Photo by Author, Vancouver Island

A baby boy born in the 1960s was placed in a plush lined carriage outside in the garden every afternoon on summer afternoons for his nap. When a gentle breeze stirred the leaves in the tree canopy above him , he awakened to see the dappled light playing across the leaves. His eyes and ears followed the sound and light in first wonder. The breeze caressed his skin and a green fragrance implanted its memory into his olfactory sense. The wind made song with the foliage. The light was ethereal. The man became a lover of trees and earth. To be a lover of nature became his destiny.

“No one saves us but ourselves. No one can and no one may. We ourselves must walk the path.”
Gautama Buddha, Sayings Of Buddha

“We are rag dolls made out of many ages and skins, changelings who have slept in wood nests or hissed in the uncouth guise of…

Spirit Woods

iphoto, slightly out of focus of Fluted Black Helvella Saddle Mushroom, Oct 26,2019

The entrance to the woodlands at the end of the dead end street looked like a small portal into a dark world. The overgrown arbutus and Gary oak sent twisted branches forward swirling around to create a round tunnel effect. Sarah hitched in an involuntary breath and halted…

Harnessing the energy

iPhoto, author

Do not go gentle into that good night , the poem by Dylan Thomas filtered up into my conscious mind today. I was examining my present state of raging at the world whilst sitting cocooned on my deck. Little finches were visiting the bird feeder and a…

In Our Time

A cropped section of a painting by Daniel Zamifrescu which was purchased from the artist in Vancouver,BC

Walking down the street

In this old BC logging town

I pass a bundle of rags and an abandoned shopping cart

Underneath the strewn cloth

Lies a body of man who maybe sleeping

Or maybe he is dead, my mind begins to alarm

Do I keep walking…


Waiting, the boy sat in the chair slightly behind the open door in the dark living room. He was waiting in silent rage. Waiting for his father to come through that door. Waiting for his father to come in stumbling drunk. Waiting for his father to come home to beat…

hannah miller

Story telling was a part of my history. I grew up on an Island in the Atlantic where oral stories were told for entertainment.

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