If you had a million dollars to give away, who would you give it to?

Daily writing prompt
If you had a million dollars to give away, who would you give it to?

If you had a million dollars to give away, who would you give it to?

The key word here is “who”. Who suggests an individual – children (just choose one and make the rest jealous), grandchildren (copy the above), a friend (wow, that would make the family happy). So, let us choose another set of words – If you had a million dollars to give awaywhat would you do with it? Now that’s a better question.

Look at the painting above. Bas Bleu was the name given to French women intellectuals who often wore dark blue stockings to show their difference. But check out Moo’s bas bleu – she has blue stockings, but not shoes. No shoes is a sign of poverty (or extreme holiness). I’ll go for the former. I would give that bas bleu and all her colleagues and lookalikes a chance at some security and a more secure intellectual future.

How? I would set up a needs-based scholarship fund for female students with special needs – indigenous women from the first nations, single mothers who need help, support, and encouragement, older women returning to the university, some of them with little or no financial support. This, I believe, is one of the most important things we need to do to improve our university system. A million dollars at invested at 5% would return $50,000 a year. That would provide five scholarships at $10,000 for five financially deserving women.

Can it be done? Of course it can. I know. I have already set the wheels in motion for such a fund to be established when my beloved and I have had our last twitch and fallen off the perch. Alas, the sum invested is a lot less than $1,000,000. I wish I had more to give. But every good thought counts and every dollar, to a person in need, is a step along the way.

What was the hardest personal goal you’ve set for yourself?

Daily writing prompt
What was the hardest personal goal you’ve set for yourself?

What was the hardest personal goal you’ve set for yourself?

Oscar Wilde once wrote – “Be yourself. Everyone else is taken.” The Ancient Greeks had a similar phrase – “Know thyself.” Well, to know myself, and then to be myself, are two of the hardest personal goals I have ever undertaken.

Why? Because I was educated in a system that wanted young people, boys and girls, to look alike, and think alike, and dress alike. That’s why school uniforms were designed. That’s why we marched into chapel at the same time every day, and sang the same hymns every day, and said the same prayers every day. Rote learning was a key element in this. I remember, age four, chorusing my two times table: “1 x 2 is 2. 2 x 2 is 4. 3 x 2 is 6. 4 x 2 is 8.” Very little room for thinking. Nobody would ever answer the question “Why is 2 x 2 4?” “What makes this so important?” “Why do we have to learn it?” The stock answer: “Little boys should be seen and not heard.” Or “Shut up and just do it.” Or “Why can’t you be like other children?”

This type of early school life, with anyone who stepped out of line, getting punished, often physically, was not conducive to lateral thinking or freedom of thought. Anyone who moved aside from the prescribed patterns was moved back into them, very quickly. The WWII convoy theory – the class moves at the speed of the slowest ship. No stragglers permitted. This later morphed into the slogan “No child left behind.”

But they were. And they were left outside, looking in. And if they didn’t buckle down, they suffered the shame of expulsion from the herd or the flock or the convoy. And once expelled, and branded as stupid or a trouble-maker, it was very difficult to get back in.

At what stage did I become myself? I am not really sure. First there was the phase of knowing I didn’t belong. Then there was the phase of realizing that my mind didn’t react like the minds of other people. Why not? Well, for one reason, on IQ tests, even the simple ones, I often saw multiple answers. But there was only ever one correct answer. Say what the Inquisitor wanted to hear and it was “Good dog, have a biscuit”. Give an answer other than the one he (or she) was looking for, and it was “Bad dog.” Then your nose was rubbed in the dirt.

Here’s a simple example from this year’s Farmer’s Almanac. Which is the odd one out? Tennis, pickle ball, badminton, squash… ” Oh dear, I think there were five, but I have forgotten the fifth. The correct answer – pickle ball, – it’s the only one played with a paddle not a racquet. GOOD DOG. How about badminton – it’s the only one played with a shuttlecock. BAD DOG. Or squash – its the only one played without a net between the players. BAD DOG. The Farmer’s Almanac was fun, but being judged sub-standard at age 11, and again at age 15, for coming up with creative, and perfectly logical alternative answers, was not much fun.

So – the most difficult personal goals – 1. to know yourself. 2. to grow into yourself. 3. to appreciate the wonderful, unique nature of who and what you truly are. 4. to then rejoice in the creativity of your own individuality.

What would you do if you lost all your possessions?

Daily writing prompt
What would you do if you lost all your possessions?

What would you do if you lost all your possessions?

