom and lack of abundance but the devastation she’d travelled through had been a nightmare which caused her to frequently question the sanity of her decision. 

‘What would she tell others about this journey?’

Under better conditions, on a day with fewer horrors and more rest, someone would surely know what to say.

Unfortunately, Elsa was struck mute at the devastation she saw before her.  A tear slipped from her burning red eyes and rolled down her cheek.  She swiped at it absently with the back of her hand.

Elsa startled as the silence around her erupted into chaos.

 “I hear something in the woods crashing toward me!”

A flurry of crows took to the air and cried out a warning but it was too late for Elsa.  A large grizzly had her by the back of the neck and was shaking her ruthlessly. 

Death in the wilderness can be violent.  Of this wild fact, Elsa had been aware. This however, was not the ending she had envisioned for herself in the cycle of death and rebirth. Now she realized – too late it seemed – that when her wheel of life continued, it would be within the contents of a Grizzly’s hollow, empty stomach. 

Elsa felt her life ebbing away.  The dry parched earth drank greedily of her spilt blood.

With her dying words she spoke to the great bear which had dared take her life into its own, “Next to the stone grows an ancient apple tree laden with golden fruit.”  

“Go there.  Enter into the great mystery; you will live a fruitful life.  Never again will you be hungry and you will become wiser than you ever imagined.”

Elsa felt the shift of energy when it happened.

Rain fell from the heavens as if angels wept.  Much needed moisture drenched the scorched, charred landscape and revitalized parched yellow grass. Air became clear. Magical tears gave birth to new life in the forest as two lives once separate melded.  The Grizzly – a great bear; now one with Elsa disappeared into the forest’s vast nothingness. He is on a quest toward a stone. Next to it grows an ancient apple tree laden with golden fruit – or so the tale has been told.

Keepers of the Stars say, if one were to look toward the Heavens, they would find a Great celestial Bear to the north, still searching for Elsa’s golden fruit.  The bear has become very wise. If you find yourself lost or hollow, it will help guide your way home.

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Tramontane

Posted in Lessons of the Drum, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on May 16, 2023| 10 Comments »

Alberta is dry.

A heat dome has settled over our province. 

The prairie has been an arid desert.

Dust hangs in the air and silt blows through any cracks and crevices of the house to rest indoors on my furniture.

Our northern forests are ablaze.

In the news, no one reports on the arson which caused this fiery tragedy up north, on any charges laid or on the perpetrator(s) set free until their court date arrives. In the midst political campaigns, they’d rather call it global warming than tell the truth.  It’s just more of the same political rhetoric.

Meanwhile, fire fighters are busy trying to fight fires and farmers are busy trying to seed their crops.  Cattlemen and women are busy tending to their cow/calf operations. People are busy living their lives both in rural and urban areas.  At this point, most Albertans have probably already decided on which candidate they will vote for and don’t care about two women fighting over who will reign as Premier in our province. But, the political force with their mudslinging and bluster has left a foul odor in the air.

Today, a barbarous cold wind blew in from the north.  They call the wind, Tramontane.

With flying hooves, Tramontane carried smoke from the north, across central Alberta and delivered it south.

The smell of smoke and fire troll mingles with dust to smudge our province of negativity. Once the foul political odor is removed from the air, I’m sure it will rain.

Tramontane, the north wind, promises a change in weather. 

Around here, all of the crops are in the ground.  They would definitely benefit from some moisture as would the rest of our province.

Alberta needs rain.

And, when it does, I’m going to dance like nobody’s watching!

Hang on a second, let me correct that, why wait?

I’m going to go out in that smudgy, windy air and do a rain dance with Tramontane like no one is watching right now!

I hope you’ll join with me in the dance where ever you reside.  The more the merrier! Let’s make it rain, just dance!

The North winds moral lesson is that kind and gentle persuasion always wins over force and bluster.

(May whomever aspires to reign over our province in the future consider the above lesson.)

