From Facebook: likes...27...Patricia Black, Amber Dawn Pullin and 25 others
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إبراهيم أشعياء عوض burgundy Trilliums are a welcome change from the plain white ones!

Heather Roberts Cadsby Lovely! They are known as wakerobin and are, to put it politely, ill-scented.

Stan Burfield Ah. Thanks. I'll tell her.
Stan Burfield Here's where we were if anyone wants to check out the Trilliums or the trees or both. https://www.google.ca/.../data=!3m6!1e1!3m4...

After nearly seven decades of struggling through a very real world, a world I was never able to change to suit my peculiarities, but rather one in which I was forced to change myself in order to survive--not to mention thrive--I would expect to be a very different person coming out of all that than I was going in.

Rummaging through a box of ancient odds and ends from my early life, I uncovered a little black notebook containing sixteen pages of diary, beginning Oct. 16, 1966. I was sixteen years old then, just a sprout, leafless, totally dependent. And there on page two, after a general description of our farm, our family, and my life as a child, I described myself:
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“All this has led up to what I am, which isn’t anything special. Out of the ordinary—yes—but special—no. I am somewhat ambitious and have a craving to learn. My ambition is to be a biologist, although that does not mean I won’t end up being a ditch digger. I have a theory (I am always making theories) as to why I am like this. I may as well put it down here, even though it will not interest anyone but myself, in later years. There are quite a few reasons why I have this ambition and will to learn….” And I go on for FIVE PAGES describing why I loved to learn things. Not the things themselves, but why! Theories! It wasn’t enough that I had to understand why other things existed, and how they worked. No. I suddenly put down my books and ideas and asked myself what was going on in my own head. Why did I want to know all these things? And so then I worked on that problem, as if it were about the deer in the forest, solved it, and then went back to everything else. And I’m still doing that. After sixty-seven years. Constantly. Every day. Every hour of every day. And now that I’ve just written that (“Constantly. Every day. Every hour of every day.”), once again, fifty-one years later, I look at those phrases and automatically wonder why. All over again. Why constantly? Why every hour of every day? So here I am, right now, re-analyzing the theories I wrote in those five pages, and adding ones I hadn’t thought of then. Re-weighing, balancing, re-working the percentages. I can’t help it. That’s just who I am. I haven’t changed a bit.


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Yesterday I had a run of fatigue that was obviously caused by one of the pills I've just started taking for atrial fibrillation. Then this morning I woke early and couldn't get back to sleep, so I knew that, between the two sources of tiredness, I was in for another rough day, probably worse than yesterday.

Nevertheless, having just woken up, I didn't feel too bad yet, neither tired not anxious, so I quickly decided to do as much of my stress-inducing open mic work as I could, in one fell swoop, and get it over with before the fatigue and the anxiety of doing it caught up with me.

And I did: five things, including one that was tanglingly complicated and one that was major, all in about two hours. By then, even though the stress was noticeable, and the sleepiness was setting in, I felt free of all the bad jobs, and satisfied, and the rest of the day was mine. So obviously I had hit upon something and decided to do it this way in the future--stressful jobs first thing. Then, if nothing else, I would at least get my open mic work done, atrial fibrillation or not.

Another great idea followed from that. A couple weeks before, I had created my latest daily organisation chart, something I do occasionally to try to get myself a little more organised and productive, but which always proves to be a big failure. I just can never seem to get myself to plan my days and then actually follow the plans, doing one little thing at one time and another at another time. My latest chart had me working on 2,5 hours of poetry in the morning and 2,5 hours of novel writing in the afternoon, each preceded by and followed by open mic jobs. But even if my health problem hadn't injected itself, I know I wouldn't have been able to discipline myself enough anyway.

Now, after seeing that I had to do all my stressful jobs in the morning, to make sure I would do them at all, it occurred to me that I could simply assign the rest of the day to one major project, instead of chopping it up into robotic pieces, and tackle that one thing whenever I was up to it and for as long as it felt good. One project a day, no set hours. Wow, why didn't I think of that decades ago? (Well, because until I was retired, my one project had always been work, of course.)

The follow-up question is, won't the medication-induced fatigue prevent work on that one project? I don't think so. I can take naps to revive myself. And/or meditate. Then there's stubbornness and determination. And anyway, creation always seems to produce its own energy out of thin air: So this will be an interesting experiment to see if that energy, which is always so weirdly unexpected, can overcome the fatigue of medication!

