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Case sensitive…

April 3, 2010

“Ah, Christy” he said, “m’eudail bheag,”

as she thrust her head into his chest…

She had grown grey about the eyes and muzzle,

and a slight film was beginning to appear in her left eye…

All afternoon he lay on the warm grass offering her the bread,

and sugar cubes ,

while she nuzzled his face and his twisted neck,

placing her great hooves carefully about,

the outline of his body…

Some of the younger horses who had once been her colts,

looked on with something like amazement at the behaviour of their mother…

He sang to her in Gaelic,

perhaps as he had at the time of the great storm when we had needed her strength,

and she had needed his faith and calming confidence in order to go on…

All day they stayed together on the green grass,

giving and taking to and from each other…

— in No Great Mischief by Alistair MacCleod

In 2004 I made a decision to

a) never buy a coffee unless I had my own cup with me,

no matter how much I wanted,

and thought that,

I had to have it…

[To bolster weakness I expressed my One Tonne Challenge commitment to a class of grade five and six students with whom I had worked when they were in grade one…

I don’t break promises,

so I’m careful about making them…]

AND

b) to refuse to read the newspaper,

watch the news on television,

or listen to the news on the radio…

This was part and parcel,

of an intense,

detoxification program…

As a mother with young children,

and a teacher working with young children,

I needed to have hope and enthusiasm for life in the world,

and news can kill that in an instant…

On occasion I do flip through sections of the newspaper,

I see laying around,

to keep an eye on sports…

Otherwise newspaper is obsolete,

and it gets me off,

my game…

When you’re a hockey fan,

hell bent,

on supporting your team,

it seems to be equally important,

to filter out,

all of the fear mongering,

that masks itself,

as critical thought…

Like golf,

hockey is not a game that can be chained,

by statistics,

and analysis…

Games are a soft science…

And their beauty is,

in their mystery,

their surprises,

and their refusal to be contained,

by experts,

in the field…

They even love to challenge,

the laws of chaos…

Golf and hockey were born,

from the creativity,

of the land,

on which they have evolved…

Poured from the vessel,

of the men who first,

and continue,

to play them…

And from the women who birth,

and watch,

with the fierceness of howling bagpipes…

Rx: For the Canucks…

Keep the blinders on,

the earplugs in,

and do exactly what your inner doctor orders…

I heard a victory song,

sung by a hummingbird,

preening itself,

on the top of a magnolia tree,

down by Lost Lagoon…

Its message was silent,

but it was clear:

Mister you can say anything you want about me,

but I’m going to have to ask you not to talk about my horse that way…

— Frank T. Hopkins in Hidalgo

Let's see what the morning brings...

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