Barbed wire fences are boundaries used to stop others from trespassing or encroaching on our space. They are like the personal boundaries we use to help to enhance our lives or define our worth. Boundaries set limits – dividing lines or rules we set for ourselves within relationships.
Healthy boundaries allow us to say, “No,” to others when needed. At times, it takes inner strength and courage to enforce or defend one’s boundaries against the barbs of another. Healthy boundaries allow comfortable conversations within close relationships and enable us to communicate when others are teetering on the line or crossing boundaries which make us feel uncomfortable.
Only you can determine where the fine line of your boundary is. To set your boundaries or guidelines, find your personal balance. (What will you allow into your life and what causes you discomfort?) These guidelines will bring you a sense of peace. Boundaries help us define our personal safe space and warn us of imminent danger. When we are aware of our own boundaries, and are intimately familiar with them, we can then share by guiding others in we expect from them or what we can tolerate. Whennecessary we can then issue steadfast reminders or warnings when confronted with those types of intolerable behaviors which infringe on our inner peace.
When confronted with intolerable behavior, communicate where your boundaries lie; be calm, firm and clear about what you need. Clear and reasonable consequences need to be relayed to the trespasser.
If you continually encroach on set boundaries breaking another’s trust, there may be no way to mend fences. You may in fact risk being ejected from that person’s life. Try to be kind, not cruel.
“Boundaries are not binding or controlling the actions of another. They are stating that if said actions continue, I will not be in your life.” J. Mike Fields
Be respectful of others.
Think about your boundaries. Treat others the way you yourself would like to be treated. Kindness matters.
Remember, you are important. Honor your boundaries. Be kind to yourself but be kind to others as well.
Thank-you for following, reading, sharing and commenting – The Trefoil Muse
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
Beneath the branches of a gnarled old tree, she bends over a cauldron, stirring and stirring and stirring her brew. The wind howls, woo, woo while monsters dance among the pumpkin patch.
The night is dark and full of shadows along the hidden path during an ebony night with a full moon.
To all the boojums, grumpkins and snarks; may you receive goodness and light from the witch’s hand for the brew contains protection, sweetness and magic.
HAPPY HALLOWEEN!
Thank-you for following, reading, sharing and commenting – The Trefoil Muse
It was the eve of the Autumn Equinox. Anna stood in the middle of the vast prairie admiring a hedgerow of wild buffaloberry bushes. Vibrant red berries popped among pale green leaves and thorny branches. Burdened with a bounty of tart buffaloberries, branches bent toward the ground. The stout bushes were loaded with berries ripe for picking. Crimson berry clusters stood in stark contrast to an otherwise colorless, drought-ridden prairie landscape. Anna picked several handfuls of the sour treats, and ate them, her face puckering in delight with each mouthful. Buffaloberries were an unanticipated reward – however, she wasn’t prepared to gather berries and it was getting late.
As the sun began to set, colors glanced off of the smoky horizon adding golden pink and orange hues to the skyline. A crescent moon began to rise at an oblique angle on the eastern side of the prairie.
The evening colors were beautiful; a prelude of what colors autumn would be sharing at dusk. Anna couldn’t resist. She took a snapshot with her camera. Unfortunately though, she was not a professional photographer. The picture, a once in a lifetime moment in time, turned out to be a mere façade of what she’d witnessed with her own eyes. Disappointed, she added the photo to her album and closed the cover.
It was days later when Anna re-opened the album. Feeling dejected, she glanced at the dismal prairie photograph and closed her eyes breathing deeply as she relaxed. As she counted to ten, the world faded to black. That is when the magic happened. When Anna opened her eyes again, she saw the picture anew. It only took twelve seconds for her to change her perspective and see the magic.
Anna’s secret for magical change:
Close your eyes
Count to ten
Open your eyes
See how a picture can change with a fresh new perspective in twelve seconds:
With the changing season be sure to rest and relax. Discover Anna’s secret yourself.
Close your eyes and breathe.
Calm your mind.
Let the world fade to black. Then open your eyes and see the fresh new colors autumn has to offer.
Enjoy nature’s bounty.
A change of season is much like a change of perspective – it adds color to one’s life!
