white circles and banjos look like clocks,

 Good day to you, whether it's the blush of morning, or the goosebumps of moon hour,  I hope for you that the day is charming, and brimming with good intentions.  For me, the day is busy, but my body is able.  I must push pencil marks onto papers, sketching the words "complete" on my to-do lists. Some days, I am far too slow to follow these tasks. You know, whether it be school, blog work, melody making, house cleaning, or tea drinking..... It becomes a task in itself to make any sort of progress. Today is one of those slow-as-a-slug-kind-of days.

This is my whole life, from a babe to a veteran, I will always find great difficulty in harmonizing my days without falling off of track.  Each day, I plot my hours in my head, as if for once, I'll tidy the room, soak my feet,  feed the dogs, play banjo, call my loves, make a wholesome snack, write a poem, write a short story, send off emails, walk in the weather, write letters, or finish an assignment.   Yet, when the clock chimes, and the Sun drops, I find myself day dreaming.  At 2 pm, I am imagining a kingdom, or a plot of land I will sow someday. At 4 pm, I am seeing a monkey, or an animal I've never met.  At 6 pm, my dreams are of plucking my banjo to a warming crowd.  And by 8 pm, I am dreaming of ocean side porches, and caramel popcorn.

I spend so many hours within these pipe dreams - that before I even realize my head is elsewhere, the moon has already blanketed the hills.  This is why I know I'll never be the breadwinner, or the nine to fiver, because my head is never where my feet are.

 The past week has traveled quicker than a whippet chasing a bone.  I closed my eyes on Wednesday, and suddenly, Monday was here.  Everyday the weather has been so pleasant. It's as if our town never welcomed winter, and we've been stuck in an eternal spring.  I am not begging for snow - or wishing for predictable January clouds, instead, I am luxuriating in the warmth.  I do not cry because I cannot wear mittens, or because Winter never came, and for those who do, please take a cotton cloth and rest it on your cheek. The strange weather patterns never frighten me, and they shouldn't cause your frown. I think the world is strange enough, why waste my days worrying about the weather.

Last night, I went to the Ironwood, my absolute favorite place of breathing in Calgary. It's a tavern-like bar in the Inglewood district, and it's where my life was found, I swear.  Each time I have gone there, I have left with different inner workings.  You see, the Ironwood is home to a stage where different country/blues/folk/bluegrass musicians come to sing. The atmosphere is unpretending, and warm, a bit like you'd imagine your own home to feel.

 Last night, a band from Winnipeg named The Crooked Brothers plucked their strings, fine tooth combed their words, and caused my heart beats to bend to a new pattern.  It was as if I had found a place to belong, a place where day dreaming was unnecessary, because reality was enough.  I was so grateful to spend the experience with my closest companions - Carter, my ma, and my pa.  Some people spend their wholes lives searching for memories, and last night, I welcomed a memory that will sit within my belly for the rest of my life.

Kisses to you all.

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what i wore

polka dot dress | value village | $10
wedges | aldo shoes | $40
socks | ardenes | $2
black blouse | value village | $5
banjo necklace | etsy | $30 

heartshaped socks will carry me home,

Hymns, and folk tunes, the perfect winter day.
I have gathered thoughts around my banjo, and found myself pulling strings of hand written songs, and heart spun melodies. It's nice to escape the world of television screens, and internet highways. To be away from the telephone, and closer to the kettle, is how I ought to be lately. 

To appreciate, and fully hold hands with your surroundings, you have to escape every once and a while. Playing an instrument is one of the nicest ways to reconnect myself to things I've forgotten, or taken for granted. Like the mountains, the sky, the kettle coo, or the oven.  When I hear the echo of the moon shaped instrument,  I feel as though I am reminded.  Reminded of the sweet things that exist without sockets, or buttons.

If you've ever traveled to the land of instruments, or music making, you'll understand what I mean. If you've never, then I suggest you press those piano keys, pull those guitar strings, hammer on that banjo, bang on that drum, sing to the tune of that sparrow's song.   When your hands meet an instrument to compose an echo, a patter, a slap, a shriek, or a sigh - it's as if the mossy hill and the skyline meet.  As if we're all heaven bound when our instruments are singing.

