Tales of Imagination Never Get Old 

My favorite author sat down every morning to write before the world would awaken and bring with it the duties that made her life vastly different than yours or mine.

She wrote through sicknesses brought by the harsh Canadians winters, sometimes having to sit on her frozen toes to warm them up.

She wrote diligently, in times of grief and desperation, the same as she did on happy and hopeful days.

She beat all odds working against her; she was a woman, from a small town on a secluded island.

She went to become one of the first if not the first Canadian woman to make a living with her words.

She succeeded, in her life time, in doing something many of us writers, fail to do. And she did it all without having the luxury of internet, computers, even without typewriters in her early years.

Whenever I get discouraged I think of her. I have no excuses really.

She was a freelancer about 100 years before the word actually existed. Before she wrote her famous work of fiction “Anne of Green Gables”, she sent out stories written by hand to magazines and managed to make a stable and comfortable income.

At the time of her death she had written 22 books.

I read today that Netflix will debut a “Anne of Green Gables” series this summer.

Lucy sat down in 1905 and wrote the first words to the book that this same series is based on.

2017.

More than 100 years have passed since the idea for her story was formed in her head.

I’m honestly speechless about the whole thing, that’s how remarkable it is to me.

I’ve been struggling lately with my artistic ambitions and I’ve found why.

Some people go through life trying to find out what the world holds for them only to find out too late that it’s what they bring to the world that really counts.

Lucy Maud Montgomery

I really couldn’t have said it better myself.


Have you ever read Lucy Maud Montgomery’s books?

Do you have an author that inspires you?

Let me know in the comments 🙂

*Photo Credit: lovinkat flickr Creative Commons 2.0

Going to Familiar Places

There’s this place I go often called “La salle des Pas Perdus”.

The Hall of Lost Footsteps. 

That’s the literal translation.

It’s a wide, empty room made exceptionally bright by its white floors and impressive skylight windows.

There are little wooden benches in the middle with fake trees next to them. Whenever I go I like to sit on one, always the same.

Sometimes I look at the old pictures on the wall instead.

The Hall hasn’t changed much in the hundred and more years since it opened as a part of Windsor Station (Canada’s first heritage railway station).

The Hall of Lost Footsteps is the best name anyone could ever find for this place.

Millions of people have walked in and out of there. Travelers going to unfamiliar places or coming back to familiar ones.

So many footsteps whose trace has long disappeared from the white immaculate floor.

I usually day dream about the lives of these people I see on the black and white images of the very same room I stand in.

Where have their steps gone to?

Today I thought of my own instead.

The invisible thread retracing my steps that my mind created tells me one thing: I keep going to familiar places. 

Living in the city where there is absolutely no shortage of new places to discover, I still go down the same roads. The same paths.

Tonight my feet took me to a street I have been on, one, two, too many times. As I walked by the usual shops, the new boutiques, the corner on which my ex-boyfriend used to live and the familiar sight of the cars on the highway below, I thought of all those steps of mine I could see if they somehow never got lost.

It’s easy to not take them into account when your feet leave no traces.

I was standing there with the cold wind in my face and I realized that maybe I should start taking the direction of my steps seriously.

What good is it to always walk mindlessly if it takes us to the same roads again and again?

It seems to me like going to familiar places does leave a trace in the end.

It’s something that starts but doesn’t end with your feet.

Going to the same places is akin to doing the same things.

If you want to conquer new terrains and new things maybe it’s worth it to stop going to familiar places.

Where do your footsteps go?

*Photo Credit: Rob Gallop flickr Creative Commons 2.0 

Women of Pompeii Wore Snake Rings Too

I’ve always liked history in spite of the fact that most of what we know is based on a conqueror’s story of the past.

In his-story, pieces of them can still be found. Them; the  women who walked the earth long before I did.

As a young girl I searched for their stories. I wanted to know what they had to say about themselves and the world.

Although I could never hear how high-pitched or low their tone was or the way they laughed, their voice would echo in my head through their words on a page.

I read Anne Frank’s diary and I am fifteen and I don’t want to die by Christine Arnothy. I liked that they wrote about their good and bad days. The things that made them laugh and cry. Most of all, I was thankful their kind spirit and  courageous disposition could live on because of their voices.

Apart from 20th century women who lived through tragic events or whose lives were cut short, personal accounts are few and far between.

When I looked at my family tree, there were no stories. I knew what my ancestors were called but that’s it.

I was young but even then I felt that if something was to happen to me, the idea of me should still exist.

I didn’t want to be just a name like them, my story erased. The world’s narrative going on without me. I thought if I recorded everything, I couldn’t be lost.

Call me delusional but I like to think that my life and all other women’s stories are important to the world.

The essence of who we are and how we spent our existence can benefit generations to come. If our experiences transcend time and distance so does our connection to the women who will inhabit the earth after we are long gone. Our voice today can bridge the gap between us. Our innermost thoughts and feelings are not lost if they create an intemporal bond with them.

That’s something I’ve come to realize somewhat recently.

A few summers ago I received a snake ring as a gift. I wore it everyday. I liked the way it looked when it sparkled in the sun. I felt more me wearing it.

That same summer I visited an exposition on Pompeii, the city that was lost for centuries but whose story was preserved through the very people who lived there, their bodies protected by layers of ash.

Platters of fruit and fresh bread remained along with them. I was walking through the displays of preserved artifacts  when the sparkle of gold caught my eye.

An array of women’s jewelry was showcased and among them many snake rings, just like the one I was wearing at that very moment.

I looked at my own finger and I wondered, did they feel like me wearing it?

How they did feel when they put it on in the morning? When they still had days ahead of them.

I will never know.

Even though the objects that belong to us paint a picture of the kind of people we might be, they can’t talk for us.

All I know is that women from Pompeii wore snake rings too.

 

*Photo is public domain