Friday, May 29, 2015

Tree Talk

Good morning, Maurice
you show-off, you,
conspiring with the sun to make
your limb-shadows dance on my curtains
just so

Tuesday, May 26, 2015

27 years ago

It's like you're on this long, long journey that never ends, and the
voices in the back keep asking:

Are we there yet?
Are we there yet?
Are we there yet?

Thursday, May 21, 2015

Saturday, May 16, 2015

Frag Jots


Hanging up clothes in the back yard yesterday
a wave across to neighbor Clement
and his dog Charlotte
who then walk on over and
Clement tells me the tests are back, he has
cancer of the blood and that
despite eating six pieces of toast every morning,
he's still losing weight.  
The neighbor on the other side is moving out
for lack of sleep, on account of her downstairs neighbor who 
despite several visits from the police
(and eviction notice from the landlord)
rampages on.
This morning we'll have rain,
(so the weather people say).
The community garden folks want us there at 9:00
to stake and rope the plots.
A second cup of jumpstart dark-roasted Trader Joe coffee
and I'm off.  Should I or should I not take
an umbrella?

Friday, May 8, 2015

mini rescue

On the way to work this morning, a bee
in the visitor cat's water bucket.
Lacking a twig or spoon to extract it,
he used his car key - bee stopped
flailing, struggled aboard, got a
short ride, then wobbled off
into the grass. Recovery imminent.

Had he left bee in the carport,
the cat who'd come soon would get curious,
probably get stung - doesn't
need another wound as badge of survival -
like its frost-chewed half
ear, compliments of one more winter
worse than the two last.

Creature headcount stats so far this year -
less bees
   more stray cats
Life coming life going, now
spring, and revival -
until the wind changes
and the drinkwater in the bucket freezes

Whispers from the not-yet garden:
Be back, bee

Thursday, April 23, 2015

Welcome back

The snow geese in autumn honk and fly by on their way south, but seldom stop.  During spring, however, as many as 500,000, on their way to Baffin Island (Nunavut territory)  descend en masse on  Baie-du-Febvre, on the shores of Lac Saint-Pierre, Quebec.  Why here?

The 5,000-kilometre journey requires a lot of energy. Prime sources of energy are the residues of maize crops left on the fields from the previous autumn, and they are safe here in the Biosphere Reserve, from natural predators.  They will spend several days in these staging areas, then continue on to the Canadian Arctic, arriving there in June.

Some snippits from a local spring geese migration report

April 12 - Sunday - "Respect"
Observers are urged not to cross the fences or approach the winged visitors in the field, to let them feed and rest. This is a crucial step in their migration where they will accumulate the energy they need to continue their journey.

April 13 - Monday - "Against All Odds"
10:30 a.m. An estimated 200,000 snow geese suddenly arrive in Baie-du-Febvre sector.

April 14 - Tuesday - "Migration Stable"
An estimated 175,000 to 200,000 geese in Baie-du-Febvre sector today. No less than 40 varieties of birds including a golden eagle and two eagles in our area spotted. Also several varieties of ducks.

Spring is really here.  The geese have come back.

Tuesday, April 21, 2015


spring rains
warm winds
snow gone!

muddied boots in the hall
Maurice our tree
breaks out in buds

saved seeds dehibernate,
clothesline gets re-strung -
which perennial will be first
to wiggle through, reborn?

Friday, April 10, 2015

River Watch

Last week, along the St. Lawrence,
near the port


 Early this week,
along the St. Maurice

Foggy morning walk across the old railroad bridge

Winter hanging on


  Let the melting begin!

One bent and grasping
toward the snow-dented tracks -
these bare-limbed trees the sentinels, its watchful companions,
each rooted but vulnerable
to  nature, to man.

Monday, February 23, 2015

Saturday, February 21, 2015

Tree, bird, words

Some Hidden
thoughts and unsaid words
collect and build in
pools of verse, like land-locked trees
that try to fly.  (How many ever do?)
These quirky pre-launched poems-to-be,
in  struggling to expand their reach,
find here a way yet to emerge,
  to coax the word buds through.
One makes a tree, draws it just so, dressed up as 'poem'
with words that show it's all in vain this stealthy surge,
that tries to just prevail -- cuz all
too often what you get is simply soup (and lacking worth);
deep down inside you know it's doomed, and that it will just fail.
And yet, one learns and can evolve.
Like honing, hearing (new resolve!), and this
type task's of value, yet.  So try  another one.

