January 24, 2024 was a serendipitous, ‘big magic‘ kind of day. I was writing the first draft of a story about a young women wandering into a mossy forest.
“She took a few deep breaths and felt her body relax. She was almost there. Her special place. Her retreat from the world. Where sunlight filtered magically through the towering trees, dancing on the moss and the rocks in the clearing. Where bluebells blossomed. Where she felt at home.“
At the same time Kathy Bradshaw was finishing her captivating piece of art, entitled, “I can smell the moss”. Neither of us knew what the other was doing. Two days later, this ‘creative collision’ opened the door to collaborate and enter the Canadian Encaustic International Online ‘Waxing Poetic’ Exhibition.
From Kathy’s artist statement: “There is nothing like breathing in forest air – its intoxicating mix of moss, earth, decay, cedar and pine. A forest’s lush array of colours and textures weave a visual feast. There is mystery, there is darkness, and oh there is light. It is the sensual, mysterious and dreamy nature of encaustic that allows me to tell this story best. I also consider Sandi Knight’s touching poetry/prose piece to be the perfect extension of my painting.”
Thank you Kathy for your kind words, support and the opportunity to showcase my poem alongside your enchanting, mossy, sunlit forest.
She brought the painting to Gran’s room, hung it where it could be viewed from the comfort of the bed, remembering the first time they wandered down, what would become, their favourite woodland path…
Large, lush ferns lined the narrow trail, sentinels to a sacred spot.
The clearing opened before them, so welcoming, so magical…
Sunlight danced playfully on the moss-covered forest floor.
Spring was ebbing into summer, the greens rich, vibrant, varied.
Bluebells softly swayed in grass beneath the towering trees.
They paused, taking it all in, entranced by this mystical oasis.
Gran awoke, surprised to see Sarah at her bedside. Her face lit up, her gaze moving slowly from granddaughter to canvas, “Oh Sarah dear, it’s as if I’m there! I can see the bluebells. I can feel the breeze. I can smell the moss.”
Serendipity — “the fact of something interesting or pleasant happening by chance”. This beautiful painting by Kathy Bradshaw and my fictional story fit that narrative in a surreal way. As Kathy was finishing her captivating forest piece, I was writing this. Neither of us had any idea what the other was doing. In fact, while we know each other from social media, we’ve yet to even meet in person. The experience truly feels like a ‘Big Magic‘ moment. I hope you enjoy the collision of our creativity.
“I can smell the moss” — Kathy Bradshaw
Sarah quietly slipped away — away from the crowded house, away from the stories, away from the condolences. She needed to reflect on her memories in peace, needed to feel near her Gran.
She walked down the garden pathway, through the horse pasture, along the fence line until she reached ‘their’ tree. Two intertwined hearts were still on its trunk. She paused a moment, her fingers tracing the worn etchings, lovingly inscribed by Gran all those years ago, “So you’ll always remember the way, even when I’m not here.”
Oh Gran…I’ll always remember the way, and the very first time you brought me here.
I was so upset that day. My parents once again exasperated with me, “Why are you crying this time?”
Gran looked at me and softly said, “Come along.” She saw me, understood me, didn’t try to change me, “I love you just as you are!” She took my hand, guiding me quietly and gently down what would become a familiar, comforting trail.
I cautiously followed her on the narrowing path, large, lush, green ferns brushing against us. Then the clearing opened before us, so welcoming, so magical. Sunlight filtered through trees, dancing on the moss-covered floor. Tiny blue flowers, “Bluebells,” Gran said, swayed gently in the grass beneath the trees. It felt like we’d entered a secret, enchanted forest.
And so, it had become their place, their private forest oasis — where it was safe to cry, be upset or excited, to feel all her emotions without judgement. Gran listened, nurtured and loved. She taught Sarah about birds, insects, animals, about trees, moss, ferns and wildflowers. She encouraged imagination and creativity.
They would lean against the trees or stretch out on the soft bed of moss. Sometimes they read or Gran would tell stories while whittling tiny perfect carvings. Sarah would colour or draw. As time went on, she began painting, exploring with watercolour and pastels.
