Google Yourself – Be Surprised

Every once in a while, it pays to check yourself out on Google, especially if you are an author/writer. In 2015, I published my book “10 – A Story of Life, Loss, and Life” through Balboa Press, the self-publishing branch of Hay House Publishing. This week I checked my book out online and found that it was offered on many sites throughout the world.

You can order my book through Google Books, Chapters Indigo, Barnes & Noble, and Amazon where it has a 4.6/5 rating. It’s available in Kindle, paperback, or hard cover versions. What surprised me the most was you can also order it through online companies around the world: Waterstones (England/Wales), Thrift Books (USA), Booktopia (Australia), adlibris.com (Sweden), libreriauniversitaria.it (an Italian company based in El Salvador), Rakuten Kobo (USA) and the French Friac.

That’s heartening to know that my book is still out there and available to so many people. It’s not making me rich but that wasn’t the reason I published it. This was a book to honour Tom, my deceased husband, and to offer hope and comfort to others who may be going through a great loss themselves.

Of course, you can always come out to Wellington County Museum & Archives this Saturday, June 10, 11 – 4, and buy a signed copy in person from me. Hope to see you there. https://www.wellington.ca/…/wellington-county-writers

A Picture is Worth 1000 Words

Spanish painter Salvador DALI. “Dali Atomicus.” 1948.

For the last month I have been working on my presentation to my Photo Club titled “Photography and Storytelling.” It’s been fun and enriching to research photos, memes, and photo essays and learn how photographers consider a number of elements to create pictures that tell us a story through methodical and deliberate compositions.

One of the most interesting and imaginative photos that I came across was this one of the artist Salvador Dali taken by photographer Philippe Halsman in 1948 titled Dali Atomicus.

This photo was taken before digital photography and photoshop. The props needed to be suspended with wires, the chair was held in place by an assistant, three cats were thrown into the picture along with a bucket of water and Dali had to jump into the air, all simultaneously at the appropriate time. It took 28 attempts to get this iconic picture that indeed captures the essence of Dali himself.

Indeed, “A picture is worth 1000 words.”

Who Counts As Family?

I am presently taking a genealogy course to trace my family line. Yesterday we registered with Ancestry.ca and I have begun creating my family tree.

I quickly realized that it seems to be set up for direct blood lines. My family is not that simple. My father passed away when I was 7 years old, mom remarried, and my new dad legally adopted us and, within a few years, I had two new brothers, one passed, one still alive.

My mother and new dad divorced years later and Dad remarried. I now have a whole new family of sisters and a brother, nieces and nephews. Later, I divorced and remarried and, once again, the family expanded.

Doing my family tree, I have asked myself “Who counts as family?” Even though we may not be related through direct blood lineage, my new family members are truly family to me.

From Familyhistorydaily.com – “In our daily lives, family often has less to do with biological or legal connections and more to do with personal relationships. Those people who are intimate parts of our lives, who we love and care for, who care for us, are our family. What makes a mother, father, sibling, child, grandchild is seldom straightforward.”

I’m hoping as I delve further into my family tree that there will be options to break out into all directions. For after all, family are tied together with far more than just blood and DNA. Love and commitment are binding glue that hold us together throughout our lives.

This is Our Time

When I joined the local Seniors’ Centre after retirement, I met many new women and men through the local clubs and activities. This is a place for strong, vital people who want the stimulation and surprises an active life still offers to those who seek it. They are interested and interesting.

The women are feisty. I put it down to having a lifetime of succumbing to other’s needs and demands, always playing second fiddle, and denying their own requirements and desires. Now, at this time of their life, they find themselves released from all those pressures and they aren’t going to do it anymore. This is a time for them.

The men seem chilled, calm. Perhaps they, too, are tired of life’s demands on them to support, guide, lead, be the boss, the one in charge. They are glad to release the reins of power to another. This is a time for them.

Our twilight years offer us a freedom from all the duties and obligations we have had for most of our lives. Children are grown, the nest is empty; jobs are complete, retirement beckons. This is a time for us, a time for women and men to live their best lives. We still have time.

Writing Your Life Story

Back in September 2022, I joined a local Memoir Writers’ Club that meets weekly. The focus is on writing our life stories as an autobiography, written in chronological order.  Jennifer, our group leader, wrote her own memoir during COVID isolation and felt that perhaps others would like to record their life story. She felt led to offer her experience and guide other seniors through the process.

I joined the club because I had a memoir-in-progress titled “For the Love of Food – Family Edition” and wanted the company of other writers for feedback and encouragement. I have been working on my memoir/cookbook for about a year now and am now about ½ way through it. It is unusual, not your standard memoir, but I feel led to write it in this form and am enjoying it immensely.  I truly see food as a love language and I can see how food has shaped my life through five generations of my family. I am aiming to publish it for a public market. I am continuing with my book, in my own way, but I do enjoy our class and don’t mind writing on the topics suggested by Jennifer. My book has and will be taking a totally different form than what she has suggested to other club members but I have still found our class to be of value to me. The stories bring back many memories and are good writing practice.