                                                              Dawn! –
                                                           rooster tells
                                                    us, 'Here comes sun'. Look,
                                                             o’er the treetops, greet the
                                                                sky,   the   snow-filled   fields, the    frozen   brook
                                                                   two squirrels   chase,  in 
                                                                         morning’s light on
                                                                          banks   deep, cold
                                                                            & white. O life!
                                                                                  Another                                                                                                                                                                     D                                                                                                                                                                        A

Wednesday, February 11, 2015


I worry
you worry
they worry
we all worry, 

Tuesday, January 20, 2015

At Dawn, Revisitation

awynfoto - 19 January 2015

The Snow Mind

Though one be accustomed to
winter's flakefall and drift,
tree limbs encrusted with snow,

or cedars' boughs iced and
heavied in the wake of
each freezing sweep

as January's cold gels dreams of
spring thaw, keeping one frosted
in the moment,

no thinking, no feeling,
no sight nor sound should permeate,
so that one can behold

the all and the nothing,
be-ing, non-thereness, and the
That that just is.

Inspired by:

by Wallace Stevens

One must have a mind of winter

To regard the frost and the boughs

Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;

And have been cold a long time

To behold the junipers shagged with ice,

The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; and not to think

Of any misery in the sound of the wind,

In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the land

Full of the same wind

That is blowing in the same bare place

For the listener, who listens in the snow,

And, nothing himself, beholds

Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

 It was -29C last week.  Yesterday it warmed up to about  -17C  and we got new snow.
Early morning, I saw my elderly neighbor out the window, already shoveling.

awynfoto-19 January 2015
 Partout, l'hiver.
C'est ça. C'est bon.

awynfotokard, 19 January 2015

*Blackie #3, a neighborhood stray, inspects the new snowpath. 

Wednesday, January 14, 2015

The keys you're given

 On Remembering the Discovery
 of  Two Grand Old Masters 

And when you can no longer speak
or move 
                 or think
                              or see,
will Beethoven enter the room
to remind you of when you first met?
You thought you heard an echo
in his deafening howl
of something deep and known,
of some collective fist
 screaming out "Not Yet! 
Not YET!"
(the one one thrusts toward the heavens
to rail against Death's grip
or life's 
cruel unforeseens)

"You must listen to Mozart," said the bearded professor,
 "for he is Purrfection."   ('Tis true, what he claims, 
Wolfie calms and delights,  sometimes you sense "God" 
and that music heals  - you later found so) -
but sometimes the fire in your belly is such,
 no contentment can quell, and its sparks burst right through,
 to plead with the universe, just one more 

(Some flames don't die.
"Not yet, please,  not yet,
. . . not yet!")

Beethoven's fingers,  on keys with no sound,
a world gone silent, can't hear his own screams.
(Like Van Gogh's anguished eyes,
 face thick-slabbed and framed,
 the museum warns DON'T TOUCH!!!
 (As if you need fingers,
 to feel his cries.)

Two worlds collide, arms reach to explore,
 yet to learn of the Gray that hides, that obscures
in the world of Either/Or's -
That's not the point. 
Hierarch toward  mastery
or highest Peak - or just stumble 'round -
until journey's end,
so to speak. But are Heaven or Hell
 the only two doors?

Poor mortal, you want it both ways -
 to get the prize, but not end the chase;
Paradise on earth, and Heaven ungated
(no pre-vetting, no measuring, no "scale",
no rock-hard rule that says 
you graduate or fail.

Schiller oded the 4th of the Ninth
with  thunderous joy sparkled by gods,
exhorting us to seek The One
o'er the canopy of stars -
but his There's not a there, 
nor a place out in space,
and The One seems more sensed than e'er known,
(some have shown).

And when you can no longer be who you were,
find yourself in a room all alone
in which even Mozart doesn't come 'round anymore,
 remember  -
That you have gone to the stars and back
(and not just once or twice)
on rides hitched with all manner of extraordinary souls, 
genius and lessers alike.

 Art, music, and words, and above all, great love
take you there, bring you back, keep you sane.
 You suspect there are slits in that canopy where
 even oft-blinded mortals can peek  past the Peak -
no need anymore
for a key.