I've often wondered what I've spent my life doing before I found melodies, and song strumming. When I imagine those days, I imagine a girl without wings - or teeth. I did not take flight - the way I do now. I did not chew my food  - the way I do now.    

I blame the years of empty fingers on my poetry. 
I suppose, I left the grandmother gifted guitar in the stand, because I figured my poetry was enough. And truly, my poetry is enough, sometimes.  Penning words will always be my favorite pastime.   But music, music is something else.  Written poetry is the evocation of my own feelings and sounds. Where as, Music creates a fabric - a gently sewn masterpiece of not only sounds, but of poems, and paintings, and story telling.....   A collaboration of all things beautiful. 

 For the instrument bent folks,
Poetry is to music what Tea is to the kettle.  The prepared leaves of a flower are carefully placed to sweeten your cup, but what is the tea cup without the kettle's coo.   We sweeten our bellies with poems, but for us, the songstresses, and the tea drinkers, we are not complete until we hear our instrument's humming, or our kettle's meowing.  Our books, our teacups, and our poems remain unfinished until we make our throats, our hands, and our tea pots sing.  Remind yourself: We are lucky to know the stretch in our fingers when composing a tune. It's as if we're song birds sitting on a pine, becoming one with the world around us.

For the empty finger folks,
You know, if you look around you, you'll see that music is everywhere.
In the bark of the wolf, in the wild horse neighing, in the swirl of the river, in the 4 am sleepless television screen, in the mother's lullaby, in the folk song, in the hip hop ballad, in the chanting of a stadium, in the birds cry, in the howl of the wind. Everywhere.

When we begin to listen to our surroundings, we can better understand why people strum, sing, compose, or sway. Sound is beautiful.  When you pluck, tap, or bang on your instrument, you are creating music. And to me, there aint nothing as good for the soul, as hearing your once empty fingers, playing to a warble, a jig, or a ditty that you've created.

So I guess the message hidden beneath my words here, is that sound is beautiful, but music-making is even more so.  Don't believe me?
Pick up that dusty guitar, your silent piano, the rusty old harp, or the kitchen spoons.
Let the birds listen to you.

Kisses for everyone!

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what i wore
red bow hat | winners | $20
shoes | | sponsor
floral dress | mama stone vintage | $40
riding pants | jacob | sponsor

the petal and vine dress,

hello dwellers, drifters, & dreamers.
At last, the winter has reshaped the city.  All of the rooftops are covered in blankets - blankets of glitter, and frosty white clouds. When the winter kisses the walker's brave feet, I sit beside my fire place, and watch the world through my window.

Tomorrow, I must rise early, put my feet in threads of wool, and write an exam for school. I'd much rather toss my bones and muscles in feather blankets, belonging to my bed. Or sip bubbly pop in a bubble bath.  Sadly, sometimes in life, we must exist in cold weather, doing things we'd rather not be doing.

As of late, I've been practicing my banjo, with my banjo teacher, and alone. I've been eating melted cheese on salted crackers. And I've been sleeping past the morning hour.   I am happy to sleep - my sleeping dreams have been equally as colorful as my day dreaming.

Last night, I dreamed I was a farmer, but my crop was on a whale of a hill.  I spent the dream dragging empty buckets, the size of bathtubs, to the tip of the hill. I could see red barns in the distance, and violet flowers. It's hard to imagine the dream was less than an hour long, but it caused great wonder to my waking hours.

I've often wondered what's hidden beneath our dreams, what's lying beneath our eyelids at night. Some dreams appear as if they hold no meaning, similar to watching a moving picture.  We are entertained while we drift into lands, and shapes, that don't exist while we're awake.  Certainly, there's a meaning to some of the pictures we see at night. But I do believe, the purpose of dreams is a way of travel, without planes or bus fare. Dreams exist so daily wandering is a bit easier on our bellies.

As I write to you - My belly is begging for a warm bath, and my ears want to listen to the song "Mule Skinner Blues."  I'm going to rest my head on a book before I drift into sleep..

Let your Thursday be filled with blushing cheeks, and happy thoughts.
Kisses !!

