Prize-winning Heelun Coo

Earlier this year I entered an international travel writing contest presented by British heritage and travel magazine, REALM (http://www.realm-magazine.com/). As fate would have it I was runner-up out of hundreds of entries and won a two-night stay at the luxury Auchrannie Resort and Spa on the beautiful Isle of Arran in Scotland. The magazine also published my story, along with the other winners, in its August issue.

The challenge was to recount, in 500 words or less, an experience involving a British heritage site. I called upon memory and wrote the following from our trip to Scotland in 2008.

Enjoy!

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Heelun Coo

“Heelun coos? Did he just say keep an eye open for ‘heelun coos’?”

I turned to look at my partner – he just shrugged. We were on a day trip by bus from Edinburgh into the Scottish Highlands and Will, our tour guide, had an extraordinarily thick accent. What the heck was a ‘heelun coo?’

As we travelled the high roads and low roads to our ultimate destination, Glen Coe, I fixed my gaze upon the wondrously ancient rolling hills, carved into sections by low stone walls that seemed to go on forever. The fields were punctuated by myriad cotton ball lambs bouncing around their tired mothers. But I’ll be darned if I could spot the elusive ‘heelun coo.’

By the time we reached Glen Coe, Will had regaled us with epic tales of political intrigue and battles won and lost, and my mind had drifted over the rising hills picturing the murder and mayhem of centuries of tortured Scottish history. Along the way we stopped for delicious hot chocolate in Pitlochrie and a bumpy boat ride on Loch Ness. The monster proved to be as elusive as the ever mysterious ‘heelun coo!’

But it was at Glen Coe, with its dramatic landscape scooping below and towering above, that the heart of my imagination really began to beat.

Will had been preparing us for this moment the entire trip, offering up the Reader’s Digest version of the famous massacre of the sleeping Clan MacDonald by the light of a frosty moon.

“Th’ Campbells ‘old a spee...cial place in Scottish ‘istory,” he explained, and proceeded to mock spit to demonstrate the universal contempt felt for their dirty deed.

And it wasn’t that the MacDonalds were particularly saintly that made this such a heinous event. No, the Campbells had dissed “the code” of Highland hospitality by murdering their hosts in cold blood. As aptly shown by Will’s demonstration of disdain the Campbells had yet to live this moment down!

He told us that some of the MacDonalds had managed to escape that terrible night. As I sat upon a welcoming boulder and breathed in the heathered air of this storied corner of bonny Scotland I looked to the hilltops and imagined how those terrified souls might have scrambled their way to liberty on that cold February night in 1692. I wondered how far they had to go to feel safe. My ruminations were interrupted by the loping of three majestic Roe Deer through the valley floor. This led me to wonder if ‘heelun coos’ – whatever they were – had existed then too?

All too soon Will beckoned us to the bus. As we wended our way back to Edinburgh another traveller as perplexed as I finally asked the definitive question:

“What’s a heelun coo?”

Will laughed. He pointed out the bus window. As fate would have it there appeared, in that moment, our very first sighting of a mighty hairy beast with horns ... the Highland cow! ***

40-something else

Today is my birthday. I turn 40-something else. For the past several birthday's I've been turning 40-something else. But this is the birthday where I can honestly say, or perhaps most importantly feel, like I am "born again."

I love the music of John Denver, and today the lyrics for the opening verse to his beautiful "Rocky Mountain High" are going through my mind ...

"He was born in the summer of his 27th year

Coming home to a place he'd never been before.

He left yesterday behind him,

You might say he was born again.

You might say he found a key to ev'ry door."

This is how I feel today.

Okay, I'm not looking at the Rockies (though like Denver my spirit soars there), and I'm definitely not 27, but I'm feeling somehow like today is my born-again birthday; like this is where my life really begins for me. I can leave yesterday behind; the keys to every door are mine for the turning.

It's taken a lot of work; a lot of heartache; a lot of willpower during the past few years to get to this point. I am excited for my future in a way I have never been able to feel before, and I have a lot of great people in my life who have supported, and continue to support, me on this journey. Of course, there is still work to be done, but I am feeling optimistic about it. There is light at the end of of the proverbial birthing channel.

All my yesterdays have built up to this moment. It's time to unwrap the present as life begins at 40-something else ...

Happy Birth Day to me! :-)

Oblivious Idiot

They play juvenile games.

It’s all about them.

They leave in their wake

Nauseous waves of mayhem.

They hijack your life,

Think that everything’s free.

Are oblivious to the anguish

They cause you and me.