*First draft publication

Sunday, January 11, 2015


Too much attention to a mountainized molehill clouds the purview . . . 
you can't press PAUSE or mute the buzz, it's now too shrill.
Escape to sleep?  Evade time's march, as whirlwinds of every sort
sweep past?     Look, when you awake it's all still there, at every edge, in each nook.  
It's all around, you cannot hide, don't try.  
At each new crash you still rush to look,
it's all a game (they've said as much). 

Those mountains still beckon. 
Just don't get trapped in the woods.


*The above art image is tweaked from an early original sketch/watercolor  in an ol, forgotten practice notebook.  It seemed to fit the mood of this draft piece, a spontaneous reaction to having too many things coming at one all at once -  but rather than question the urge to instantly react, this imaginary person attempts to reset the clock to allow for time "out".   Or something like that. 

Wednesday, January 7, 2015

Eye on Wall Street

The ever-present bull,
forever charging.
Both it and us,


[camoseenities] -
also good for
 virtual weather monitoring,
armchair visits to the Big Apple,
and for the utterly bored -- hours of 'people-watching'.

Sunday, January 4, 2015

My Feet, Remembering

Have been trying to re-learn some steps, sequences, variations, etc.
by watching their feet

Wednesday, December 31, 2014

End of Year Summations

At the end of our lives, they say we get judged.
At the end of each year, we have a tendency to sum up ourselves . . . kind of:

       Here's what I accomplished this year.  Here's what I didn't.  
       Here's what I'm going to/ not going to/  do next year.

Mostly, though, some of us just keep repeating the same old patterns.

It was interesting looking at what some fellow bloggers posted along the line of end-of-year personal summations.  Some had to do with announcement of change of habits (mainly to do with creativity:  I'm going to stop doing this; I'm now going to start doing this, etc.)  The mere mention caused me to reflect on what things I've elected to continue doing, and which things I feel most need changed.

One artist blogger  tells us he no longer feels like painting. Just like that.  Doesn't need it anymore--and it's mutual, he writes, likening it to a friendly divorce. Speed biking makes him happier.  Some things will always (always) make us happy.  But we sometimes have to take a break from even  them temporarily, to concentrate on something of more compelling interest.  It is not always temporary.  Nor always an Either/Or situation. But sometimes it is.

Some writer bloggers list the number and names of all the books they've read during the past year (one noting that 80 of them were written by men and 80 were written by women, disclosing his preference). (Sorry, ladies, it weren't you.)  :)  One writer blogger
reminds us of kitchen pantry 'culling' as a metaphor for assessing what's stored but forgotten and what needs to be discarded.  It's what we do at the beginning of each New Year, we take a look back and assess what we've accomplished (or neglected to), and declare our intentions for the coming year.

These such all led me to examine my own reading, writing and creativity in general during the past year, and in this imaginary scenario I see myself quietly slinking to the back of the Input/Output Judgement Line - the one where you're asked  "What have you learned?  What have you done?  How have you spent your time?"

I haven't kept track of the books I've read but I can tell you, sadly, they're nowhere near the number others report that they've read.  But I do read--constantly.  And I'm always writing something.  So I'm engaged in the process and have produced a certain quantity of stuff.   (Nice try, but what have you actually produced worth bragging about?  I query myself.) 

Voracious and prolific describe actions an Energizer bunny can relate to, in terms of stick-to-itiveness and unstoppability.  But that same energy can also manifest as frequent, instantaneous bursts of direction-turnings  elsewhere, with equally satisfying results.  Some might call this Distraction, because it takes you away from the self-programmed usual run track. What it's labeled is irrelevant, and disruption of  routine is sometimes a necessary wake-up call.  Bread can't stay fresh forever and sometimes you get tired of duplicating the same 'ol same 'ol.  Inspiration is needed.  This year has been a dam-burst of ideas, possibilities, new projects and plans, the mere thought of which has yanked me from certain customary, passive-type habitudes to more active redirection.  Not to say this may have been jumping the gun a bit, dreaming up more than I could handle or am equipped to effect, but this was an unforeseen change where a pattern kind of reversed itself.  A new window opened, I'm deciding to run with it. 