Thank-you for following, reading, sharing and commenting – The Trefoil Muse
I felt how your heart leapt for joy when you first set eyes on this mountain meadow. When you smiled, the world glowed brighter – it was blinding. Your essence intrigued me. It made me want to see the world through your eyes. Dragon eyes don’t see like those of a human unless we are connected. I have the ability to connect to you. That is part of my magic. What is it you see?
I must see it with my own eyes and feel it as your heart does.
You can’t see me, at least not yet but you’ve turned toward me and have spotted wild raspberries. They are short bushes, low to the ground. The little bushes are loaded with berries despite their size. I watch as you savor the sour sweetness of a raspberry without putting one in your mouth. I thought only dragon’s could sense taste food without actually eating it. The flavor of these mountain raspberries made my mouth water. How did you resist? You didn’t even pick one. You left them for the creatures of the mountain. It’s been a hot dry summer, the mountain wildlife appreciates that you left their food alone. Your thoughtful decision made my heart swell.
I watch you as your eyes scan the mountainside.
Now, you see me.
There are actually several of us here. We have camouflaged ourselves upon the mountain side. The others are sleeping as I keep watch.
I see we have you intrigued. You think we are rock pillars. This made me smile. It made you smile as well. Once again, your light blinded me.
You are leaving now.
How is it you have not left one footprint behind?
Then I remember as you moved, you floated just above the land. You touched without touching and tasted without tasting. There is a grace about you.
The old ones tell tales of your like – legends if you will. There hasn’t been one like you for centuries. They say the urge to connect with a magical being is magnetic and immediate. It happens without thought. They say when it happens a Dragon will follow, it cannot resist. I will follow.
You will not see me – at least not yet. When I soar above you it will be as if a cloud has cast a slight shadow over the land. I want to share my magic with you – even though you have magic of your own. My dragon eyes have seen the world anew through you. Now, I wish you could see the world through mine.
ANDronesRUS
We will connect for good eventually. The bond will be set when we lock our eyes and our hearts become one. Keep your eyes to the sky. I soar above.
They call me, “Draco,” for I am Dragon.
Thank-you for following, reading, sharing and commenting – The Trefoil Muse
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.
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 Latintrānsmontānus (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.”
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
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. Continue Reading »
White rabbits, white rabbits; spring arrives; winter weather lifts; and there are white rabbits everywhere!
Rabbits are prolific creatures. There are so many of them here that it is near impossible to count their numbers.
The rabbit symbolizes fertility, luck, creativity, compassion and intuition. Rabbits are associated with springtime and new beginnings. They are happy reminders that life is full of possibilities. A rabbit’s foot is a lucky token and rabbits are considered symbols of fortune.
But with the appearance of all these rabbits, is it possible our home has undergone a takeover by Easter Bunny Central?
We have a profound conglomeration of long-eared, fluffy-white-tailed creatures hopping around our farmyard and nearby fields.
The majority of rabbits inhabiting the farm are jackrabbits but somewhere during the winter months a bush bunny family moved in as well.
Bush bunnies, otherwise known as mountain cottontail are the only true rabbit in Alberta. Despite its name, it is not actually found in our mountains. It is restricted to the prairie regions of the province, where it can be found in areas with sufficient brushy cover. I suspect our newly arrived cottontails fled from a nearby coulee to take up residence in our hedges mid winter.
I usually spot my little bush bunny or cottontail friends closer to the house not far from the hedges, whereas, their larger counterparts, the jackrabbits like kibitzing out in the open.
Jackrabbits, otherwise known as snowshoe hares, are larger than rabbits, have longer hind legs and longer ears. An interesting fact to note is that rabbits or baby bunnies are born hairless and blind whereas baby hares, (called leverets) are born with fur, can see, and are mobile within an hour of birth. As well, hares turn from brown in the summer to white in the winter; rabbits do not.
Our prairie jackrabbits are well camouflaged during seasonal changes. Right now, most of them are still wearing their white jackets and blend in with the white covered landscape. Some have begun to shed their white fur and have a brown patchy appearance and are hard to see against the barren spring earth. Jackrabbits will hide among and under rocks, outbuildings, hollow logs, and other covered spaces or even in plain sight. When faced with danger, rabbits tend to freeze and/or run for cover, while hares will usually try to run away and out maneuver their pursuer.