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what i wore
floral dress | | sponsor
white faux fur vest | H&M | $15
brown boots | | sponsor

wild roamers and friday the thirteenth,

So the tree is bending to the tune of whistles, and I am warm beneath dusty white ceilings.  As I was sitting on the tawny couch I call my shore,  I howled for my dogs.  I like how they've learned to sit like a song bird on the couch above carpet. I wanted to play.  But when I howled, I forgot they weren't home, because they're out exploring the weather.

Lately, I've been collecting thoughts of Animals, I suppose in the same way a drifter collects thoughts of home, or a beach turtle collects thoughts of seashells.  I am constantly looking through windows at furry squirrels, black painted birds, and white tailed deers. 

When my eyes aren't on the wild roamers, I watch my own dogs. I watch how they bow, how they bark, how they tilt their little faces when we speak of turkey treats.  I never want to imagine a life without their whispers.  Everyday, when I awake, I can hear them breathing through the halls.  And when their paws befriend my knees, I give them belly rubs. If dogs aren't a ticket for happiness, I don't know what is.

It's Friday the thirteenth, and I'll have you know, the number 13 has always been a symbol of luck for me. When I was a girl, just a babe, I would pen the number on leaflets and corners of paper. Maybe, it's because I was born on December 13, maybe it's because I am silly, but whatever the reason, the number has always been significant for me. When I played basketball, I always needed the number 13 outlining the back of my jersey. In fact, if someone troubled me into wanting the number too, we would quarrel one another. This usually took the form of a shoot out, or a one on one game.  Each time, I won, so I was never without my number.  I give less recognition to skill, and more to luck. If I had been fighting for any other number, maybe I would have lost.  There's something mysterious that drifts through my bones whenever the number 13 exists. 

So now, I'll eat soup, maybe sip a spirit, and allow Friday the thirteenth to ring through the halls.
Have a magical weekend everyone =)

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what i wore
purple sweater- Value village $5
white skirt- Winners $10
white wedges - Aldo $50
floral tights- H&M $10

giveaway winner: vintage jewelry

Hello beautiful people,  thank you for entering the giveaway! With over 130 entries, We can finally crown the winner. Congrats to Carina of the blog badtastetoasttoast  =)

(winner was drawn with random number generator)

a coat made of petals,


I am sitting in my bedroom, my hair feels like it's been swallowed by the ocean, because it's wet from my bath. There's a teacup on the counter, and I need buckets to get rid of the clothes that call my floor their home.  I am craving a nap, but I know the carpets aren't like stars, they won't sparkle on their own. If only I came upon a magic bottle, one that could grant me three wishes, I would surely ask for an unblemished room,  forevermore.


Lately, I've been living in my imagination, causing myself to search for maps and compasses that lead me home.   Our minds are a wild thing, we're always roaming with or without hoof prints or trails. Many moons, I have sat on a rosy woven chair, and found myself in meadows, kicking streams, riding saddles, calling dogs, and chasing clouds.  But then, there are the other times,  when my imagination swallows me, and turns me into a slow slug.  Sometimes my mind plays tricks, causing me to mourn on the woven chair, for a place I've never been,  a place that exists only in my head.  

This is how my January has been.  The moon blooms, water moans, and my wild thing of a mind is off roaming,  without a buckle of reality.  My thoughts do quickly travel, and by the end of the hour, I have sat on the woven chair, dreaming of faces, and pot boiling stories that do not exist.  Have you ever let your reasoning, your soundness, or your wits hibernate like a bear cub in your head? This is me in the month of January. All I do is sit, and live inside of my head, without making much sense of it all. 

Being thought thirsty, I build a home in my head often. The only difference in this month of January, is that I have replaced wonders with worries. My common sense has migrated, and all I can do is think of the worst possibilities!  Maybe, my head isn't parallel to the sun right now, because I'm bombarded by exams, and a messy room. ^.^

 I am happy to wear my petal coat in these photographs.  A gift from my Mom. It reminds me of the sunflower garden we once grew together. :)       Now I'm going to watch a moving picture, and try to dream about sun shapes instead of brooding.


 what I wore
petal coat || anthropologie || $100
blouse || forever 21 ||$15
overall skirt || forever 21|| $20
fedora || dads closet
wedges || || $100

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