I'm already getting energy just from the unexpected creation of these life-changing ideas. I would never have expected that I could squeeze such good stuff out of what should be a big downer, having my first mini-stroke!
Photo: Me at 20. Time keeps doing its thing and I keep doing mine.


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From Facebook: Likes...7..Karen Troxler, Larry Burfield and 5 others
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Carol Reid You're onto something!
Unlike · Reply · 1 · 6 September at 19:59

Linda Eva Williams Sweet Stan, you work so hard at understanding. And still retain your sense of humour. By the way, what are you doing in this pic? I keep wanting to see a mic.
Unlike · Reply · 1 · 6 September at 20:53

Stan Burfield I think a relative was over and I was having a conversation. It was Christmas time.
Like · Reply · 6 September at 20:55

Linda Eva Williams You? Conversing??
Like · Reply · 6 September at 21:05

Stan Burfield Bizarre but true. I can even remember who it was with. A cousin from New Zealand.
Like · Reply · 6 September at 21:05


Larry Burfield You sure remind me of your sister in this photo.
Like · Reply · 7 September at 00:34

Stan Burfield Interesting. That never would have occurred to me.
Like · Reply · 7 September at 12:32



Karen Troxler Thanks for sharing, it might help other procrastinators, like moi!
Unlike · Reply · 1 · 7 September at 07:54

When we lived on Gabriola Island, I went wandering down the road one fine Harvest-Moon night, enjoying the moonlit landscape under that deep purple sky, the banks of trees and a farmer's field that was not too far from our half acre.

At some point, a pretty girl who was also out wandering by herself saw the light glancing off my eyes as I looked up at the huge moon and said, "Nice, isn't it?" Girls on Gabriola, especially the hippy girls, of which Gabriola has a large population, tend not to be too afraid of old guys they bump into out on a dark country road at night.
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I said, "Yeah, it's a harvest moon tonight."

She looked at me quizzically, like we had known each other for years, and said, "What exactly is a harvest moon?"

"Well," I said, as if I were an older relative of hers, "it's nothing special really, just the full moon that happens to be the closest to the autumn equinox, which is September 22nd, I think."

"Oh!" She looked up at it again. Then she cocked her head with that same quizzical look and said, "Why do you know all this about it?"

We were both warming to our little conversation out there in that eerily-bright light and cool evening scent of fall. So I told her the whole story. "My father grew up on a homestead out on the prairie in Alberta. All they had was grain crops and a little hay. At harvest time, somebody who owned a big threshing machine would move it onto each farm, one after the other, as soon as the grain was ready to harvest. All the guys from all the farms would come in with their wagons and teams of horses and work as late into the night as they possibly could, throwing all the sheaves of grain onto their wagons and then line them up at the threshing machine and toss them in, to separate the seeds from the straw, and then they would head back out to bring more in, and keep at it into the night until they either fell asleep standing up or that farm was all done. Then they would move the threshing machine to the next farm, and so on, and try to get all the farms done before it rained. They would do it all day and then into the night during the harvest moon and during as many nights as they could see well enough on each side of the harvest moon to get it all done as quickly as possible."

She listened intently, then said, "Wow. So now I know." And she gave me a big smile and walked off down the road into the night.

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Here’s what happened: On Monday I was doing my usual stair climb. I think I was on the ninth flight of stairs, out of ten. By #8 I had been puffing heavily. I always slow down when that happens, so as not to get a heart attack in the stairwell. But I guess I was still pushing it too hard. My right leg went partially numb. At the same time there was a strange kind of numb feeling in my head (inside my brain?).

The leg didn't go completely numb and I was able to get to the apartment and sit down. It lasted about three minutes. Luckily, I immediately recognized it as a mini-stroke, so looked it up on the internet. It said to get to the hospital without delay. I took a cab and was in a bed within half an hour of it happening. (They ushered me right in, past a huge room full of waiting people!)

A nurse took ten phials of blood; another did an ultrasound of the arteries in my neck that lead into my brain, into me. The next day I went back and they slid me through the big CT Scanner.

The doctor said they found a tiny enlargement in my cortex, in an area that indicated it was probably caused by a blood clot from my heart. The CT Scan wasn’t detailed enough to be sure, so tomorrow I will go in for an MRI scan. (Which I would love to watch on the screen. Not too many people’s minds ever get the opportunity to see themselves!) Then, a couple days later, I go for an echocardiogram, which is an ultrasound of my heart, I guess to look for the source of the blood clot, and maybe also to see if a heart attack might be imminent as well. They’ll also attach a monitor to my chest to watch my heart rhythms over 48 hours.