The jackrabbits around here love to taunt my dogs. They have even been known to run right through our legs during a daily walk to induce a game of tag. Jackrabbits can run up to 55 km/h (34 mph) and can leap up to five meters (16 feet 5 inches)! They are agile athletes who elude predators from following their scent through a series of large bounds, sometimes even moving at right angles to their previous direction. My poor good natured dogs don’t stand a chance. They get out distanced and out maneuvered by the jackrabbits during every competition. Still, they love the chase and it seems to be great exercise for both the rabbits and the dogs.
To be honest, I find the bush bunnies to be much cuter than the jackrabbits but the jackrabbits have afforded me plenty of comic relief over the years due to their antics with my dogs and their Easter exercise regimes.
To be a successful Easter Bunny candidate, one must assume that a rabbit or hare needs to be white or well camouflaged, agile and fleet of foot to deliver all of those chocolaty candy eggs across the Alberta prairie.
The training sessions around here must have produced plenty of successful Easter Bunnies and gained popularity with the rabbit populous. Rabbits have great listening skills and word seems to have spread that our remote Easter Bunny Central location is top notch. It seems very fortuitous that more and more white rabbits keep appearing from out of nowhere.
With all of these white rabbits hopping around, I’m beginning to feel like Alice in Wonderland.
Which makes me wonder; if I utter the words white rabbit three times will they all magically disappear like a puff of smoke to be hare today and gone tomorrow? Or have I myself fallen into a rabbit hole?
Happy Easter every bunny!
Thank-you for following, reading, sharing and commenting – The Trefoil Muse
I’ve heard this comment several times in the recent past but it always surprises me!
Is our society falling short on integrity?
Integrity helps us to do the right thing.
Integrity
Choosing courage over comfort;
Choosing what is right over what is fun, or easy;
And choosing to practice our values rather than simply professing them.
Brene Brown
Integrity requires self-awareness, self-control and commitment to upholding one’s values and principles when in the face of temptation or pressure – even when no one is watching.
It is choosing your thoughts and actions based on your principled values rather than personal gain. People of integrity do not hide their reactions or opinions. They do not manipulate others through deception, peer pressure, guilt or shame, and they do not pretend.
Integrity is not about being popular. It may mean extreme unpopularity because, you did the ‘right thing,’ regardless of popular opinion – integrity does take courage. Doing the right thing regardless of popular opinion can cost you family, friends, your livelihood or worse case scenario, your life.
Having integrity does not mean that you will never make mistakes. It does however mean that you have learned valuable life lessons from your mistakes and taken honest measures to correct them. In other words, you have gained some wisdom from your mistakes and evolved into a better person.
Integrity happens when inner-wisdom matches the decisions we make and act upon.
“Sometimes, it’s hard to do the right thing.”
Is it? Or, have we just become too afraid to do the right thing? If so, what does this say about the society we live in? Corruption lacks integrity.
Using integrity is about being able to live with your own conscience.
When you are true to yourself, it’s easy to do the right thing.
Have courage.
Remember: Using integrity is a reward!
Thank-you for following, reading, sharing and commenting – The Trefoil Muse
They gathered around the podium while he delivered insincere words with a vulpine smile.
The posh, stood behind their Leader in mute support. Their heads bobbed in feigned agreement while they fixated on his every uttered word – they being his well paid entourage.
A mob, enamored by the devilish Ruler but blind to his self-entitled ego, clamored about the podium hypnotized – enthralled – agog. Drawn to his magnetic darkness, the crowd of followers had become nothing more than envious slaves duped into thinking they were free. Instead, they were mere minions drawn into the black shroud of a false idol. Infected by the beast’s insidious nature, and honeyed words their fervor the cause of chaos. Entranced and unwittingly infected, the gathering populous now formed in collaboration with the elitist cult to spread unease throughout their communities.
Those who were observant had no need to listen. The Devil’s state and demeanor made it glaringly evident to those with keen vision that, ‘his’ only intent was on cursing the world and taking its power.Continue Reading »
A piercing scream cut through the quiet night, ricocheted off concrete walls and echoed onto the city street. A hollow thud then gasp of air followed. It was the woman’s last breath.
A dark figure loomed over the body.
Bobby-Joe McKintock had just frightened his nosey, old neighbor to death; quite by accident, when in jest, he’d jumped out of the shadows.
A sinister laugh caromed through the night. Bobby-Joe glanced around then disappeared into the darkness before the backlash of what he’d done hit him.
Quiet fell upon the city street. The silence was deafening.