Behind lies and laughter

They hide their distress,

Causing havoc and then

We must clean up their mess.

And vacancy lights shine

So bright in their eyes

They can’t see for looking --

Everything’s a surprise!

They’ll steal your money

Make promises bold,

Then break every one

Leaving you in the cold.

And they won’t understand

What it is they did wrong.

They’ll just shoot you a wink

And that ol’ dance and song.

Cos nothing’s their fault.

Perfect victims are they

Blaming everyone else

For what grief comes their way.

So, beware of the

Oblivious idiot you see.

Run from them, don't walk,

If you want to be free.

Copyright Aimwell Enterprises 2010

It seems I've had a rash of dealings lately with people who just don't have a clue how their actions, and non-actions, take a toll on the lives of people around them. Yesterday I'd had enough and this poetic rant surfaced.

There ... got that out of my system.

Cheerz!

Not made in Japan -- Part III -- My kingdom for a horse

For most of our two-week trip to Japan we were city dwellers.

This was a challenge for me. I left city living a long time ago, preferring the more bucolic country lifestyle where I can see the stars at night; hear the calling of birds other than pigeons and drive less than 10 minutes in any direction to see a horse grazing happily in a field.

Horses are my sanity; my anchor; my passion. Like most life long horse people I caught the equine bug early, and though it took me until I was 43 to get my first horse, I had the good fortune of riding at least once a week for most of my life which offered, at the very least, an ongoing connection.

Once, for about four years, I left the horses behind foolishly thinking that it was a little girl flight of fancy that should just be abandoned. But I was totally and utterly miserable the entire time, and didn't realize how much until I ended up at the Calgary Stampede one summer and sat in the stands balling my eyes out while watching the cowgirls put their beautiful horses through their paces. I suddenly understood why I'd been feeling so empty. Needless to say I resolved there and then to indulge my love of horses again, and this conscious decision changed my life immeasurably. That's when I learned it is useless to abandon your passion because it's part of what makes you whole. Lose it and it will somehow find you again.

But I digress ...

So, here I am, in my mid 40s, still besotted by the horse and looking for traces of all things equine wherever I travel. When I do spot something my sense of child-like wonder squeals spontaneously "Ooh, horsey!" and for a few moments I am rapt, my sense of equine deprivation temporarily sated.

In Prague we went for a horse and buggy ride around the Old Town ... it was magical! In Argentina I marvelled at the gaucho games on a vast estancia I was fortunate enough to visit. While driving anywhere I scan the landscape for any evidence that the spirit equine lives.

But the experience in the areas of Japan we visited was different.

Tokyo is an exciting and vibrant city and as congested as one might expect for a city of 12 million. As most of it was destroyed during WWII it is very modern with few buildings older than 60 years. It also has many lovely gardens featuring legions of tall, lush trees, Koi-filled ponds, pagodas full-size and miniature, and traditional red-painted bridges. Of course, many of the parks surround shrines and temples, but there are also the vast grounds around the Imperial Palace. In these lovely green spaces I saw feral cats; small domestic dogs clothed in sequins; and heard the caw of many crows. But I didn't see a single horse ... not even a police horse!

Our travels outside of Tokyo, primarily by the fantastic Shinkanzen or “Bullet train” took us to Hakone (Mt. Fuji), Hiroshima and Kyoto. It is approximately two hours from Tokyo to Odawara (the stop for Hakone) and a seven-hour trip by train to Hiroshima from Odawara. Almost every single acre along the rail line is developed!! No room for a horse ...

To the west are the coastal mountains, but everything between those mountains and the ocean is pretty much a cluster of grey concrete and glass -- industrial, commercial and residential -- punctuated by the odd rice paddy. Again, no room for a horse ...

My closest encounter with a horse took place at Miyajima in the shape of a scale model of a white horse (inset) overlooking the inlet of the floating Torii gate while standing in what looks like an ancient stall. It captivated me enough that I just had to capture it in digital.

Nope ... there was not a single live horse to be seen, heard, felt or smelled anywhere for an entire two weeks in Japan.

Needless to say when I got home I buried my nose in Bear's fuzzy neck, took a deep breath of horse heaven and gave him a big hug. In my kingdom, there is a horse.

Not made in Japan -- Part II -- Oversized in the Orient

Oversized in the Orient -- (or I'll take pearls any day!)

Based on my own experience I feel it would be true to say that most Western women would have a tough time shopping for clothes in Japan.