Try to take on too many new things and you can immediately get overwhelmed.  As to the question, what have I (so far) to show for it, that would depend, I suppose, on who this would be important to.  A lot of things one does never gets put out there, intentionally.. And what does is sometimes sporadic, off-the-cuff experimental type pieces as one tries to get better.  (In other words, 'practice.' )   Have I made progress?  Well, yes and no. Depends on which year, which project. 

The stuff I'm more inclined to share on a regular basis is work done by others.  I get real pleasure in discovering and sharing, for example, really good poetry - poets who've written poems I wish I had written - and am  appalled to realize it'll be soon be three years (THREE.YEARS!!!) (!!!)  since I've worked on Salamander Cove, except to tweak the design. That is one of the things that's going to change in the new year.  Look for more frequent postings of more poets' great poems!

One of the new time-takers that's graduated from mere dabbling into full-blown interest, has been researching.  A number of years ago friends asked me to help them find a new job, an apartment, or information about something.  This was pre-Googledom.  I  discovered I not only enjoyed it but apparently was good at it (so they tell me).  I loved the challenge and soon became hooked. It changed the way I deal with puzzles.

Congenital curiosity led me to begin fact-checking when something didn't make sense, which set the pattern, for I began noticing things I would normally not have noticed before, which is, as it's turned out, both a blessing and a curse.  Because I soon developed a real interest in, of all things, investigative journalism.  Some years ago I helped  with certain researches, which sharpened analytical skills.  Who knew, ha ha.  I do so poorly at math.  Scanning documents and pouring over reports, looking at 'wordings', tracing the history of something, noticing anomalies, contradictions, and  intentional obfuscation, led me to probe further, where I'd sometimes find  unrelated, but incredibly interesting 'other' information that proved even more intriguing. 

 You see where this is going, right?  It's like octopus tentacles, you wind up hopelessly entangled. But it did introduce me to fields I'd normally have little to no interest in (the financial field, contracts, legal transcripts, real estate transactions,  regulatory codes and all that boring stuff you avoid getting into because your eyes just start glazing over and you can't decipher the acronyms or understand the jargon.  Not that I do (understand it completely) but it's written in English and there are ways you can say (or not say) a thing which you can learn to spot when something should be there but isn't, or what is that suggests other than what is presented.  Sometimes it's absolutely blatent, and you wonder how nobody's noticed.  

Some people sit down and read a dictionary, the way others sit down to read a novel.  Bizarre as that sounds, it's all in how one relates to words on a page.  Understanding the jargon, decoding the meaning, exploring places one normally bypasses as a dead-end but from a different angle - what can I say, some people spend hours playing digital "complete-the-mission" skill-games on a tiny digital device or days positioning little cardboarded images together or solving difficult crossword puzzles.  I enjoy finding stuff and solving certain mysteries.  Unfortunately, it's taken time from other pleasurable pursuits, which are demanding equal time.  Plus it's probably ruining my eyes.

So, in sum,  there's not much to actually show for time spent this year on personal or selected creative projects.   There are just not enough hours in the day,  but that's no excuse.

My New Year's resolution this year is - to stop making New Year's resolutions.  Stop resolving to act, then revolving back to what went before;  start solving the problem and evolving, stop getting sucked into the whirlwind where you get so involved in something, you forget what day it is.  Change the damn pattern.  Perhaps I could advance a tad farther up the Input/Output Judgment line. Yeah. but stop explaining, Yabbit says.  Wrap it up already.

Happy New Year, all.  Let's all keep trekkin'.



Tuesday, December 23, 2014

Behind the Curtain

Costumes, as symbols.
Ritual, to remind.
Membership, to perpetuate.
These things, you still find.

Meaning doth lie
in the meaning attached;
accepted as "givens"
even if you're detached.
     So it seems.

Enactment a must.
It reinforces belief.
A setting we trust
to bring sought-for relief
     from life's Void,

from all that's unknown
yet we think might be true.
Life without symbol
or myth, just won't do.
     It can't BE.

Image as mirror,
as message . . .  as glue.
The face that you wear -
Is it really you?
     (that one that you share).

I once met a man
quite famous, in fact;
was shown to his study,
to be taken aback
     at his face everywhere

in dozens of photos
displayed on the wall
of himself with famed others.
"Visitors, bow down in awe!"
     was the message it told.

But why shouldn't one show
to the world one's Self,
in a suit or a robe
or dressed like an elf
     or as Everyman?