Sounds of sirens and gunshots ensued.
It was a ricochet that ended him.
As it turns out, the rebound effect is no joking matter!
Thank-you for following, reading, sharing and commenting – The Trefoil Muse
It’s hard to create a work of art when you are feeling under the weather. Fever and delirium make sentences nonsensical. Your spirit seems to float away from your body – out of this world. You feel completely disconnected. The most talented of artists use the dark times in their lives to create beauty. It takes fortitude and resilience to recover from illness let alone create art.
I haven’t been feeling well – not at all.
I am not a good patient. I do not like being under the weather, I’d rather be in it, outside in nature.
The blues are pulling at me like a magnet. I can see them from my window. They taunt me as they dance and skip along the snow drifts daring me to catch them.
The day is early. The sun is only beginning to rise. I slog into my winter gear surprised that I am not collapsing under its weight and head out the door.
The air hangs softly in the distance a paler color of white than the snow lying on the ground. ‘Angel’s breath,’ I smile at the thought of it as some blue disappears with the sun’s first rays.
‘Most people chase rainbows in order to discover magic and I’m out chasing the blues. But, why limit one’s self,’ I think bemused.Continue Reading »
Many people like to romanticize the good old days – truth is times were hard back then. When my Mother was a little girl, her family lived on the CC Ranch southwest of Nanton, Alberta. The Ranch, situated on Willow Creek was silhouetted by the wild and beautiful Rocky Mountains. The land was filled with bush and farther in towards the mountain was thick timber. Visitors to the ranch were a rarity. Her writing tells of a time not so long ago when many people still relied on horsepower, grit and man’s best friend to survive. With that being said, I hope you enjoy the following story based in the wild and untamed Alberta Foothills that she loved:
Dawg
By: J.V. Andrus
Slowly across the top of a hazy hill came a weary rider pushing along a small, shaggy herd of long horns. A white dog followed on the heels of the rider. Occasionally from behind, the white dog eased up alongside the long horns to press curious calves back into the herd then he’d fall back into line with the dozing rider. The little group descended the hill down into a small valley lush with a carpet of thick green grass.
This was as good a place as any to spend a hot afternoon, the rider thought as he eased himself out of the saddle. He loosened the cinch, dropped the bridle reins and leaned back against the trunk of a huge tree whose branches draped low over the mouth of a stream that bubbled around a rock bank nearby.
Through half closed eyes he surveyed his herd.
After drinking from the stream the long horns began to graze from the thick green grass of the flat valley and began picking their way along the low lying hills.
A few feet away, the white dog lay panting; his long tongue lulled out from the side of his mouth and from the end of it dripped saliva. His huge soft brown eyes held the man’s gaze; ever so gently, his tail swayed back and forth.
Without uttering a word, the puncher butted a cigarette which had been hanging from the corner of his lips and eased down into the warm sunshine. With the heat of the sun now on him, he slept.Continue Reading »
It’s the end of November and it is -13 degrees Celsius (12.2 Fahrenheit). The wind has been blowing with gusts of 42 km (27 mph) and higher so it feels like -23C (-9.4 F). It’s so frigid that I am unable to think. Perhaps, I have frozen my brain…
How does a Canadian prevent brain freeze in the winter?
Word of the Day – Toque
/tōk/
Canadian definition:
A close-fitting knitted hat, often with a tassel or pom-pom on the crown.
People also ask
How do you use it in a sentence?
I will use it in a sentence so that you can both remember what it is and how to pronounce it.
“It’s so cold outside, that I toque a wool cap and put it on my head.”
And, that my friend’s is also how a Canadian prevents brain freeze in the winter!
Stay warm!
Thank-you for following, reading, sharing and commenting – The Trefoil Muse
It has taken me some time to silence the thoughts of others and cipher through their parables and codes.
Social media is inundated with an extraordinary amount of negativity. Many comments are meant to debilitate the vitality of opponents who dare think outside of the box. It is easy to attack someone whom you cannot see.
It is also easier to control those whose faces are covered. It removes the aspects of humanism. Covering ones nose and mouth deprives the brain of oxygen and weakens soundness of mind.
I suspect the past few years has done irreparable damage to human kind.
(I can still feel the agony of those who withheld their screams of terror and disbelief until their eyes deadened and their hearts hardened.)