I think our class is very special. There is definitely a desire for all of us to record our stories. I think the reasons for writing our life stories may differ and, perhaps, some may not even know why they want to write, and yet the need and desire is there. Some write because their family has requested it. Some may write truly for themselves as an assessment of their own lives. We all want to know our lives matter. We want to know we left a mark. We value our memories and want a record of them left behind. Perhaps our families are not the least bit interested in reading them at this time but, one never knows, there may come a day when they are glad to have the stories and the information and memories they contain. I know my own daughters didn’t value their old journals from school but as they aged and had children of their own, now they do. Perhaps some day our stories may be of value and interest and be read by many others as snapshots from the past.

There is no doubt that there is a close bond that has been built in our group. I keep attending and writing, even though I won’t be publishing my stories in the way suggested. I love hearing other’s stories and sharing our lives. I love story! And we all have them. We all think, “I have nothing of interest to others” but, in the end, we do. Sharing our simple memorable moments is a wonderful way to share our lives and identify with each other or learn new things. Even if we all visit Paris, we each will have a unique story to tell about it from our own perspective. There is value in that.

Thank you, Jennifer, for your gentle and encouraging guidance. You have given us an opportunity to remember our lives and share them with others. I have a new group of friends. It’s what keeps us coming.

Mad as a Hatter

I’ve always been intrigued with the history of common everyday expressions and idioms. I came across an article in an online article in Pocket Worthy titled “Everyday Sayings Explained” put together by Stylist Team as gathered from Phrase Finder.

We’ve all heard these phrases which we liberally use in our everyday language — “Hold a candle to . . . The hair of the dog that bit you . . . A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.”

One such phrase is “Mad as a Hatter.” It originates from the 18th century. Hat makers used to use mercury in the forming of their hats as it bonded the felt into a tighter firmer mat. The mercury, however, was a poison that affected the nervous system of the hat makers and caused them to go mad.

In the book “Alice in Wonderland” by Lewis Carroll, the illustration of the Mad Hatter shows a 10/6 on his hat which is the price of his hat, 10 shillings 6 pence. For fun, some celebrate National Mad Hatter Day which is held on October 6.

Google Phrase Finder to find the story behind many more of our common sayings.

Alone, Again. Christmas Grief.

There is a burden of grief that hangs on my heart this holiday season. I feel it everywhere. It’s in the grocery store as I go down the aisle, I feel it on the streets, I sense it in the air around me. It’s almost palpable. A tension, a fear, a sadness, worry.  I look into the face of a friend and I feel it’s heaviness as he faces a Christmas alone. I hear it in the voice of another who isn’t so sure what her Christmas will be like this year.

The pandemic had its own horrors and grief as we were all forced into isolation. Many of us sat alone, unable to see and hug our own family, our own friends. Many of our loved ones died, quarantined in hospitals or nursing homes and we were not allowed to say our goodbyes in person. Funerals became small and private or not at all, with only a public announcement in social media for most family and friends. We all faced that collective misery together but at least we were all facing it the same. As the saying goes, “Misery loves company.”

Now the pandemic has eased its stranglehold and things have opened up. People are gathering as groups again for inside events. Plans are being made for traditional Christmas celebrations and there is joy and excitement at the thoughts of gathering together once again after two years of “bubbles” and masks.

But there are those that are still isolated and alone as others ramp up their joy and holiday plans. Some still are faced with their solitude and absence. For those, life has not returned with its business and plans. And they grieve. And this year, I feel the grief has doubled because of what we have been denied the last two years. The pandemic has intensified it. Being alone becomes loneliness.

Let us remember those for who Christmas will not be noisy and joyful and full of people. Make that phone call. Drop off that unexpected present. Visit for a short time. Bring over that plate of turkey and stuffing. Share a moment. Share the joy.

Merry Christmas to all.

Dance Lives In Me

The drummer in the corner kept the beat, a syncopated rhythm that began to find its way into my body. A heartbeat. Breathe in, breathe out.

“. . . 5, 6 7, 8, . . . “ the teacher called.

The dancers began picking up the beat, moving across the floor. Right foot, left foot, step, pause, step, pause. Arms extended outwards, wing-like, palms down, palms up, repeat, repeat, again and again. Upper body arching, look down, look up, see the earth, see the sky. Feet, arms, torso, eyes, caught in the rhythm, the body flowing, lost in the driving drum beat that kept us dancing. Heart, breath, body, as one.

Then suddenly, it all changed. On the next upswing my body became charged, pure energy poured out of me like a spotlight searching upwards for its mark. Its beam shot into the universe.

Judy, my teacher, yelled out, “Beautiful!”

I knew she meant it for me. She saw it. Somehow, it transformed me. My body dropped down with the next beat and as quickly as it had come, it was gone. The magic disappeared.

I stood in the corner of the room, the dance over, but my body still reverberated with that glorious experience of light where I became a conduit for a beam of energy that came from . . . where?
What just happened to me? Where did that come from?