When I look at the growing number of refugees across the world, I wonder what would happen if such a disaster fell upon me. Then I look at the forest fires, out in Western Canada, in BC and Alberta, and wonder what we would do, what we would we pack, how would we manage, if the order to evacuate our home came suddenly upon us. When the Bocabec fires burned in New Brunswick, I felt the stress and distress of several of our close friends who were forced to evacuate. Then I thought that, really, it’s not a question of if, but of when. And this was my dream.

            … with my angel … face to face … the one I have carried within me since the day I was born … the black-one … winged like a crow … the one that hovers over me as I lie asleep … the one who wraps me in his feathered wings when I am alone and chilled by the world around me … the one who flaps with me on his back when I can walk no further and who creates the single set of footprints that plod their path through the badlands when I can walk no more …
            … ‘the truth’ my black angel says to me … I say ‘he’ but he is a powerful spirit, not sexed in any way I know it … and yet I think of him as ‘he’ …awesome in the tiny reflection he sometimes allows me to glimpse of his power and glory … for, like Rilke, I could not bear meeting his whole angelic being face to face … as I cannot bear the sun, not by day, and not in eclipse … not even with smoked glass … when earthly values turn upside down and earth takes on a new reality … wild birds and bank swallows roosting at three in the afternoon … and that fierce heat draining from the summer sky … I remember it well … and the dog whimpering as a portion of the angel’s wing erased the sun until an umber midnight ruled … a simple phenomenon, the papers said … the moon coming between the earth and the sun …but magic … pure magic … to we who stood on the shore at Skinner’s Pond and sensed the majesty of the universe … more powerful than anything we could imagine … and the dog … taking no comfort from its human gods … whimpering at our feet …
            … I saw a single feather floating down and knew my angel had placed himself between me and all that glory … to protect me … to save me from myself … and I saw that snowflake of an angel feather bleached from black to white by some small trick of the sunlight … and knowledge filled me … and for a moment I felt the glory … the magnificence … and there are no words for that slow filling up with want and desire as light filters from the sky and the body fills with darkness … and I was so afraid … afraid of myself … of where I had been … of where I was … of what I might return to … of my lost shadow … snipped from my heels …
            … I don’t know how I heard my angel’s words … ‘the time of truth is upon you’ … ‘all you have ever been is behind you now’ … ‘naked you stand here on this shore … like the grains of sand on this beach … your days are numbered by the only one who counts’ … I heard the sound of roosting wings … but I heard and saw nothing more … I felt only midnight’s cold when the chill enters the body and the soul is sore afraid …
            … ‘it is the law’ my angel said … I saw a second feather fall … ‘and the law says man must fail … his spirit must leave its mortal shell and fly back to the light’ … ‘blood will cease to flow … the heart will no longer beat … the spirit must accept and go’ … ‘do not assume… nobody knows what lies in wait’ … ‘blind acceptance … the only way … now …  in this twilight hour …  now when you are blind … only the blind shall receive the gift of sight’ … ‘all you have … your wife … your house … your car … your child … everything you think of as yours I own … and on that day … I will claim it from you and take it for my own … now I can say no more’ …
            … the sea-wind rose with a sigh and one by one night’s shadows fled … the moon’s brief circle sped from the sun … light returned, a drop at a time, sunshine flowing from a heavenly clepsydra filled with light …
            … birds ceased to circle … a stray dog saw a sea-gull and chased it back to sea … and the sun … source of all goodness … was once again a golden coin floating in the sky …
            … on my shoulder a feather perched … a whisper of warmth wrapped its protective cloak around my shoulders … for a moment, just a moment, I knew I was the apple of my angel’s eye … and I hoped and still hope that one day I might meet him again and understand …

What details of your life could you pay more attention to?

Daily writing prompt
What details of your life could you pay more attention to?

What details of your life could you pay more attention to?

I will be eighty next birthday. Sadly, I am aware that my life is moving slowly towards its endgame. The major pieces have left the chessboard and I, the King, shuffle forward, a step at a time, then one to the side, and sometimes one back, as my two faithful pawns age with me. The end is never far away at this stage of the game. One slip, one misjudgment, and it’s checkmate, mate. So – how to respond to today’s prompt?

Quite simply, I am now paying more attention to my death than to my life. I have already updated my will, and I have given power of attorney to a person I trust. I have spoken with my financial adviser, and he has given me a Will Companion. It contains a whole series of details to fill in – bank accounts, passwords, online contacts, clubs, societies, social media, precious objects, and, last of all, a page of funeral instructions. That was an eye-opener – everything from funeral home, instructions for service, cremation of burial, plot number or scattering, church, financial arrangements – well, I didn’t panic, but wow, it made me feel very uncomfortable.