One year Gran bought her a camera, and Sarah’s love of photography began. Behind the lens she became skilled in the art of noticing, of being present and immersed in what was in before her, and with while doing so, her anxiety would dissipate.
Even though it meant moving away, she had been encouraged by Gran to go to university. Little did Sarah know at the time, that it would be for more than four years — that her work would take her around the world, photographing people, animals, buildings, monuments, and landscapes she never could have imagined as a girl. Gran cheered her from afar, and when her health allowed, she would travel to Sarah’s openings and exhibits, proudly beaming and telling anyone who would listen, “That talented young woman is my granddaughter. She sees and captures what we may miss.”
Sarah bought Gran a digital photo frame to keep up with her latest travels and projects. Weekly phone calls or video chats kept them connected, and she came home as often as she could. Then, no matter the season, Sarah and Gran would make time to visit in their special place in the forest — to catch up, reconnect or simply just sit, listen and observe. This was, and would forever be, her favourite landscape.
Various photographs from here and her expansive collection had found their way into children’s hospitals, daycares, schools, shelters and even youth detention centres. Her intent was to do what she could through her art to decrease anxiety for children while invoking a feeling of calm and safety, especially those in difficult situations.
With time and success, she’d been able to accomplish this, at no cost to the organizations, through her own non-profit organization — the “H3 Art Network”, in honour of Gran. When Sarah suggested it be, “Helen’s Healing HeArt Network”, Gran quickly declared that name was far too long. After much debate, Gran finally agreed to the H3 abbreviation.
Over the years, many prints, canvases, and even custom door wraps had made their way into countless spaces. At Gran’s suggestion, H3 also expanded to work with senior centres, assisted living associations, personal care homes, hospitals, health care facilities and hospices.
Sarah never imagined her vibrant Gran being in any of those places, especially a hospice. Yet it happened. Gran requested her favourite photo be hung in the common room — “as large as life please!” It was impossible not to smile at her determination and enthusiasm.
It was one Sarah had captured with her first camera. When spring was ebbing into summer. When the greens were vibrant and varied. When sunlight danced playfully on the carpet of moss. When the bluebells swayed in the grass. At that moment, when Gran and Sarah had entered the clearing, they’d both stopped, captivated by the beauty of it all — almost afraid to take another step or speak and break the spell of the tranquility and perfection before them.
Sarah loved that photo too, but the file was too small to print the size Gran hoped for, so she enlisted the help of a dear friend and talented painter. The canvas was ‘as large as life’ and the re-creation of the photo was beyond what Sarah could have wished. The texture, the colours, the details perfectly portrayed the photo and captured the emotion of their special forest retreat.
When it came time to hang it, she wheeled Gran out of her room and watched her reaction as it was unveiled. Her face lit up in amazement, “Oh Sarah dear, it’s like we’re there again! I can see the bluebells. I can feel the breeze. I can smell the moss.”
A week later, her beloved Gran, her coach, her cheerleader and life instructor was gone. Sarah wasn’t sure how she could carry on, but she knew going back to their spot was what she needed to do now, and it would always be so, whenever she needed to feel her Gran’s presence.
Three different paths. Three different journeys. Three different stories.
Yet here they were, at the same opening, at the same time.
Drawn here by some unknown force. Fate? Serendipity? A higher power?
It didn’t matter. They walked into the forest side-by-side. Quiet. Solemn. Disheartened. Each carrying their own burdens of sorrow, trauma and pain. The shadows of the trees seemed dark, daunting, almost frightening.
They could hear a stream in the distance, and instinctively knew, in that opening sunlight would be dancing on the water as it rippled downstream. They paused a moment but weren’t drawn there.
The trees were calling today. They chose to go deeper into the forest, single file as the path narrowed, the tips of branches brushing against their shoulders.
It led them to a clearing where worn tree stumps encircled a fire pit made of stones. It was time to stop. To light a fire. To be together in this sacred spot.