 

Thank-you for following, reading, sharing and commenting – The Trefoil Muse

 

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
Tramontane (/trəˈmɒnteɪn/ trə-MON-tayn)[a] is a classical name for a northern wind. The exact form of the name and precise direction varies from country to country. The word came to English from Italian tramontana, which developed from Latin trānsmontānus (trāns- + montānus), “beyond/across the mountains”,[1][2][3] referring to the Alps in the North of Italy. The word has other non-wind-related senses: it can refer to anything that comes from, or anyone who lives on, the other side of mountains, or even more generally, anything seen as foreign, strange, or even barbarous.
The journey of “tramontane” into English starts in Latin and begins with the coming together of the prefix trans-, meaning “across” or “beyond,” and montanus, meaning “of a mountain.”

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Cut-face

Posted in Winged Messages, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , on May 2, 2023| 6 Comments »

Off the beaten path a rolling stone gathers no moss.  The roll of its movement is like poetry in motion.

At a bridge too far, footsteps linger on a path.

A witness bearer is observing nature.

A rock falls, succumbs to the pressure and breaks in half. It will never be the same. Even pieced together, it will not ever be whole.  There will always be light shining through its center. 

Iridescent and beautiful, a shine traverses the in-between, always seeing both sides of an equation.

Never judging, never choosing which side is better, the lights only purpose; quiet acceptance.

It glistens and flows silently becoming the glue which clings to each half of a shattered foundation then with quiet support, it centers the mass – makes it stronger through the light bond of its touch and creates something new.

                  

Like a bridge too far reaching across a cut-face, light connects both sides.

Some rock hard,  stone like individuals previously stuck begin to cross over from the precipice of the cut-face.  They courageously take small steps until gravity intervenes and they roll smoothly across. Having bridged the gap they celebrate their new found strength.

Fear paralyzes the forward motion of others. Their burden is heavy. They must remain unmoving and solid.

“Even rocks can crack,” they say sadly.

This a dark fact rarely mentioned – cracking is forbidden. It’s taboo to admit weakness or even create an awareness of its existence because one would then notice a concrete failure in their foundation. 

Instead of rounded thoughts and wheels of motion to roll ahead, they form blocks. They see how easy blocks are to stack.  They gauge progress by building barriers instead of bridges. They notice how they feel stuck in the mire and begin to sink as they fall into the pressure of its darkness and crack.

But, they don’t notice the beauty, movement or force of the light connecting the pulsing broken shards of a stone and how it has formed others into glorious pieces of art.  Or, the peace that washes over a shattered, broken work in progress when it transforms through an acceptance of nature and, moves on; forever fragmented but beautifully whole; perfect while they dance and bond with the light of the in-between at the cut-face near the bridge too far.  Free.

Thank-you for following, reading, sharing and commenting – The Trefoil Muse

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A Feathered Friend

Posted in Lessons of the Drum, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , on April 25, 2023| 8 Comments »

Three weeks ago, a foggy mist of milk white hid the horizon. It was still cold. Spring was here but the tendrils of winter were loath to release their taunting grip on the prairie.

Many migrating birds were overhead.  I knew this because I could hear them.

I always tend to marvel at the ability of migratory birds especially, their instinctual ability to navigate blindly through inclement weather and unseen territory while they fly toward their new destinations.

I heard familiar honking in the distance. The recognizable sound was that of the Canadian Geese as they arrived in droves while fog shrouded the land. Other flocks of migratory birds were also flying in. Their types were harder to discern with listening ears because the opaque wall inhibited any clear view of the arriving birds and muffled the sounds of their songs.

The misty cold weather was surreal. Unending fog can be depressing to some but I enjoy the damp, cool weather and find the wall of cloudy white strangely comforting, even safe. I like the idea of disappearing behind a veil of white.  It’s private. I especially like walking in the fog, mainly because I am obliged to use my other senses and am forced to pay closer attention to what’s in my immediate circle during the hours before the fog relents to the rays of the mid-day sun.

But, that day, I was imagining what it would be like to spread open the white wall of fog with my hands as if it were curtains and step through it.  I was wondering if it would it be a clear day or magical world on the other side of the curtains when a knock interrupted my whimsy.

Knock, knock.

Knock.

“What’s knocking at my front door, it’s not like a knocking that I’ve heard before,” I wondered. (more…)

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Wordless Wednesday

Posted in Media Room, tagged , , , , , , , on April 19, 2023| 6 Comments »

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