I think of her

and I see red

blood red

as in The Red Army Choir

I wore her red winter coat

because I liked it

We were standing in line at Massey Hall in Toronto

and there was a band of protesters forming

I looked over at them, confused

One of them yelled at me, ”Hey, you in the red coat, don’t you know better?”

I didn’t.  I was 15, going to a concert with my mom

She loved the music and didn’t care for the politics

We were here to hear them sing

We travelled two hours

on a school night, just to be here

They sang with their rich, deep voices and played a vibrant symphony

We were lifted, even as a protestor got in and started yelling at the audience

I didn’t know why these protesters were there

The choir was here for the celebration of music

I didn’t know what The Red Army was about

and I didn’t care.

I just wanted to be there with her

enjoying the moment, after the drive against the frigid sky with icy stars.

I wore her red coat

because I liked it

and it reminded me

of her

I looked for that coat

after she died

but it was gone

only to cloak my memories

Red

blood red

was her favourite colour

Bright, bold, punchy

stood out in the crowd

unlike her soft-spoken nature

I wore her red coat

because I liked it

and took the spotlight

away from her

One Sunday, at 14 years of age, I went to a Pentecostal church.

One Sunday, a young woman came to the altar crying. She had something to tell us. She stood beside the pastors, the deacons and elders, and confessed to committing a mortal sin. She had engaged in premarital sex, and was now pregnant. She was ashamed. She begged the congregation to forgive her. Every one was moaning in prayer and speaking in tongues. This was not the place for her to be.

One Sunday, I cringed for her. Where was the father of this unborn child? Why didn’t he have to get up in front of the congregation to confess his “sin”?

One Sunday, the shame, the mongering, the male dominance of the pastors, elders, and deacons all telling her what she did was so wrong. I wonder today how she ended up, if she received support or the ongoing humiliation.

One Sunday, my heart aches for women who fall under some churches’ rule and condemnation.

One Sunday, will we ever be free from the shackles of their interpretation of womanhood?

And the scribes and Pharisees brought unto him a woman taken in adultery; and when they had set her in the midst,
They say unto him, Master, this woman was taken in adultery, in the very act.
Now Moses in the law commanded us, that such should be stoned: but what sayest thou?
This they said, tempting him, that they might have to accuse him. But Jesus stooped down, and with his finger wrote on the ground, as though he heard them not.
So when they continued asking him, he lifted up himself, and said unto them, He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her. ~ King James Bible, John 8:3-7

My blog posts aren’t necessarily about copywriting, content, or graphic design. They are stories of my life, my every day. They show the real me, and reveal how I express myself through writing. I am a storyteller. I write about the real stuff that happens each day, week, or month.

If I tell you how to write copy or content, why then would you hire me? Leave the technical, creative, and grammatical details to me. Why burden you with terms and rules you don’t have time for, let alone think about?
I can tell your story on my own time with my skills and natural talents.

I manage my day successfully and get things done on time. An expert multi-tasker, I prioritize my work in a punctual and efficient manner. I am passionate about what I do, and will often get up very early to get the job done. I enjoy every minute of it as it brings me great pleasure.

In my blog, I write about issues of past lives and present day—memories, worries, and joys. My posts demonstrate how less words are used to include more detail with the right words at the right time.

So if you’re wondering why my posts are, well, so personal, it’s because that is who I am. I wear my emotions on my sleeve and need to tell you my stories.

In the meantime, get to know me. Read my posts with pleasure and understand my everyday dilemmas and concerns. I look forward to getting to know you as well. Enjoy!

The classroom was warm and stuffy. I stood before the gaggle of high school students in our rehearsal for the school musical, The Music Machine. My legs were shaking and my breath was shallow. I felt like I was under a magnifying glass being viewed by the sea of faces before me back lit by the pale, fluorescent lighting. This was my very first solo.

“In the still, of the niii…ght,” my voice trembled like a building above a speeding subway train.

I continued to sing as the piano music spilled into the room; my face turned red-hot and itchy. I managed to get through the song, but it really sounded like a staccato note on repeat. I could hear people whisper, “She’s so nervous!”

