January 24, 2013
Yes, boys and girls, my friend Lucky Me is now safe and sound at my home… our home… in the Laurentian mountains. But the poor little thing had a long and perilous voyage.
First of all, as soon as I adopted him, he was stuffed into a plastic bag and thrown on a plane in St Albans, UK. After landing in Montreal, he was loaded on a truck and brought to the post office, here in Mont-Tremblant, where my letter carrier picked him up and proceeded to deliver him to my mailbox.
This is where it gets tragic…
Yesterday, the letter carrier put Lucky Me in box number 4-A but left me the key for box 4-B (to understand the whole box/key thing, see the pictures in this post). Which means Lucky had to spend all night in a metal prison at minus 42 degrees Celsius (minus 43 F), and had to wait all morning, today, for the letter carrier to drive by and switch him from box 4-A to box 4-B.
But that’s not the worst of it.
As you can see, it’s obvious that at some point, the bag was ripped open and closed up again — clumsily — with transparent tape.
Who did this?
Someone at the airport must have suspected something crooked because Lucky Me had a one-inch gash right beside his tail, underneath the tag (cute tail, eh?).
Did they think Lucky was smuggling drugs? diamonds? explosives? human organs?
So without the use of any anesthesia whatsoever, I quickly stitched his wound while he was still numb from over 24 hours spent in the freezing cold. The little guy’s a trooper!
In view of all this, I can’t help but think Lucky and I were meant for each other — he’s a rock ‘n’ roll soul, used and abused, still standing and eager to move on. YESSSSS.
from Lucky and me
January 19, 2013
I had never come across the poem “Love After Love.” I had never heard of its author, poet and playwright Derek Walcott. That is, until tonight… when Lady Serendipity offered me Walcott’s words at precisely the right moment I needed them. Lady S worked her magic through another special lady, the Queen of the Pillbugs.
The Queen posted the poem on her Facebook page, a page dedicated to her blog, In the Palace of the Queen of the Pillbugs — the Queen LOVES poetry.
But enough chitchat, here’s the poem:
Love After Love
The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other’s welcome,
and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you
all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,
the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.
Of course, I googled the author and, surprise-surprise, I found out he was born in Castries, St. Lucia. This makes the poem even more touching and meaningful for me because my youngest brother André died in St. Lucia, in a motorcycle accident, in 1994. He was 37. We — me, family & friends — congregated on the island to mourn his passing, celebrate his crazy life, and bury his body at sea.
So yeah, it’s as if my little brother’s whispering the poem in my ear… making sure I remember to love my self.
Thank you, Derek Walcott.
Thank you, Serendipity.
Thank you, Queeny!
UPDATE: See how the poem touched the Queen — read her blog post here.