Even though I am only 5'8" tall with a curvaceous medium-frame, by Japanese standards I am large -- and I might even say oversized. Okay, let's be honest ... I felt like a giant next to my diminutive Japanese sisters. I tried not to think about it too much, but it was a challenge not to go there when everywhere I went, particularly in Tokyo, I felt like a colossal Western slob!

And never mind thinking I could go clothes shopping to alleviate my angst. I have curves, baby! Where are you going to buy clothes for a body like mine in Japan?

I am reminded of a time, many years ago, when my youthful measurements were a tidy 34-24-37 and I was engaged to be married to a Chinese man. We were living in England at the time, and to satisfy both Western and Eastern cultures we had decided to have a white wedding in a church and then a reception in a fancy Chinese restaurant in London's Soho district. For the reception it was decided I would wear a Chinese red silk dress.

Well, my mother and I went shopping downtown and naturally we had to visit shops that specialized in Chinese garments so that I could get something authentic. The problem was that authentic didn't fit! I don't recall just how many stores we went to but I can tell you that not a single dress I tried on would fit around my curves. Even with my frame as lean as it was at the time my body was just too curvy. This distressed me very much, but in the end it didn't matter. I ended up fleeing for Canada on our wedding day. Call me the runaway bride, I guess, but the red dress actually turned out to be a symbolic way of telling me that my fiance and I just didn't fit! (And we really didn't, but that's another story.)

So, back to present day Japan and my travel wardrobe frustrations.

I didn't even bother looking for clothes to remedy my pathetic packing job. Normally while I'm on vacation I'll at least pick through a rack or two to see if I can find a little something (I enjoyed much success in Argentina). But this time there was just no point. I would just have to live in my black jeans, paddock boots and sundry tops for two sultry, sweaty weeks. So as we walked through the bustling Ginza district with its Western-inspired boutiques and department stores, I averted my eyes and focused on the purchase of something I knew I could wear quite comfortably, thank you very much, -- pearls!

Yes, we went pearl shopping in the Ginza -- window-shopped at the outrageously expensive Mikimoto and made a purchase at the more reasonable but no less fabulous, Tasaki. The girls and I, accompanied by our wary husbands, browsed the display cases with their array of shiny pearls and glittering diamonds and daydreamed about what we might actually end up taking home with us. It was pretty clear from the outset, for Jo and I at least, that we wanted a single black pearl, and we deliberated a long time over which of the four or five choices we just couldn't live without.

Jo selected a single black pearl on a gold chain; I went for something a little more elaborate -- a black pearl at the end of a gold stem with a diamond at the top, also hooked on a gold chain. Both pieces were exquisite. (Jo wore hers every evening at dinner for the rest of the trip. I won't see mine until my birthday in December.)

Our friend Sarah ruminated over a selection of gold-coloured pearls, and since her husband was at a business meeting and missing out on all the fun we took a photo of her wearing her pearls of choice so she could show him later while pleading her case (she ended up buying the pearls a week later.)

The girls and I had a lovely time shopping for our pieces of Japanese treasure -- our special momentos of a trip to the Orient. And I rather think the men enjoyed the experience too. (Their eyes were lit up the entire time, however, that could have been because of the price tag on those precious ocean gems.) Regardless, I'm pretty sure that in the end they saw the long-term value of investing in such exquisite pieces of jewelry ... especially since there would be no money spent on clothes!

Next time ... Not Made in Japan -- Part 3 -- My Kingdom for a Horse

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Not Made in Japan -- Part I

If there is such a thing as reincarnation I can say with absolute certainty that I did not, at any time, spend another life in Japan.

Now, don’t get me wrong -- my recent two-week excursion to the beautiful land of cherry blossoms and shabu shabu was most enjoyable and creatively inspiring. It coloured my thoughts and fed my imagination plenty. But I can honestly say I had no sense of belonging the entire time I was there. And there are good reasons ... funny reasons ... but you'll need to read on to find out. ;-)

In the next few blogs I’ll share a personal journey (from September 25 to October 10, 2010) that took my partner Lloyd and I to Tokyo, Hakone (Mt. Fuji), Hiroshima and Kyoto. It won’t be a travelog, but more like summary stories of occasions and experiences that left an indelible impression and tickled my funny bone during those two amazing weeks.

So, let’s get started ...

First, why a trip to Japan?

Lloyd participates in an international study group which meets twice a year in different parts of the world represented by the members of the group. Since 2008, when Lloyd started attending these meetings, we have visted the Czech Republic, Bosnia-Herzogovina, Argentina, Italy and Germany. Regrettably I haven’t written about those trips (yet), but needless to say my experiences in each of these unique destinations have left lasting impressions, provided wonderful memories and have, in their own special way, changed my life. And naturally, like most travellers, I felt more comfortable in some than in others.

