I fold.

The girls in Grade 4 showed me how to make noisemakers out of paper, then fortunetellers and water bombs, flapping birds and pagodas. Our library had a book by Shari Lewis (of Lamb Chop fame) that taught me how to turn that water bomb into an Easter bunny you could stuff full of jellybeans. Robert Harbin’s books took things more seriously and introduced me to the Jackstone, still the most complicated thing I have ever folded from a single piece of paper. 

     Today, I own a half shelf of origami books and a pack of 500 sheets I’ve never opened.

Inspired by Paper, Scissors, Cloth. Image based on a photo from Folding Paper Puppets.

Paper, Scissors, Cloth

When I was a kid, I had several pen pals. Those letters were fun to receive, but I was particularly drawn to the æsthetics: the cancelled stamp; the air-mail envelope with its barbershop edging and blue stationary; the thin crispness of it all. There are still some things in life that hold that allure: sachets of tea, a wrapped Band-aid, cakes of unopened Ivory soap, a box of amaretti, brand-new skeins of wool, Kleenex, seed packets. Maybe I am drawn to their old-timey paper? Their vulnerability? Unprotected by plastic preparedness, they reveal themselves thoughtfully, one unfolded corner at a time.

Inspired by Notice. Photo by Laurie.

Forgotten Lessons

I recently trod the battlefields of World War One, where hundreds of thousands died horrible deaths. Thousands more bore wounds, visible and invisible, for the rest of their shortened lives. War is hell. Today those battlefields are peaceful, the land is productive, and the fallen, the thousands of fallen, are remembered. Yet the lessons from their deaths are not. 

      Clausewitz called war the continuation of politics by other means. We learned after 1945 to extend politics and avoid war with diplomacy, multilateralism, and rules-based institutions. That consensus is now crumbling. War is hell, and we are drifting inexorably towards it.

Inspired by Already Committed. Photo by the author of the Belgian grave of an unknown soldier, nationality unknown.

Notice

The minutes and hours click by as you scroll on your phone, bored and interested at the same time. Your eyes begin to blur and hurt, you look up, hours have gone by—days maybe—what have you done recently?

Who have you talked to? Did you notice the breeze? The taste of Autumn in the air? The edges of leaves turning gold? The raptors on the wing—riding the thermals? You haven’t? Where have you been? This isn’t criticism. I, too, have trouble being present. I, too, feel numb of late. I, too, let the world pass me by. 

Inspired by September Mourn. Image of what you might be missing right now, by AI (for the irony of it).

September Mourn

Last Monday I saw a skeleton with a Halloween sign, and I felt myself becoming Laurie’s recycle-bin-lady. This is so wrong. But why do I care. It’s a pervasive state of being where we can no longer be contented with the beautiful lingering warm days of September. There must be something more to do, to be over the top about and spew hyperbole. I miss the peaceful Septembers we used to call (inappropriately) Indian Summer. It was a time of reflection as we prepared for the Fall. Halloween wasn’t even on our radar until mid-October. Patience was still a virtue.

Inspired by Don’t Quit Your Day Job. Photo by Wendy Whelan.

The Fear of Skidding Out

Cycling up the new asphalt on Sorauren last week took me back to the town where I first learned to ride, where every summer, the approach to road renewal was to spread a thin layer of tar and a second of very fine gravel, with the expectation it would slowly work its way into the existing surface. The immediate result for a nine-year-old boy, though, was a coin-toss between the most awesome skid ever and one nasty bloodied knee.
     Decades later, I can still feel the thrill my first bike gave me, still haunted by the fear of skidding out.

Inspired by The End of August. Image by ChatGPT.

Already Committed

Dad volunteered for the RCAF in 1940, but they made him wait. Impatient, he joined the army. He landed in Normandy in July 1944 and was deployed to the front. The Allies had a German army encircled near Falaise; the enemy was intent on breaking out. In the fog of war, Allied aircraft mistook the advancing Canadians for Germans and bombed them. It’s called “friendly fire” these days. Shortly afterwards, during a lull in the fighting, a much-forwarded letter arrived for Dad from Canada. The RCAF had finally accepted him. Years later, he related this story with a rueful shrug.

Inspired by a battlefield visit and battles past. Image from the Warfare History Network.