They sat, shared their stories, their truths, their hurts. Relinquished all pain into the smoke, watched it circle up, up into the tree tops and beyond…
For a long while they were still, quiet, reflective. Then the one with long, dark hair started to laugh — a contagious, joyful laugh. The others joined in. Feeling lighter. More complete. Free.
The dark-haired one suddenly leaned to the left, swung her feet to the side, one hand on her chair stump. She let the momentum carry her, twirled and began to dance.
How could the others not dance with her? Let joy flow through them? Celebrate — their new-found feelings, unlikely connection, each other and this healing circle?
Their secrets were safe here. Sunlight filtered through the trees. Laughter echoed through the woods.
An acrostic story. (26 sentences. The first letter of each new line beginning in sequence with the letters of the alphabet)
Airborne at last, Zaida heard her girlfriends cheering as she finally gathered the courage to leap.
Being there for her today, and over the past year, meant so much to Zaida. Cancer had been the unrelenting enemy and while the fight was difficult, there were bright moments along the way.
During her treatments and surgery her astounding friends — Taylor, Val and Jane — supported her with food, visits, phone calls, messages, housecleaning, yard work, chauffeuring duties and most importantly ~ laughter!
Even when she pushed them away in her darkest hours, they remained close by, giving her space but refusing to leave her alone in her battle. Friendships like that are a treasure. Giving up hadn’t been an option, and their support had been as important as her medical team’s efforts to reclaim her health and get her to Rocky Point today.
High above the treetops on this spectacular June evening, she released her fears, both of heights and cancer. It was exhilarating! Jumping off the platform hadn’t been easy, but wow, what a ride it was!
Keeping her eyes to the sky, she saw a bald eagle soaring high above — a symbol of strength and courage. Letting go of her tight grip on the rope, Zaida closed her eyes, put her faith in the harness, leaned back and flew upside down along the cable.
Memories of the past year dissipated as she embraced the moment, feeling the cool evening air rushing past her. Never before had she experienced this feeling of total abandon. Officially cancer-free and flying high above the gorgeous ravines of the Pembina Valley, she felt euphoric.
Preparing to land, Zaida pulled herself upright, smiled broadly, letting out a ‘whoo-hoo’ as she coasted to the next platform. Quashing the trepidation and anxiety she had felt at the beginning was liberating.
Rocky Point Hy-Wire Adventures promised a “breath-taking outdoor thrill ride” and they did not disappoint. Sailing across the 1000-foot cable, 150 feet above the ground was indeed a thrill, and actually fun, yes fun!
Taylor had been right when she said if Zaida could beat cancer, she could conquer anything! Using this adventure to overcome her fears wasn’t as crazy as she thought.
Val’s wild shrieks now echoed across the valley as she was next to come across the zip-line. Watching her friend fly towards her, arms and legs outstretched at wide angles, Zaida laughed.
“X marks the spot, so outta my way!” Val hollered.
“You not only did it, you let go and hung upside down you show-off!” Val teased as she embraced Zaida.
Zaida’s name meant, ‘fortunate one’ and she felt incredibly fortunate, and grateful — for her health, her family, her supportive friends, and this amazing, empowering experience.
She stood in awe of the mountains towering around her, inhaling deeply the pure, crisp, cold air, wondering why it had taken her so long to get here.
She could hear the echos of those who had come before her, feel the spirits of those who never made it home, lost to the power of nature in this incredible landscape.
A place where beauty and harshness collide, where light and darkness create shadows of hope and fear, faith and uncertainty, power and helplessness. A place where time stood still, yet urged you to move forward — to follow your dreams, listen to the yearnings of your heart, use your gifts and your strengths to their full potential.
This moment was fleeting yet she knew it would stay with her forever. She now understood the lure of the mountains. Coming back would not be merely a dream, it would be her reality, her future. Of that she was certain.
There was a softness in the morning light. A feeling of calm, of peace, of hope.