When the song ended, I ran from the front of the room and straight into the bathroom. As I burst into tears, my best friend Julie came in.

“I sounded awful!” I wailed. “How am I going to sing in front of a real audience?”

“This was the first rehearsal. You’ll do better the next time around!” Julie said consolingly.

She was right. The next rehearsal was in the church where the performance would take place. But this time, when I got on stage, the empty pews were darkened, and the spotlight blinded me from the all-seeing eyes. I found myself, through no will of my own, singing with clarity and confidence. The microphone seemed to give me power. I heard my voice echo throughout the sanctuary and it sounded magical. I held the hands of two little girls, my background singers.

“You were so good!” my friend Jodi told me on the school bus ride home. “Your voice didn’t shake at all!”

Then the final night came. I wore a soft-pink, flowing dress and low-heeled pumps. I felt a little nervous, but again, the people’s faces were blackened by the hot spot lights shining on me. The microphone lightened and amplified my voice, and an unknown force came into me and raised me up, giving me a strength and power I had never experienced before. I sang a song about gentleness, and that very word seemed to melt into my limbs.

I was in the zone. If you’ve seen the movie Soul, it explains the zone musicians and artists get into when they’re in it, carrying out their passion. Nothing can stop you. Something for me about being on stage, with a team of musicians, all performing music together, and the energy of the crowd who wants to listen to you. It lifts you to a place you can’t get to without all of it coming together as one. The blackness, the microphone, the spotlights, the music around you…. it all works.

I miss that feeling. It’s been 34 years since that performance. There’s been a few in between now and then. Hopefully I’ll get back to that place soon, shaky legs and all.

I awoke this morning to my son telling me the cat was about to jump out the bedroom window of our third floor apartment. I look and there he is, trying to push through the screen. I jumped up and yelled, “Memphis!” which only made him more determined to get out that way. He pushed through the screen and actually popped it out. I don’t know why he didn’t retreat the way he had originally gained access to the window sill. I had to grab him by the tail to haul him in since a giant train table stood in our way. A disaster was averted on New Year’s Day.

The year has barely started and I find myself frozen in time. I feel like I’m on pause. I can’t move forward and I certainly don’t want to look behind me. Maybe it’s all the anticipation collapsing in on me, and everyone saying 2021 will be so much better than the latter.

I can’t help but feel pessimistic. I’m not convinced that 2021 will be the ultimate year of satisfaction and progress. We are in the midst of a pandemic, only less than one year in (give or take, it’s hard to know when it officially began) with a vaccine that we don’t know is effective yet. A friend of mine posted that the Black Plague started around 1346 and didn’t officially end until 1353. That’s six years and between 75-200 million deaths. I feel we still have a long way to go despite our modern medicine and distancing techniques. People are people and we can’t always control the masses.

How can we have hope in times of despair? I mean, sure, it could be a lot worse. We still have safety at home, access to good food and entertainment, and medicine. But even medicine is not guaranteed with our overflowing ER clinics and exhausted front-line workers. People are crying out about their freedoms being oppressed and the vaccine being toxic.

But hope is everlasting, I think it’s in our nature in order to survive. Maybe it won’t be this year, maybe it will be in two or three years, but it is there, just not right now. People are expecting this to be done quickly when really it could take a long time, which is okay. Sometimes we just need to slow down, since the speed of our technological and inventive ways of life have given us much less patience. We are just waiting for the magic wand of this to be fixed by someone and done quickly so we can get back to our normal, pressurized way of doing things.

So we can’t gather in large groups like we used to. I’m okay with that, for now, although I do crave more human interaction in addition to my three-person household. But we need to suffer. Our generations passed have suffered way more than we have. We’ve had it easy. This is nothing compared to what they’ve gone through: world wars, starvation, poverty, severe economic depressions, shelterless, and purely oppressed. People complain about human rights being limited by having to socially distance or wear a mask, when we could have no rights at all.

With suffering comes healing, relief, and learning. We grow and gather knowledge from difficult times such as these, adapting and evolving to create a better life for everyone. We will get through this, it will just take time.