And, just like that, I was hooked and I knew I would spend the rest of my life searching for that magic once again, hoping to find it, control it, use it to consciously express an art form that I was only just a novice in.

That day, I became a dancer.

I learned to use space, body, action, time, and energy to express my feelings and create dances and theatre pieces with movement and the body, the way an artist expresses their passion with paints and brushes, or a writer brings their thoughts and ideas to life with words.

For years, I studied contemporary dance and ballet, even for a period, classical East Indian dance. I learned a deep awareness of my body and its natural power. I learned to refine my movements, to strengthen and control my form. Through improvisation, I learned to trust the natural flow of the spirit, to allow it to find its own life within. I learned the art of choreography and was able to perform with a professional company for six years until the responsibility of a young family drew me home.

And yet, the passion was still strong. Where else but through dance can one fly or throw your energy to the stars, connect to the earth as a tree connects to the soil, and join with another’s soul?

I carried on teaching dance and performed my own works as a solo artist and with my young protegees wherever and whenever I could. I had taught dance for over fifteen years until I decided that at age 37, it was time for something different and I returned to university for a Bachelor of Education degree. I continued to perform but left the dance studio and focused my energies toward my own artistic projects and my school.

But the seeds of creativity had been planted deep and 11 years later, I was accepted to York University for a Master of Arts, Dance major. Now, once again, it was for me, just me. I continued to teach at my elementary school but dance bubbled up once again inside.

After retirement, my older body sought a new way of moving and Nia dance and conscious dance became vehicles to go deep within to my natural energy source, to find a technique that honoured who I had become. Once again, I re-visited improvisation, free flow, deep body awareness, and connection with others on the dance floor.

Today, dance continues to live within me. I am a dancer.

For the Love of Food – A Celebration

Writing continues on my upcoming memoir cookbook that honours the place of food and family in our lives. The following is a poem that will be in the opening chapter:

A Celebration by Barbara Heagy

Food and cooking is a celebration.

It’s a celebration of family, community, and togetherness.
Gathered around a table laden with good, wholesome food, laughing, and sharing stories.
Coming together to
Chop and blend,
Fold and stir,
A joyous circle of belonging.
Here, I am part of a whole.

It’s a celebration of the senses.
The colours of a leafy salad with bright tomatoes, green cucumbers, and orange, red, and yellow peppers.
The soft, gluten feel of bread kneaded in your hands.
The exotic aroma of a scented curry with cumin, coriander, turmeric, and cardamom.
The crunching sound of crispy celery, a juicy apple, or the thick, warm bubbling of a stove-top stew.
The taste that melts in your mouth, burns your tongue, or bursts on your taste buds in sheer delight.

It’s a celebration of the body, re-energized and rejuvenated or sated with belly full.
Perhaps I may not remember what I ate but my body remembers the generosity and love in which the food was given.
I remember being
Welcomed and embraced,
Comforted and consoled,
My heart nourished.

It is a celebration of nature,
A cycle of seed, growth, harvest, and preparation
Recognizing and respecting the circle of life.
We acknowledge the sun, and the rain, and the fertile soils,
The passing of the seasons.
We recognize the sacrifice of the animals given for our good.
We are thankful for
Our beloved planet and all its gifts
So freely given.

It’s a celebration of tradition.
A gathering cast in time
To be remembered and honoured
Season after season,
Generation after generation.
A rhythm of lives past that never forgets
As we pass on our skills.

It’s a celebration of culture,
Of diversity and unity.
I remember who I am
And where I come from.
I praise who you are
And where you come from.
I travel the world
Tasting its variety and goodness,
Raw or prepared,
Simple or exotic.
It is an opportunity to applaud you and your life.

It’s a celebration of time,
A pause,
An acknowledgement of each other
In our busy lives.
We meet together in gratitude
As we greet and thank those that laboured,
Farmer or cook,
Gave of themselves
For these gifts before us.
Sometimes we choose a day or moment
And mark it special,
Happy Birthday to you,
Merry Christmas,
And we create rites and rituals that intensify
Its meaning and importance
Not only for us but for future generations.
We hope to always remember
To value each other and our contributions
For our better good and fulfillment. 

The Autumn of My Life

In the Autumn of my life may I remember that this is when one’s true colours come out in all their showy splendour. My beauty glows in scarlets and golds laced with hints of the past green of yesterdays. I blaze and my brilliance can take your breath away. I can only stand in awe at the majesty of it all.

Even as they fall from the trees, the leaves dance to their end in swirling, twirling eddies of colour. Such joy in their descent. I dance with them.

But the show of glory isn’t over yet.

I watch my grandchildren playing in the leaves on the ground. That’s when they’re the most fun for running and leaping, rolling and tossing in arms of brilliance. I join them in play too. And we laugh. And laugh some more. For what is life if we have forgotten how to laugh and play?

I used to say summer was my favourite season but maybe now it’s fall. It’s when the richness of a life well-lived comes to its peak of brilliance.

Before the quiet slumber of winter comes, let me revel in this season of beauty and wear my colours with pride and gratitude. And a whole lot of merriment. And add a dab of silliness just for fun.