In the first 24 hours after my death, someone will have to make between 40 and 70 decisions, all impacting the manner of my departure. If I want things done the way I want, versus the way they might happen, and if I want to choose burial vs cremation, order of service, hymns, obituary, family friends, acknowledgements, then – according to those who know – I should be doing it now. So, big decision, I went online and studied the recommendations of my local funeral home.

I have already filled in several online pages of forms and I have asked them to contact me, which they will do soon. Then we will talk over all those details that I so desperately want to avoid. But death is inevitable. To face it and accept it and to prepare for it while I am still alive is the bravest and the best and the most sensible thing I can do. So, here I go, paying attention, while still alive, to the little details that will surround my death.

The inevitable? Yes. Above, in the opening photo, you can see a Mexican Death Mask. The small pearl at the centre is the seed from which the baby will grow. The seed is the round spot beneath youthful beauty’s nose. then comes wrinkled old age, and wrapped around is the white skull, the final beauty, which I will never see, but others may. Writing these words, I do not feel sad or gloomy. I have lived in Oaxaca, Mexico, and know the powerful, loving emotions that surround the Day of the Dead. I feel grateful that I have good friends to advise me and to stand by me and my family. And when, not if, the inevitable happens, I will have done my best to be prepared. Pax amorque.

What aspects of your cultural heritage are you most proud of or interested in?

Daily writing prompt
What aspects of your cultural heritage are you most proud of or interested in?

What aspects of your cultural heritage are you most proud of or interested in?

This dragon is not a dragon, well, it’s not a Welsh Dragon anyway. So, let us change the question – What aspects of your cultural heritage are you least proud of? Now that changes the perspective totally. I guess that I am least proud of the fact that, although born in Wales, I was never allowed to speak Welsh as a child. I speak with an English accent because I was sent to school in England so I wouldn’t even speak English like a person born in Wales. I am not proud of that aspect of my cultural heritage.

But I am proud of one little thing that stems from that Welsh cultural heritage – learning how to speak Welsh in my old age. It’s not easy to do that, here in Canada, but the internet carries many blessings, one of which is the learning of ‘foreign’ languages. Strange that Welsh should be considered a foreign language for somebody born in Wales. Something else not to be proud of, I suppose. Here’s my story.

Here I sit, an old man now, in front of my computer, learning at last my mother tongue, Welsh. I have discovered the beauty of simple words, not so much their meaning as their sound, the way they flow, the poetry of remembered rhythms: Cwmrhydyceirw, the Valley of the Leaping Stag, though legend has it that ceirw was really cwrw, and cwrw is beer, and its real name was the Valley of the Brown Stream Frothing like Beer.

Words have their own music, even if you cannot pronounce them properly: Mae hi’n bwrw glaw nawr yn Abertawe / it’s raining now in Swansea. Mae’r tywydd yn waeth heddiw / the weather’s worse today. Bydd hi’n dwym ddydd Llun / it will be warm on Monday. Place names also have their own magic: Llantrisant, Llandaff, Dinas Powis, Gelligaer, Abertawe, Cas Newydd, Pen-y-bont … Meaning changes when you switch from one language to another:  gwyraig ty / a housewife, gwr ty / a househusband, a concept of equality that has ruled Welsh lives since long before Julius Caesar invaded Albion, coming from Gaul with his legions in 55 BC.

The photographer asks me to smile. He wants me to say ‘cheese’ so I say it in French [fromage], then Spanish [queso], then Italian [formaggio]. “No, no, no,” he shakes his head. “I want to catch the real you. Try again.” So I say it in Welsh [caws]. He checks the memory card in his camera and looks puzzled.

“Your facial expression changes each time you speak a different language,” he tells me. “Please, won’t you just say ‘cheese’ in English? I want the real you.”

French, Spanish, Italian, then Welsh: all different and he wants the real me. Each language carves a new a map into my face.  Am I a clown, then, a comedian, a chameleon to wear so many masks and to slip so easily from one to another? And who am I, this stranded immigrant, marooned on a foreign shore that has finally become my home? Who or what is the real me?

“Cheese!” I say in desperation. “Got it,” he grins. “At last, I have captured the real you.”

What’s your #1 priority tomorrow?

Daily writing prompt
What’s your #1 priority tomorrow?

What’s your #1 priority tomorrow?

I have a couple of priorities, of course. I am not sure which is #1. Maybe I’ll ask the readers to tell me which one my top priority should be.

I guess my first priority is to wake up. That is very important at my age. A couple of my friends went to bed and never woke up. So, I guess an important priority, perhaps #1, is to actually wake up.