Since the meetings are far from our home in Southern Ontario we usually extend the trips to include some vacation time. This way we can experience the social and cultural flavours of the area together before and after the actual business portion of the trip. Then, while Lloyd is sequestered with his study group in a hotel or office meeting room somewhere, I get to swan off with the partner program on fun day excursions to museums, cathedrals and other local attractions.

And so it was with Japan. On this occasion, however, we made travel plans with our Dutch friends, Bob and Jo (names changed to protect the innocent), whom we had met through the international group. We planned six nights in Tokyo, including the three-day business meeting, two nights in Hakone, two nights in Hiroshima, and four nights in Kyoto -- a very full trip indeed.

Preparations

The build-up to this particular trip was a little unusual for me, however. Usually I would prepare by reading up on a locale to get an idea of what to see, what to buy, where to eat, and the local culture, etc., and start planning my wardrobe/packing based on the planned activities and the forecasted weather.

On this occasion, however, I had been feeling my “woman of a certain age” status quite profoundly, having negotiated for several months a barrage of anxiety attacks courtesy of my new adventures in menopause. This almost caused me to pull the plug on my travels as self-management was posing an annoying challenge. If I couldn’t control this anxiety at home how was I going to in a foreign culture thousands of miles away? The triggers were unpredictable and this was a source of concern, especially as bouts of panic had pounced on me several times in Germany in the spring. The last thing I needed was to relive that hormonal horror and be a source of anxiety and concern for my travel companions.

Fortunately, a week before our departure, a minor miracle unfolded. After a particularly unnerving menopausal moment at the dojo in the middle of Kata class I decided enough was enough and that I had to get help ... and fast!

So the next day, after an equally unsettling moment on my horse, I carted my mess of discombobulated hormones to a local health store, spilled their confusion into the ether and listened with relief as a lovely, knowledgeable health professional calmly reassured me all was not lost. She placed a small package of blue miracle pills in my hand: "Take these, you'll feel better." Could it possibly be that simple? I wondered.

Desperate and with no where else to turn I made my purchase and promptly popped a couple of pills into my mouth. Hallelujah! Within two hours, all my symptoms were gone! In fact, over the ensuing week I couldn’t have dreamt up a panic attack if I tried! Those lovely little pills provided the peace of mind I needed to commit to the trip ... and enjoy it!

Finally comfortable with the idea of traveling, I was besieged by another conundrum ... I had been so pre-occupied with grappling the menopausal beast that I had not given a moment’s serious thought to researching my destination or, perhaps more pressingly, preparing my wardrobe for the trip.

But that's a story for another day ...

Stay tuned for Not Made in Japan -- Part 2 -- Oversized in the Orient

Veil Painting -- Going With the Flow

Today I feel moved to start writing about veil painting -- the process; the spirit; the experience of it. But I won't do it all in one sitting, of course. I'll go with the flow, like the paintings themselves, and see where we end up.

First, the space.

For the past several years I've been painting in the office upstairs -- lots of windows and light. But recently, feeling the need to pursue my creativity away from the business of life, I have moved my easel, and writing desk, into our bright, finished basement. Decorated in neutral tones it has everything I need in creature comforts to allow me to create to my heart's content.

The bar has a sink and a counter where I can wash my brushes and mix paints. There's a washroom so I don't have to run all the way upstairs ;-) and a fireplace for when it gets a bit chilly. It's a pleasant setting -- not perfect because it's in the basement -- but it's bright and clean and quiet and with its open and expansive floor plan allows my two collies to wrestle with each other when they feel the urge. With fur flying everywhere and playful growling as they throw each other to the floor I am always made to smile. They always seen to know when I need lightening up, too.

From my writing desk, where I now sit, I can look over to my right and about 12 feet away is an easel with my newest veil painting sitting on it. It is a work in progress, started a couple of weeks ago once I had feel for this new space in which I work.

About 10 feet beyond that is my drafting table upon which sits my most recently completed painting in hues of green. It remains nameless. Every time I look at it it says something different to me. Some paintings finish with an obvious motif. This one is a little more subtle. However I've always had the sense that it relates to horses (no big surprise there!) Today I see a rider on a horse struggling to keep her left elbow bent and to her side so her horse can feel a consistent and sympathetic contact. As this is one of my issues while I riding my own horse, it is not a complete surprise that this image would show up in the painting. And, in fact, it is a pleasant visual reminder that I can carry into the riding ring with me.