Overnight, frost had painted the sleeping trees. The waking sun casually spashed soft pastels onto the canvas of clouds rolling by.
She abandoned her coffee, pulled on her boots and jacket, and opened the door. The air was crisp, refreshing — it helped clear the fog of the week’s heaviness from her mind.
She wandered through the yard, paused to watch the sunrise, admired the white crystals coating the landscape. How lucky she was to be surrounded by this beauty. To have calm envelope her, while the world seemed to swirl in chaos and uncertainty.
She raised her camera with hopes of capturing not only the view, but the feeling, the emotion of the moment. She couldn’t change the world, but maybe, just maybe, she could brighten someone’s day by sharing this soothing view. And if nothing else, she would be documenting the memory for herself. A photo to look back on, to recreate that feeling whenever she needed it.
As she ran her fingers over the worn and weathered logs, she knew she had found the homestead — her grandmother’s birthplace. Sarah could feel the presence of her ancestors here. The roof log of the tool shed had collapsed, but the four walls stood proud among the trees and long grass. She admired the dovetail construction — such perfection, such strength.
To the west of the tool shed were remnants of the ice house. She imagined her grandmother running barefoot through the grass, sent to retrieve milk or butter from the cool building on a hot summer’s day.
Sarah wandered through the overgrown yard site. Large leaves and a tinge of red in bright green grass beckoned her back towards the road. Rhubarb! Was the garden once here? The house couldn’t have been far away.
She continued her search and found the stone foundation where the house once stood. It had been gone for so long, a victim to fire. A gust of wind, a long curtain and a coal-oil lamp. Destruction was swift, the effect devastating and life on this piece of land never the same. Tears welled up as she imagined the horror of that day.
For now, she needed to get to the task at hand. She had promised to take pictures. She had promised to bring back a stone from the foundation. She had promised she wouldn’t cry. But tears overtook her. She sat down, head in her hands and wept.
I’ve been going through old stories trying to re-ignite my creative writing. This one was inspired by a visit to my great-grandparent’s homestead near Willowbrook, Saskatchewan in August 2010.
If we are fortunate, we have many circles of friendship, support and encouragement in our lives. My writing group, “Prairie Pens”, is one such circle. I wrote this in August 2008 as a tribute to them. Subsequently it was published in the introduction to our anthology, “From All Directions” in 2009.
I’m not sure I would have had the courage and resolve to continue to put to paper without them. They have helped, and continue to help me, develop as a writer. This craft is ever-evolving as we strive to hone and fine-tune the art of story-telling. Their motivating and inspiring guidance over the last thirteen years will forever be appreciated. ♥
Conversation, rippled with laughter, drifts out the screen windows toward the lake. A chickadee calls out from a nearby window branch, joining in the light-hearted banter.
Hummingbirds zip back and forth, drawn to blooms of scarlet geraniums and brilliant-blue salvia in overflowing window boxes. A flash of black and orange…yes, an oriole, heard earlier but seemingly reluctant to make an appearance. Elegant dragonflies float by; the hum of a cicada speaks to the heat of this perfect summer day.
Inside, simple plaques grace the walls – Wiggle Your Toes in the Sand; Life is Good at the Beach; and above the doorway, Home is Where Your Story Begins. How appropriate for this collection. They are comfortable, at ease, as they arrange themselves on rich chocolate-brown wicker topped with floral-green cushions. Soon the visiting ends as stories begin to pour out around the room. Emotions rise and fall; then advice freely flows.
The love of this art of etching words, simple words on paper, binds this group together. Women of all ages, different backgrounds, diverse life stories, offering each other support, encouragement, resolve – to imagine, to create, to write and keep writing.
One woman sits back for a moment, takes it all in – the surroundings, the setting, the vibrant group. Her eyes revert to the plaque Home is Where Your Story Begins. Yes, but it is here, with these women, where the courage is found to put pen to paper, to share words without fear. She glances out at the lake. Mid-day sun bounces off the water, sparkling as beautifully as the dynamic collection of writers surrounding her.
Sandi Knight 