It’s easier to follow the masses than it is to stand alone.
Fear can be a strict task master. It drives groups together but it can also break them apart.
Many people gave up.
Others allowed themselves to become disabled through the pressure tactics forced upon them. Hypnotized, they consumed propaganda spoon fed to them by daily dose of dishonesty and negativity. They became the fanatical converts who threatened non-believers. Non-believers were ostracized and pushed into seclusion.
There are many fanatics today that seek continued control over the populous. They have a surplus of information ordained to frighten the weak into a continued life of subservience.
They want the masses to move through life like robots – zombies with dead eyes, stiff movements and no heart because when you stunt growth or imagination, there is no individuality – no freedom. This is called censorship.
What they do not know is that you cannot cripple the heart or mind of an artist!
The individual pain each person endures throughout life is precisely the gold that shines through an entrapped mindset to create an artist. Seclusion is all that is needed to break free of the trap. When one enters the silence, true beauty is created. This beauty is art.
Art means something different to everyone. It is a distinct experience distinguished by you alone. Art heals crippled minds, broken hearts and beckons to the individual in each of us, bringing hope.
You cannot censor hope!
Hope is a light engrained so deeply within the Universe that death cannot even snuff it out.
Artists know this secret.
They are able to read between the lines.
They are the truth seekers.
They are the free-thinkers fanatics want to silence.
You cannot cripple an artist, excluding them or forcing them into silence is a gift.
Silence is where an artist goes to create beauty.
We can always use more of them – so please, censor away – for in the end, it will be the artist’s who heal the world with their beautiful stories.
Remember:
“Those who speak in parables and code harbour great secrets.”
Thank-you for following, reading, sharing and commenting – The Trefoil Muse
Today, I sat in my rocking chair on the porch with my two trusty dogs at my side, soaked up the rays of the autumn sun and listened to the crickets sing.
When nature brings you bliss, the world’s woes drift away…
Give yourself permission to relax.
Thank-you for following, reading, sharing and commenting – The Trefoil Muse
There is a warm autumn breeze; I sit beneath the trees and watch as colored leaves fall earthward.
The trunk of the tree I am sitting under is strong; its roots are spread wide and deep. Yet, the tree is flexible and is able to bend when times get turbulent. That is why this tree has survived its many years on earth.
The tree’s large branches reach heavenward. Some of the branches are barren having lost their leaves. Still, other branches are alive with color. The leaves on those branches are preparing to make their descent but for the moment, they are full of life and enhance the world with their beauty.
I notice the leaves of this tree do not fight their ending – they have lived their life to the fullest – so, they simply let go and float gently earthward as if they are two stepping in time to a slow waltz. They dance, twirl and float earthward where they join other leaves, those that fell before them. The fallen leaves cushion the new arrivals. Their landing is soft, gentle. Each leaf is reunited happily with those that fell before them – these are their fallen family and friends.
Those leaves that remain high in the branches shiver with excitement and celebrate the life of the leaves that fell before them. They whisper to the fallen in the soft breeze, “We are in death, even as we live.”
Realization dawns on me, I am sitting beneath the family tree. The tree has been softening my sadness – my grief. It has not only been comforting me with beauty and dance but sharing ancestral wisdom as it welcomes another extremely important leaf home.
Celebrate life with every breath you take,
We both live and die in every moment,
Life is colorful,
Enjoy it,
Take comfort in the dance of the falling leaves,
Remember those who went before you,
They are never truly gone,
The circle of life is never-ending.
Gone but not forgotten…
“Falling Leaves,” is in memory of my Dad:
Franklin J. Andrus – May 28, 1938 – October 10, 2022
Thank-you for following, reading, sharing and commenting – The Trefoil Muse
In the name of fair play, I did warn them. I said, “If you don’t leave this premises, you will die! This is not your home. You are not allowed to gather here!”
But, they cannot help themselves.
It seems they have invited swarms more. The house is a buzz of activity. I am not as hospitable as they have assumed. They have over-stayed their welcome and have gotten on my last nerve.
They are pests. Pests that like to do the backstroke in my morning coffee or drown in it. They bug me, these uninvited guests. They steal the very food from my plate – pests. Their flying buddies like to swan dive into my hair or fly up my nose. They don’t understand the word, ‘No!’ It amuses these pests to touch my body with their creepy little insect feelers. They won’t stop. It gives them a buzz then they get high! They just won’t stop irritating me, even going as far as landing on my hands as I type this!