Having woken up, my next priority is to roll over, sit up, pull back the blankets, and actually attempt to get out of bed. This isn’t always easy. My back sometimes stiffens up overnight. Or else my hips don’t want to function. Then there’s the gammy knee I hurt playing rugby all those years ago. Then there’s the quality of the light – do I need a light on? If I do, I must reach for it without cramping up. Early morning cramp is not a good thing and really complicates the next step.

If I am in the high bed, then lowering legs, touching the floor with toes, and using arms to push up the rest of the way is relatively easy. But if I am in the low bed, I must turn sideways towards my bad knee, place my feet at an angle, and do a one handed pushup in order to find the right balance to get to my feet. That means watching out for slippery carpets. I do not want to fall. Sometimes I call on the aid of my faithful teddy bear and, by half throttling him, I manage to get that extra leverage.

Oh dear, I forgot another priority – condition of ageing bladder. All of the above activities are dependent upon the state of the union. If that is a problem, then I must call for assistance – and I hate doing that.

Next priority – the trip to the bathroom. I wish I hadn’t said ‘trip’, because sometimes I do. The effects of that can be a sudden grasp at something solid, a stubbed toe, a twisted something or other, or, worst of all, another fall. We certainly don’t want that to happen, especially if we are suffering from what Max Boyce [remember him?] once called ‘twisted legs and tails’.

Other priorities follow when we have reached the bathroom. I won’t go into those. Nor will I mention the perils of the return journey, the difficulties of getting dressed, the embarrassment when I fail with the patented sock-pull machine and have to wiggle my socks off, one by one, and then put them on again.

So, here I am, fully dressed, standing at the top of the stairs… one hand on the hand-rail, one hand on my trusty walking-stick, and down I go, hopefully one step at a time.

So: What’s my #1 priority tomorrow? You tell me. Which would you choose? And before you answer, just remember Dylan Thomas’s words ‘for whether we last the night or no, is surely only touch and go’. Touch and go, tip and run – I remember them well. And luckily I remember waking up this morning. I would hate to face the alternative – not waking up.

What brands do you associate with?

Daily writing prompt
What brands do you associate with?

What brands do you associate with?

I have been thinking about my parents a great deal recently. Earlier this week it was my my mother’s birthday. She would have been 110 years old. Funny how, as we age, our own minds turn back to the past. So, today’s prompt – What brands do you associate with? – gets an instant answer – none really.

And yet, and yet, there is one. A long, long time ago, my father let me into a big secret: all the shops in our little sea-side town had signs that announced – Jones and Son, or Roberts and Son, or Edwards and Son. “Well, son,” he said, “I have a son, and it’s you. It is time I showed you my little secret.” He took out his pen, unscrewed the cap, and carefully drew an M. Then he drew a W beneath it, taking care that the ends joined neatly. Finally he drew the letter J. It bisected the letters so that the drawing in my painting above was produced: blue-black ink on white paper. “What is it dad?” I asked. “It’s my brand,” he proudly said. “Those are my initials. “I would love to establish something, use this as a brand name, and have ‘and Son‘ written beneath it.”

I didn’t understand. I can’t remember how old I was, but it was in the days when Shorty the Deputy [I pronounced it De-Putty, much to the amusement of my elders] Sherriff ruled the range in my colored comic books. “A brand? Why do you want a brand? Are you going to own a ranch and brand your cattle?” That ended the conversation. The brand was never mentioned again, until, now, but I have never forgotten it.

So, there is one brand with which I associate myself, my father’s brand. I entitled the painting remeMBEr in honour of my father, of his failed dreams, and of the dreams he achieved, including the initials MBE [Member of the British Empire]. The medal itself, together with the letter from King George VI is included among my family treasures. So, there we go – that’s the brand I associate with, my father’s brand.

Do you see yourself as a leader?

Daily writing prompt
Do you see yourself as a leader?

Do you see yourself as a leader?

First, I want a definition of leadership. Here’s one – Leadership is the ability of an individual to influence and guide followers or members of an organization, society, or team. Leadership often is an attribute tied to a person’s title, seniority or ranking in a hierarchy.

Let us begin with the last sentence. Leadership often is an attribute tied to a person’s title, seniority or ranking in a hierarchy. I am without a title, I have no seniority and, furthermore, I do not belong in any hierarchy. So, having nothing onto which to hitch my leadership, I am clearly not a leader. In addition, I can say, in all honesty, that I have no followers. Where on earth would they follow me? I have no wish to go anywhere, let alone to lead other people into the wilderness that so often surrounds us.