And all because of only three minutes of numbness! Since then, nothing else has happened, thankfully. And the stroke doesn’t seem to have produced any side effects in me. So this is the best possible outcome: a very real occurrence that leaves no damage but nevertheless is loud enough to get me to change my lifestyle.

The doctor, a stroke specialist, gave me a sheaf of notes he had put together on how to prevent further strokes, which included a lot of vegetarian recipes. Essentially, he said, our meat and ice cream diets are the main causes of strokes--and heart attacks. Followed closely by lack of exercise and stress.

Well, I probably eat better than the average Canadian (loving fruit and vegetables and not caring much for meat), and probably even do better-than-average exercise-wise. That leaves stress.

So I’m making some big changes.

In terms of food, I’m aiming towards being a vegetarian, cutting fats and meats, but also, in the interests of health, cholesterol, sugar, and salt. As much as possible, anyway, without becoming a fanatic. I would have already been a vegetarian except that Linda is such a carnivore. But now, because of the big medical scare she had gone through just before I had my stroke (which caused me to worry so much about her that I had the stroke), she has totally changed her eating habits. Now she’s really getting into foods she has always avoided like the plague. So it will be a lot easier for me to change too.

(In case you are a believer in the health benefits of lots of protein and/or fats, the latest large-scale studies show that of the three diets—high protein, high carbohydrates, and high fats—only the high carbohydrate diet increases the life span of the people who live on it. Both of the others reduce the average life span. You can find the studies on the internet.)

In terms of exercise, I’m going to increase it, not decrease it, but not push the aerobics too hard. Keeping it to the pace of a brisk walk will be good for me and shouldn’t kill me.

In terms of stress, I have to make a lot of changes. Whether or not I keep organizing the open mic, I’m not sure of yet. I would like to see it carry on when I quit.

Until I quit, there are a lot of things I can do to reduce my stress load. For starters, I’ve been terrible at organizing myself and my usage of time. Doing it properly is largely a matter of continually writing in a calendar the things that have to be done, when they have to be finished, when started, and when each aspect of them should be worked on to get them done in time. And all this needs to be done two events in advance because the work on them overlaps. I’ve always tried (but never succeeded) to get myself to do this properly. Consequently, I’m always worrying about whether I’m missing things, or if I’m getting them done on time. That worry causes continuous stress, a stress that builds up over time. By the end of the season, I’m burnt out from it.

Another thing I’m going to stop doing is two things at once. Any two things, even simple things like having the TV on while I’m writing something on the computer. Or even having music on while I’m working. Or carrying on a conversation while I’m doing anything. Etc, etc. I’ve noticed that part of my brain suffers tremendous stress from continually trying to sort it all out. (I imagine it doesn’t work this way in extreme extroverts, who need a lot happening just to stay awake.)

I see Linda several times a day sitting out on the balcony meditating. During these times, I have to be careful not to disturb her, which is difficult when she’s there all alone in that beautiful balcony room she’s created, looking out over the green trees of the city, seemingly just waiting to have a good conversation. Instead, I watch and learn the value of meditation. And now, finally, I’m going to join her. After a lifetime of tiny attempts. Hopefully, meditating will stop the stress from building through the day.
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Our lives are mostly composed of a steady stream of risks, along with a steady stream of attempts to minimize them. In other words, we live on hope. I’ve reached the point where the next failed risk will likely end my life. So from now on it has to be all or nothing.

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It was a warning. And now Linda and I have both had powerful shots across the bow, both in the last few days.

Just before my stroke, I was afraid Linda might have the worst cancer going, pancreatic. Luckily it turned out to be something else, we’re not sure what yet, but if it had been pancreatic cancer she wouldn’t have had more than a year to live.

In my case, I certainly didn’t think I was close to being stroke material. For a long time, my diet and exercise habits have been better than average. But I’ve ignored the big third factor, stress, at my peril. Actually, instead of reducing it in my retirement, I’ve dramatically increased my stress load by becoming a social organizer, not an easy job for a shy person. During the open mic’s first couple of years, my stress was often so high I worried about having a heart attack. But I got through that. And finally, during the last season, the fourth, I felt like I was coasting: I was much less shy, thanks to forcing myself out into the social world all that time, and I seemed to be less anxious in general. However, it looks like that kind of long-term stress builds itself into the body; it’s very telling that it was during this last week of worry about Linda that I had this mini-stroke.
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Anyway, we’ve both survived, and now we’re seriously working on our lives, hoping to reverse these problems before it’s too late. And that is possible. People who survive their first heart attack or mini-strokes often live long healthy lives simply because they start off in a fresh new direction after hitting rock bottom.