Enough!
The mission is now murder!
Fly swatter in hand, I am in full stealth mode. My trusty cat is assisting me in stalking the many-eyed prey! It seems that they have pestered her beyond her limits as well. She alerts me to their presence with her surreptitious cat call.
The flies think they will out smart me by camouflaging themselves on dark furniture or hiding in plain sight. I suppose they assume they can out maneuver me since they have thousands of watchful eyes observing my every move.
“Wrong!”
The swat team and I have taken down a number of assailants. Their bodies are piling up! Some of the fly survivors areconducting forensics on the dead or perhaps they are cannibals foraging on their own kind.
They get the smack down. At times, it’s a smorgasbord; multiple bodies with one swat or a two for one deal – a regular kill pattern for this experienced swat team.
It’s war. We have no mercy, the pests were forewarned!
Finally, after an hour of stalking and murdering flies, it has gone deathly quiet. The pests that are left have gone underground or into cracks or crevices. They are difficult to find.
But, I am smarter than a fly. I will patiently outwit them.
I only need to wait until the time is right before I raid their fly encampments. For now though, the swat team has further business to take care of. Death is cumbersome and we must dispose of the multitude of fly corpses before their living relatives feel the sting of the upcoming raid. There will be more bodies. The remains will be disposed of. This is not a game. This is war; I must take time to plan the next siege on these pests before the next swarm appears. These pests have eyes everywhere. I dare not rest, the swat team and I need to plan and perhaps rally more troops.
In the meantime, if any of you have had the intention of visiting in the form of an insect or let’s say; a fly on the wall; beware – my buzz word this season is, ‘Fly,’ and I’m on a murder mission.
All other company is welcome! Please feel free to bring your own swatter! Be prepared to raid flying pests when necessity warrants.
Thank-you for following, reading, sharing and commenting – The Trefoil Muse
The world can be confusing, chaotic and merciless.
Reality in the real world means that life doesn’t always supply us with positive experiences.
There are times in life when the world seems to have a destructive strangle hold on your psyche. The foulness around you contains a sour stench and negative energy saps at every fibre of your being until you are completely devoid of inspiration. Puzzled, you become subconsciously stuck in a mire of difficulties, bogged down at every turn. If you allow yourself to stay stuck in this destructive mire, eventually, that is all that you experience – negativity, and the difficulties which come with a depressed mindset. Essentially, this means you have become blocked.Continue Reading »
When it’s 32 degrees Celsius (86.9 F) but feels like 36 (96.8 F) and a sirocco is blowing across the prairie; you know that Mother Nature’s dehydrator has kicked in. During such heat waves, one must be sure to drink plenty of fluids and attempt to stay cool – hydration is the key unless you want to whither up like a piece of dried up old jerky!
Many people suffer immeasurably during summer months due to the onslaught of intense, desert like heat waves so they head to a body of water or a beach to help keep their body hydrated and their heads cool.
Hydrotherapy is the use of water to treat a disease or to maintain health.
The theory behind hydrotherapy is that water has many properties that give it the ability to heal. Water can store and carry heat and energy. Likewise, water can cool. It can also dissolve other substances, such as minerals and salts.
Hydrotherapy, formerly called hydropathy or water cure, is a branch of alternative medicine, occupational therapy, and physiotherapy, that involves the use of water for pain relief and treatment.
Drinking water also assists in maintaining mental clarity but, the sound of water can be calming and bring a sense of balance to one’s spirit when the day is just too hot to handle.
If my mental demeanor is at stake because life has become too fiery, I find the sound of water soothing. However, when Mother Nature’s dehydrator is full throttle, I enjoy going for a nice cool swim in order to refresh, calm and maintain my health.
Water heals.
The picture below is my idea of hydrotherapy on a day where it’s 32 degrees Celsius but feels like 34 with a dehydrating sirocco breeze on the prairie.
If a sirocco visits your area firing up your daily life until it’s too hot to handle, try hydrotherapy.
Ease your pain; take the first step; get wet; just plunge in; let water heal you.
Thank-you for following, reading, sharing and commenting – The Trefoil Muse
“It is hard for me to understand a culture that not only hates and fights his brothers but even attacks Nature and abuses her. 
The Trefoil Muse 
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