personal, prose


A while ago, I had some pretty serious depression. And I knew it was depression for a lot of reasons, but most disturbingly, I had lost complete interest in music.
(This blog has been some wonderful therapy.)

Over the last week, I have felt moved to spontaneously sing love songs. I haven’t done this for a very long time, when I think about it, and, admittedly, it was over chocolate. But still, it was a very good sign.

I confess, though, there was some slight collateral damage…

Me: (opening fridge and seeing the chocolate chip hot cross buns I had forgotten about. My heart bursting into the chorus of “Silly Love Songs” by Paul McCartney and Wings.)

(notes dripping smiles)

Husband: (in another room) Awwww, I love you too, Honey.
(Pause. A very distinct pause).
Did I hear you open the fridge?

I kid you not. He actually asked me that. And then he said:
Are you actually singing to the hot cross buns?

Now kids, we will be married for twenty two years this June. That is a whole other post that I probably won’t write. But, I will say, we are at a point where we can laugh heartily at our foibles, rather than be so offended by them. Well, in this scenario, I can only speak for myself when I say that I wasn’t offended.

I am pretty sure he was laughing, too. And not in that sympathy way…pretty sure…

(I did find it alarming, however, that he knew exactly what was happening without witnessing any of it. Come to think of it, being a sort of introvert, that kind of offends me.)

But I really did think it would be a one off deal. The whole thing surprised me. Until a couple of days later, after we had a glorious evening meal outside in the spectacular autumnal caress of divine weather known as autumn – he had cooked up a lovely, well balanced summer meal for himself, and I had a punnet of strawberries and a snickers bar, you know, the things I would imagine you would pick from the trees in the garden of Eden.

I took our dirty dishes (or in my case, packaging) inside.

my only sunshine,
you make me happy…
is, of course, not what was

Poetry, reblog

So after FFP and I figured out how to share this, because I am a bit share illiterate, and we are staring at our screens wondering where the ‘reblog’ button went…I am giving this a go…

If you are so inclined, click on this. I thought it was a gorgeous piece. And by piece, I mean the poem, as lovely as the artwork is.

(Also, I love that it’s not on Valentine’s Day).


Enigmas like this Don’t come ’round every bend: How best he be told, (In language aptly bold) Of the love, The constant LOVE I have for the storm of him? My impassions brimmed, I aim at words to tell it all, Make other love-claimers ashamed, Inadequate– Though even my claim is not Commensurate To the […]

via Alp — Fitful, Fearful, Phantasmal


personal, Poetry

tonight, while 5 year old niece performs surgery…

on her owl backpack,

“Doctor Vanessa,

she does have blood in her wing

so she’ll be fine.

But there’s no milk

or strawberries

or blue berries.

Or furpleberries…”

“But she’s allergic to furpleberries” I remind her.

“Oh yeah, don’t give her furpleberries”.

Serious silence sinews our thoughts together.


“Dr Vanessa,

I took off her heart

so she won’t be sick anymore.”


“Why, Dr Bailee,

you’re a genius…”


After contemplating the important work we’ve accomplished,

eight year old niece decides we need a song. Her currently favourite song.

(If you are so inclined, please sing and dance with us):



(featured image artwork by Dr Bailee)



Fiction, prose

safer ground (part two)


She didn't say anything.
Why wasn't she saying anything?
But she had.
She just couldn't hear her.
She had always heard her through her heart, and now
it was frozen to her cheeks.

He lifted her up as her chest was caving in.
He sang instead. The words she had taught him when they met, 
years before.
The ones she had heard from her mother's friend. Before they
never saw him again.

"Little girl, there's safer ground..."
That ground. Rising up out of the sea of him.

mother they are coming again
they come to shoot what we already lost
mother they are coming again
our silver covered by their rust

father they are coming again
they come to jail the things that i have seen
father they are coming again
burning minds to keep the ruin clean

no one is around

„little girl there’s safer ground
 follow the sea and you will find that place
 little girl there’s safer ground
 come take your years and put them in their hands“
Christian, personal, Poetry

it poemed through your death…


…the colour from her dream,

it drained right through dimensions,

the syntax, and the stream.

Euphonious not to mourners

the notes unveiled in grief,

but heaven writes the harmonies

and descants of relief.

A young life filled with purpose

and at peace with what was granted,

the air broke into sombre tears

and drenched our hearts enchanted.

Our thoughts fragmented bloodlessly,

were washed and torn united,

we shared the pieces silently

a mosaic of love requited.

We will never be the same again

for all the death we’ve seen,

my heart is full of unexplained

it bows to deeds unseen…


(This was the recessional song for young Tyler’s funeral. That whole experience was incredibly moving. We hadn’t been in touch for a while as he had moved away. His Dad shared the story that a couple of weeks before his accident, his girlfriend had a dream that he died. She was, of course, really upset by it and discussed it with Tyler. He talked about what he would want if it actually happened. One of the things that came out was that he wanted to be an organ donor. So as of that morning, his Dad informed everyone during his tribute, that two men had been saved by his kidneys…)

personal, Poetry

what are the words for mothers’ day?

ponders myself

a day that’s already bled in
(365 times Hallmark)
to our psyches’ movement
through mountained plains

perpetual translating
of the countenanced refrains
that echo
after birth.

The depth obfuscated, unsung
we play punctiliously with undone
and the cardium layers hold hands
tremoring with the ache
of a thousand forms.

For nothing is what it seams
we wake from wrongly so/ewn dreams
in that cold sweat of generations
we honour with strange venerations
those undeserving.