We're actors here, all
playing our role
on or offstage
cautious or droll.
     We write the script.

Like that self-absorbed man
let us into his room
"Look at me, look at me,"
his hims said in tune,
     and it's true -

talent he had;
influence, in flux,
(I shudder to think
exactly how much
     it rampages on.)

 A legacy left,
 he's so happy, I'm sure
at the zillions of places
it stuck and much more 
     like stealth glaze.

Costumes, as symbols
Ritual, to remind
Membership, to perpetuate
These things, you still find

We're actors here, all
just playing our role
on or offstage
cautious or droll.
     That is the plan.

Now they write the script,
assign the roles,
provide the stage,
supply the trolls.
     We all know the drill.

Clap, clap, everyone.
Did you enjoy the show?

Wait.  You didn't realize it was a show?

*A rhymey, blurt-poemy addendum, of sorts, to yesterday's hastily painted wake-up cards, neither of which adequately expresses the insight that resulted from this morning's sudden collision of a past memory with a sense about a not-so-current but continuing series of events.

Sunday, December 21, 2014

wake up note





Idea for a mini wake-up card.
If there were such a thing
as wake-up cards.

Monday, December 15, 2014


Little stones in the hall outside the library.
They hang suspended from the ceiling.
If stones could dream, is this a playful romp -
or freefall jump toward free?

Saturday, December 6, 2014

"People are Extremely Angry"

Truthout Interviews Dahr Jamail on Electromagnetic Radiation War Games 
scheduled for national park and forest in Washington State

They will be war gaming for 12-16 hours per day
for 260 days

The Navy says these massive electromagnetic radiation pulses
will have "no significant impact" on humans or wildlife, despite scientific reports to the contrary.

"Tens of thousands of outraged residents from around the Olympic Peninsula
have expressed their opposition."

Read the full article here

Friday, December 5, 2014

Ink & Beans

 in the seed catalog -
words grabbed for harvest -
to bean or not to bean

Monday, December 1, 2014

The Threads in Our Life

Went  to an exhibit last summer of the 6th biennial of contemporary sculpture where the artists all focused on the same theme--perdrePied  ("losing one's footing")

"Losing one's footing, to no longer be in control,
being disoriented, being overwhelmed,
no longer knowing where you are"

This was one of the presentations highlighting that theme.  The artist exhibited a model church sculpted entirely of thin, fragile, translucent fabric, held together with thread and suspended from the ceiling in a stark, bare, otherwise empty white room.    At its base, cloud-like tulle hugs at its foundations, as if trying to anchor it.  It seems to move, and breathe, or tremble, as you walk past.  The effect was ghostly.

Nearby, a crane ominously awaits.

Side View.  These photos don't do it justice.  The whole thing  was absolutely exquisite.

"I decided to approach this theme in a figurative sense," says the artist, "exploiting the topic of the disappearance of the heritage built up in Québec, and more specifically, the religious heritage." 


What interests this artist is "the gradual removal of these monuments of the past that allow us to identify with our history, and to position ourselves in relation to it."  

"The church is in some way the physical incarnation that endures through time of a system of values and of an ideology that were formative of Québec society.  Our culture results from key events in our history and is as much coloured by the Great Darkness as by the Quiet RevolutionOn this point, I wonder about the impact of the vacuum produced by a certain rejection of our past.  Won't this loss lead to a search for meaning, a search for identity, a loss of balance?"

"I raise this questioning through the production of a textile installation that notably presents a church where demolition is imminent."

The demolition crane (detail)

"This architectural structure was built by a work of sewing, using sheer fabrics, giving the impression of lightness and fragility to an item that is normally solid, which seems to us indestructible, immutable."

Jannick Deslauriers was born in 1983 in Joliette, Québec.
She lives and works in Montréal and teaches art at the Cégep Marie-Victorin.

To see more of this artist's work, click here.

Her web site is here.

I particularly liked this earlier piece (not part of the above exhibition):

lethe (from series battlefield series) 2009
Artist: Jannick Deslauriers

A poem I encountered around the time I'd gone to this exhibit seemed to speak directly to related thoughts on  the disappearance of familiar traditions, objects or landscapes that are part of one's past.

Of Things Past

                                                                Draw as you will you cannot
                                                                Hold on to them as they slip

                                                                Like water through fingers
                                                                Frozen in marble round

                                                               The ring of a well.