If you were to look at this painting however, I doubt you would see this image -- at least I'd be surprised if you did. What each person sees in these beautiful paintings is very personal. You could point out to me something that you see and be adamant it's there but I might never see it, even though I am the artist. Our vision is different. I will post this painting on my website soon. In the meantime, at the top of this blog is an example of another painting. Study it for a moment and let me know what you see. I'll offer my own vision of it in my next time.

Veil paintings are ethereal and full of mystery. That's one of the reasons I love creating them so much. I hope as this blog unveils I will be able to help you gain an appreciation of their beauty and intimacy, and that their mystery will unfold for you in a way that's meaningful and personally satisfying.

Next time we'll begin looking at the process itself -- or not. We'll see how the spirit moves me.

Cheerz!

Dorothy :-)

Dedicated to those loved, and lost

Dearly Beloved
Dedicated to those loved, and lost


Dearly beloved,
How can you have gone?
One minute living your life,
The next ~ no life to live.
And in my life
A gaping, lifeless, dark hole
Where once shone your living light.
Oh, how I miss you ~
Your laughter, your style, your grace.
Such tangible emptiness
A sorrow sore borne.

Alas, dearly beloved,
I must go on,
Minute by minute living my life
In tribute to your laughter, love and dignity.
Gradually filling the darkness again
With the light of
Your beloved memory ~
Your beauty, your smile, your face.
For such intangible comfort
I can scarce hope.
Dearly beloved ~ I miss you.

Copyright Dorothy McDonall

The loss of those near and dear to us through sudden illness or accident is always a shock. I am prompted today to share this poem, written several years ago, in response to the experience of a very dear girlfriend who has lost three family members within the past nine months at approximately three-month intervals. It is very sad to watch this lovely woman suffer so much emotional pain and loss over such a short period of time. She is one of those people who truly doesn't deserve it.

Such loss of those we love can leave a terrible void. I believe it is that sudden emptiness which renders us inconsolable as we attempt to come to terms with it, and wonder how we will ever fill it so that we once again feel complete.

I believe we have only two real choices when life hands us the sour lemon of a loved one's death: we either add sugar and make lemonade by honouring their memory and somehow making good of a sad situation. Or, we suck on its sour juices until our lips pucker and complain about the bitterness that never seems to end.

Knowing my girlfriend she will, once the shock has worn off, choose to make lemonade and I will be there, as much as she needs me, to help.

In the meantime I dedicate this poem to her and those she has loved, and lost.

I love you, Janice ..

Winter's Field

In winter’s barren, snowy field I stand,
My tender heart gripped tightly in his icy hand.
His frosty breath across my naked soul doth blow,
Leaving in its numbing wake a frosted, ruddy glow.

I didn’t mean to stand in winter’s field so bare.
When first I stood it blossomed green and lovely there.
But then, alas, the changing leaves did fall,
And that which I had first observed appeared to be nowhere at all.

So here I stand, in nature’s stone-cold lonely place,
The light of love gone briefly from my care-worn face.
Instead a dormant season now resides ~
Within my chilled heart love’s smouldering fire hides.

But winter’s frosted season too must end,
As spring her warming greeting soon will send.
And so my frozen sojourn too will cease,
And once again love’s warmth in me increase.

Copyright Dorothy McDonall

Commentary

Some years ago I entered a long, cold winter season in my life.

The frost began to descend after the sudden death of my grandmother in 1994. I was 30-something at the time and a very disconnected individual. I thought my life was going places with a good job in public relations. I was a soprano in the Toronto Mendelssohn Choir, and was in what I thought to be a stable and revitalized marriage. It was a tidy and controlled life, or so I thought. But I was so wrong.

My life was a lie.

Granny's death was a wake up call that triggered an extended period of introspective hibernation. Indeed, it's been 16 years since I entered winter's field and felt the glacial winds of change hurtle me from the cold hands of unconscious living to the warm embrace of self-awareness.

In the ensuing years my claustrophobic marriage ended; I re-kindled my passion for horses; I worked to release my inner artist and took up the call to express my thoughts through the written word.

It's been a tumultuous journey at times, of course, because that is the very nature of the adventure of true self-learning. But that is what's made it all the more rewarding. As spring finally starts to unfold for me after all these years, I am able to grasp the essence of what it really means to be me. The frozen sojourn is ending and the fire of my creativity, and the love it expresses, is finally, and genuinely, beginning to reveal itself.

Welcome to my spring!