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I'm looking forward to putting London Open Mic Poetry behind me, so as to have more time to spend with Linda and my own projects. I don't know when just yet, but events are moving me in that direction.

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Jf Pickersgill This specific tension often arises for organizers of regular literary events such as yours. It takes time and effort that is often underestimated by others -- including those who enjoy the monthly readings -- or that simply goes along with less recognition than is merited. Personal life pulls in another direction, too. One thing I would say from personal experience ... when the time comes, pulling back *for now* does not necessarily mean pulling back *forever* ... you might come back to it. Best solution all around? Find someone else to do all the tasks entailed in convening the monthly series ... but ... I do strongly acknowledge that is not always a realistic possibility.
Like · Reply · 4 · 18 July at 15:00

Stan Burfield Thanks, JF. Good points. From the beginning I've tried to get other people involved in it, forming an "organizing committee" with the main idea that there will be interested and committed others to carry it on. Let's hope it works out that way. I've discovered, however, that there is a huge difference between the mental attitude of starting something and making it happen, and the other of helping. But these are mature young people who may be able to pick up their game.
Like · Reply · 5 · 18 July at 15:29

Patricia Black Sorry to hear Stan that you're moving on - for now - and I wish you and Linda very well. Thank you for your outstanding devotion to the Open Mic. We hope others will be willing to carry on - you have put so much time, energy and love into it.
Like · Reply · 2 · 19 July at 00:22

Stan Burfield Thanks so much, Patricia!
Like · Reply · 19 July at 00:25

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Linda and I went down to the backyard of the apartment building this afternoon, unfolded our two chairs under a massive, ancient maple and sat down to read, me Lawrence of Arabia's Seven Pillars of Wisdom, and Linda the beginning of a diary written by one of my female ancestors in the 18th century. Linda did okay but I became distracted by a vine that was climbing from a hedge into the tree. Then a loud family came out, we both lost our concentration, and packed up to go back inside.

At the door, I had no keys.

I must have left them in the apartment. Luckily, someone let us in the building. We went up and our door was locked. Okay, before panic began to set in, I said, "Wait here, I'll go back and check around the table. They must have fallen out of my pocket into the grass, maybe when I pulled my camera out." The cord on the camera gets tangled up with everything all the time. So down I went, and hunted carefully all along the route between the door and where our chairs had been. Nothing. So I did it again, trying to remember my exact route back. Nothing. I stopped myself and thought carefully. Where could they have gone? Aha! They must have fallen out of my pocket into the chair, because the low chair pushes my legs upwards. So, optimistically, I went back up to Linda, searching all the way one more time. She was still petting the neighbour's cats in the hall. She didn't seem too concerned. We took both the chairs out of their bags and unfolded them. Nothing. Now I was really getting worried. It was 8 in the evening. The apartment manager would be gone for the day. Linda said, "We should be able to get someone at the company office." They own a bunch of these buildings and would have someone on all the time. But first we went out and looked again. I prowled along very slowly this time, and when I got to where we had been sitting I kneeled on the ground to feel through the grass with my hands. Linda had wandered off to the side, I couldn't imagine why. Irritated, I said, "What are you doing?" She said, "You were over here looking up into the tree. Remember the vine?" "Oh, yeah." I had completely forgotten. I walked toward her looking down, and there were the keys!

We are so different. I'm always thinking. She's always doing things. It's very easy for me to forget real things that I've really done in the real world, because my world, the one which is complete and is always with me, is a world of ideas. Whereas, Linda remembers every little thing that both of us have done in the real world, which is hers.
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We're similar and complement each other in the very important ways of human feelings, but we're opposite in virtually everything else. Which means that we hold together, and in doing so we have one all-encompassing brain. What one of us lacks the other excels in.

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Linda Eva Williams Linda, you look like you're swooning! What's not to swoon over?

Stan Burfield Ha ha. You know how to say it, Linda.


Cambridge N Calvin Keenan A beautiful love story , thanks for Sharing Stan and Linda 🌹have a fabulous weekend

Cambridge N Calvin Keenan That's a great picture of you two 🌹


Meredith Moeckel Love reading about your love affair, and the picture of you two is perfect! ♡♡