                                                                    ~ ~ Vassilis Zambaras

The artist Jannick Deslauriers wonders "about the impact of the vacuum produced by a certain rejection of our past,"   asking:

"Won't this loss lead to a search for meaning, a search for identity, a loss of balance?"

One's identity--how one defines oneself with respect to one's culture, heritage, country--is subjective.   While loss of a tradition or native language can indeed be unsettling, the loss of the meaning one attaches to them can be even more of a disconnect - because it positions you outside, so to speak  (standing away, apart from, not experienced as "one with" it anymore).  Loss of  meaning in something does not always result in disorientation, however, if one fills the void left by its loss with something more meaningful.  It may actually ground or stabilize, rather than serve to dislodge, one's future life "footing," so to speak  But that's a whole other topic.

A  fragile, soft sculpture that cannot stand on its own and needs support from above, this church floats and  "breathes",  as clouds of tulle gather at its base, attempting  to anchor it.  Take away the strings holding it up and it collapses in on itself. 

What does it mean to think of something as indestructible, a kind of "given" - only to discover that it  perhaps . . . . isn't? 

That beautiful old churches get razed to become trendy new condos saddens me.  When in 2001 the Taliban destroyed two giant  6th-century carved Buddhas at Bamiyan in Afghanistan it sickened me, a loss felt even by those outside these cultures, as a universal reminder of the impermanence of 'things'.

There's a big difference, of course, between changes wrought slowly by time or inevitability, and those deliberately  and systematically engineered to erode or eradicate a people's identity. Native American Indian children taken from their families by early religious groups, renamed and forbade  to speak their own language;  and Tibetans today, having had thousands of their monasteries burnt down, their way of life now tightly controlled by the Chinese, are two examples that come to mind.  When your land is no longer yours, your language no longer spoken, your culture not something succeeding generations find easy to "identify with", except as a handed-down story or inherited label, then not the where you are but the who you are may cause you to examine what this all means to you personally.  Parallels flooded my brain as I was drawn back to the scene before me.

 I marveled at the sheer craft involved in the creation of this floating church.  Anybody who's ever worked with certain fabric, trying to get needle and thread to cooperate, will appreciate the enormous amount of time and effort it took to design and produce this magnificently constructed artpiece.  (I understand  that it was still being worked on up to 40 minutes before the exhibit opened.)

I peeked inside (or tried to) but saw only complete white space.  A gently held Emptiness.  I became fascinated with the black threads holding it all together--their intricacy and sometimes whimsical randomness.  For example, on the crane boom, they appear to be both clinging to and escaping from that which they are tasked with holding together.  I like that the artist allowed for this threadly ambiguity, the visual play of being both attached to and moving away from -- even the church's front bannisters and steps seemed to undulate to this rhythm.

Lost footing with respect to identity--what we identify with, or as--like the meanings we attach to ideas and things--is mutable.  What we accept or reject (or are simply indifferent to), how we respond to their loss, and who we become (or remain) as a result,  largely depends on their meaning to us not just collectively, but individually. Does this loss to "us" (the culture as a whole) make you feel more--or less--connected?  The answer to this question perhaps holds the clue to the nature of the connection, where we stand in relation to its absence, and whether that makes a difference or not.

This particular artist focused on the loss of religious heritage.  Wider considerations presented themselves in the overall theme as well:

  lostFOOTING, is to lose one's physical support, one's usual perspectives, one's aesthetic values, one's physical anchors, whether in a corporal manner, metaphorical, emotional, mental, or creative. It is also a rupture in equilibrium, a change of scenery, a rout, a stumble in the rhythm of walking, in the momentum of a journey, in the thread of life… All artists participating in the various exhibitions, events, and other activities will explore the proposed theme.

 Loss of one's physical, emotional, or metaphorical anchors, stumbles in 'rhythm' (who of us hasn't?!), lost momentum, ruptured equilibrium, loss of creativity (or in interest thereof) - whole pages could be written on any one of these 'threads'.

This all gets so murky.  But the subject is fascinating.  Utterly.  I like art that makes you think.  And this artist's work certainly did that. . . and then some! 

Thank youJannick Deslauriers, for  this visual and reflective adventure.  The exhibit was outstanding.