So, what am I, if I am not a leader under that definition. Am I a follower? I doubt it. I cannot remember following anyone in thought, word, or deed. A maverick, then? Possibly. All in all, I have always felt that, rather than ‘belonging’, I was outside the hierarchical cultures in which I found myself and was merely an outsider, looking in through the window and watching and observing others as they boldly led, or meekly followed.

So being neither a leader nor a follower, what might I be? Well, I am a creative person. I see the world in a very different light. I also encourage others to see things differently and to present different points of view while embracing their own authenticity. I see myself as an innovator. I see myself as a problem solver. But my solutions have all too often come up against the red taped inhibitions that bind those hierarchical cultures into their unbending, iron strangleholds that limit or deny fresh visions of truth and beauty.

I always remember a story my grandfather told me about one of his experiences during WWI. “See that pile of sand over there?” “Yes, Sarge.” “Well, move it over here.” “Yes, Sarge.” “Right. Well done. Now move it back again.” “Yes, Sarge.”

Ah yes, leadership. And in those days to disobey a direct order was to volunteer yourself for ‘forty days in prison’ or ‘back to bread and water’ or, even worse, to qualify you for a blindfold and a firing squad.

How would you describe yourself to someone who can’t see you?

Daily writing prompt
How would you describe yourself to someone who can’t see you?

How would you describe yourself to someone who can’t see you?

Well, that would depend on why they couldn’t see me. “Those who have eyes, but cannot see.” Many have stood beside or before me, looked into my eyes, as I looked into theirs, and never saw me. “The most difficult role in the play is that of the fool,” said Don Quixote, “for he who would play the fool must never be one. So many people saw me deliberately playing the role of the fool and forgot the above quote. They also forgot what Antonio Machado wrote: “The eye you see is not an eye because you see it, it is an eye because it sees you.” And there you have it: why would I bother describing myself to people of that ilk, so stupid and blind with their own limited wisdom, that they couldn’t see me anyway.

Keenan’s Well, by Seamus Heaney, is a wonderful poem. It tells us about Rosie Keenan, his blind from birth neighbor, who played the piano and sang all day. She let them touch her books, like books of wallpaper, and feel the letters of braille by means of which she was able to read. They allowed her to touch their faces with her oh-so-sensitive fingers, and she said she saw them, as well as knowing them by their voices. When he read her a poem about Keenan’s well, she told him that she, blind from birth, ‘could see the sun shining at the bottom of it now.”

How would you describe yourself to someone who can’t see you? I wouldn’t waste my time and energy trying to do so.

Was today typical?

Daily writing prompt
Was today typical?

Was today typical?

So, I Googled the meaning of typical and here are some of the synonyms that appeared. Standard, normal, stock, representative, usual, conventional, characteristic, regular, orthodox. Following the meanings offered, yes, today was typical. Dark at midnight, dawn breaking about 5:30 AM, full sun by 7:30 AM, noon – dead on 12 o’clock, as usual. And so it goes on. The weather may change, but the basic structure of the days, although also cyclical, growing longer then shorter, in terms of daylight hours, does not change much. Therefore, yes, by this definition, it was a typical day. But was it?

For creative people, each day is different and each moment, minute, hour of each day is different. Creatives listen, observe, feel, touch, delve beneath the surfaces of things, and see things in a lateral multiplicity that means everything is evolving, changing, growing, decaying. Creative people look and listen (with or without mother). They imitate, and from that imitation they create and re-create. And creativity moves way beyond the standard, normal, stock, representative, usual, conventional, characteristic, regular, and orthodox. If it doesn’t, it’s not creative, it’s just standard, normal, stock, representative, usual, conventional, characteristic, regular, orthodox.

Was today typical? Well, it’s not over yet. But up until now, it has only been typical in terms of its intimate creative typicality. The light has changed with the changing sky and clouds. Rain fell, and changed the tones of the colors around. The light changed, but so did the scents that arose from the warm earth with its carpet of grass and the tarmac and concrete, its heat suddenly cooled. The ground glistened, spider-webs sparkled, birds sang when the sun returned, flowers tossed their heads, in slightly different ways from yesterday, when the wind was warm. Now, damp and shining, their dance-steps and rhythms also changed. Now the world is wet. The trees are waving their fans and have caused a slight wind to arise and rustle their leaves. This day is full of creative magic – but only for those who have ears to hear and eyes to see. For too many people, alas, yes, this is, after all, just another typical, humdrum, boring old day. As W. H. Davies wrote: “What is this life if, full of care, we have no time to stand and stare?” Creatives make that time – and they live among the blessed.