And there’s no way to finish these lines
kaleidoscoped mystery of a child’s eyes…



My beautiful mother in the 60s before she was married. Always loving on everyone. One of my biggest regrets was never recording her angelic singing voice. She won’t let me now! We’ll see…


Fiction, Poetry

sometimes two darks make a light

he wore his strobe light

to precise his own sight

incising surreal

into a savoury byte


she wore lightning cloud

it fireworked the shroud

the diaphanous shield

of cataract crowd


they met late one noon

not a decade too soon

their time in half life

when lit by half moon


they laughingly shied

and together they cried

out relief of their failing

when hopeless they tried



endless illumination

their timing instead

fuelled love’s fascination-


of dark with the dark

love’s company,

divine spark…


Christian, Poetry

the aching sweetness of pierce…

in childhood.

Those tears –

in hovered cadence,

epiphanies’ radiance,

beyond the reckoning,
the reasoning
of fractured eyes
and thwarted whys,

bursting up through the belies,

the linguistic instant
of heartfelt cries


(I remember seeing this on television when it was first performed. and the music wrecked me (no pun intended). This section was my favourite part. For those of you who practice it, God bless your Easter meditations.)



Christian, personal, Poetry

you know I’ll only say wiedersehen

what a recondite day for a funeral

the sky the colour of wind

with it’s abstruse way of connecting

and a restless need to rescind


the boundaries of pre conceived notions

that death is a part of life

we weren’t created to be separated

I’ll never stop thinking we’re rife


with the agonies of dimensional distance

cunning, convoluted and cruel

I thank God for blessed reunions

and perfuming the stench of death’s fuel.



Christian, personal, prose

the book with no names

Easter Tuesday 018.jpg

So for those of you who don’t know, I am married to a Lutheran pastor.

I could seriously write a book about what life has been like in the last 20+ years living this reality. The thing is, if I did, I would have to kill everyone first. Because changing names wouldn’t be enough.
I jest, of course!

But, these people are dear to my heart. My husband is the pastor of five churches and our churches are small. And of course, microcosms of greater realities. There are times I have enjoyed worshipping with big congregations. The fellowship can be incredible. However, for people with anxiety issues, being welcomed into a smaller community has been an extremely healing thing for them, and we have witnessed beautiful things that literally brings tears to my eyes.

One of the highlights for me was when a very reclusive gentleman, who has some serious anxiety issues for a number of reasons, finally joined our smallest congregation. To say that it terrifies him to join a large group of people, would be a grave understatement. So to see his ongoing healing from the love in that community, has been nothing short of amazing. Last year, he called our house to wish me a happy birthday on behalf of their little church. It is hard for me to put into words what that meant to me, because I know the agony he would have gone through before he made that call. (Please don’t tell him I wrote about him, he would die! 🙂 )

I truly feel blessed I am a part of all of this. And I will always be proud to be a part of these families. Warts and all.

(And thank you WordPress, for being another “family” I have come to love.)



the journey doesn’t end here…

But she really did love those tiles.

They were hand made

and placed with loving

carelessness, in haste.


She picked them for practicality

for their water proof qualities

she thought,

(not thinking about salt water, of course),

and their quirkiness,

something different for everyone.


He helped her peel them off,

“it’s time for a renovation”, he said.

And they exchanged those looks.

The knowing one she thought she always had

he now wore.


Because really, he knew this was no renovation.

It was simply an unveiling.

(‘Cursum Perficio’ was engraved on tiles in the entrance to Marilyn Monroe’s last home. It wasn’t actually in mind when I started writing this, it came afterwards, hence the title…)

song meaning





(I took this photo yesterday of my father. He still works as a landscaper, at 83! He helps to take care of this beautiful property for his friend, who died a couple of years ago. He helps to lovingly tend it for her children who currently live elsewhere.)


your whispering  legacy haunted

those delightfully enchanted trees

they bashfully danced to the harmony’s spell

you cast on ebullient breeze.

gentle tread of your variegated spirit

autumned now with so much grace

I know you have moved on in silence

but our movement here follows your trace.

the impression of a loved one’s silhouette

caught tenderly in a still frame

is a clear photographic injustice

to the care that he takes in your name…

personal, Poetry



remember the b sides

she said it wasn’t cold

she left her coat at home

her thoughts

in large capital letters

big enough to wrap around her

keeping her warm.

She can hear the voice

while she cradles the precious shell,

the pearl of forgiveness growing within.

She won’t go back.

Animated by the vibrancy of the connected overlooked

she invites others

to the b side.






Christian, personal, Poetry

onominapia 137

My soul in sympathy

to those expressing grief –

I marvel at the articulation

of WordPress poets

who graciously lavish beauty

beyond horizons.

But all I can do

is exhale

the outline of a sigh,

knowing they will fill it

with words lit by transcendence

and an ancient promise,

because my own soul is heavy,

and this snow falls in

like the sighing watch of the night…

Romans 8:26


photo: Chase Miller



Christian, personal, Poetry


your name

written so beautifully on the map

to leave a lasting impression

and reminds me of a song

(I never understood),

your people so rare

they’re fireflies as we pass

filling my eyes with tears of relief,

the embrace of the scent of a dreamed past.

this floury cloud

clothes me in the silk

of your colours undiminished

by winter’s gloom –

these gifts so sharply edged

but now willingly, intuitively blurred and fall softly

into these waiting arms of gratitude

(this video is beautiful. And I agree with the sentiment of the video producer, no one place is God’s country. Well, except that Sedona, may, just may, have made me question that a little…)