there are no dirty words.

” If you can make what your hand falls on sing, then just do it.”

Leonard Cohen

mr. cohen

mr. cohen

Sunday morning radio has replaced the piano-led choruses that for so many years made up the soundtrack to this time slot, week after week. It’s funny the things you think will always be there. It’s funny the things you find you don’t miss.

Today, the small windows are frosted and the world outside is blanketed in white. The words of the poet replay through my speakers and remind me of moments when I felt myself come alive. He writes about love because it’s so hard to find, so easy to miss.

The visiting cat won’t sit still, every shadow and string a possible playmate. My sitting bones, a perch.

Everything is a muse in this spice box of earth. Sunday morning, outside the temple, I’m finding sanctuary in the ordinariness of it all.


test 2


Crabbuckits and itchy bones

there’s always a million reasons to say no.

excuses are plentiful. strong arguments for why-not-to aren’t hard to come by. few will blame me if i just don’t bother.

it’s easier, you know…


what if i just said yes this time?

what if i dropped the excuses? focused energy on why i should, why i could, what good would come if i did? where would i be if i just stepped out and went for it?

life is short, you know…


it was tuesday night. i’d spent the day rolling dough and pouring coffee in the darling village bakery. i had a looming deadline of an art show fast approaching and nothing prepared. i had things i could be doing. you know – stuff. important stuff. practical stuff. stuff stuff.

there’s a tightness that comes with cold weather sinking in. and a weight to some of my days as of late. and, well, some tension/tiredness/ache from a rollercoaster year of living. yeah…there’s a pocketful of reasons for my body to be tired. and somedays i let that tiredness win. i pull out the excuses and my list of why not to, and i settle into the weariness and steep there.

tiredness and to do lists. you know?

but it was tuesday night. and life was feeling too short. and my shoulders were feeling like i’d been carrying it all around for too long. and i didn’t want to do lists. i didn’t even want tiredness. i just wanted to dance.


my bones were just itching to move. like they were fed up with being dragged around and wanted to let loose and stretch out and show me what they were made of. tired of being tired, i just wanted to feel really alive.

what if i just said yes this time?

yes to moving and laughing and stretching and relaxing and playing and forgetting and remembering and breathing…and living.

just say yes, girl.

so i did.

and on tuesday night, after a long day, i found myself on a dance floor with a dear friend, letting loose and letting go and finding my breath and feeling my heart (race, not break)…and i laughed and smiled and felt full of life…

there’s a million reasons to say no.

but life is short, you know…

the tuesday night dance soundtrack

k-os dancin' man

k-os dancin' man

when spring takes too long to come

i’m cramming the nooks and crannies of heart and head with things that remind me that rain is music on the roof; snow is a clean slate; wind brings change; and every season eventually, always, comes to an end.


 Miss Mary Margaret

Miss Mary Margaret

the brilliance and beauty of Mary Margaret O\’Hara


earl grey tea with a bit of milk

earl grey tea with a bit of milk


the simple truths in the pages of The Camino Letters




the comfort of blankets

the comfort of blankets


good poetry

Mary Oliver

Mary Oliver

Cold now.

Close to the edge. Almost

unbearable. Clouds

bunch up and boil down

from the north of the white bear.

This tree-splitting morning

I dream of his fat tracks,

the lifesaving suet.

I think of summer with its luminous fruit,

blossoms rounding to berries, leaves,

handfuls of grain.

Maybe what cold is, is the time

we measure the love we have always had, secretly,

for our own bones, the hard knife-edged love

for the warm river of the I, beyond all else; maybe

that is what it means the beauty

of the blue shark cruising toward the tumbling seals.

In the season of snow,

in the immeasurable cold,

we grow cruel but honest; we keep

ourselves alive,

if we can, taking one after another

the necessary bodies of others, the many

crushed red flowers.

head over heels.

Dreams for Weary Sailors

Dreams for Weary Sailors

i think i may have fallen in love.

i didn’t mean to. i mean, sure, i was on the lookout for a little eye candy…on the prowl, if you will, for some inspiration.

but i never expected to be so smitten. so distracted. so head-over-heels.

He Knew The Path Held Dangers...

He Knew The Path Held Dangers...

but i am.

oh boy. i am.

Shadow Play

Shadow Play

it’s the muted colors. the magical light.

it’s tall grasses and small people and shadow puppets on the wall.

it’s sailboats and big waves

and titles that feel like poetry.

this is what has captured my imagination and made me so weak in the knees for the artwork of Elly MacKay .

She wove her crown from the flowers that grew around her...

She wove her crown from the flowers that grew around her...

i stumbled on her work quite by accident the other day. knowing nothing about her, but just being fascinated by the images.

i keep following the threads to find more and more of her playful, heartful, creations.

the more i find, the more i love.

I'll travel with you

I'll travel with you

the fact that she is not only a Canadian artist, but from Owen Sound, Ontario (so close to home in the grand scheme of things),

just makes it all the sweeter.

i love when beauty falls right in your lap

and all you can do is soak it up and say thank you.

thank you Elly MacKay for making art that makes me fall in love. it is a good thing indeed.

everything that happens from now on.

bon iver

bon iver

my soundtrack for a working winter afternoon

the first time.

IMG_4576a full and busy and all-over-the-place week ended last night with my little brother’s wedding.

in a small sweaty chapel we all sat and witnessed love.

it was a good thing.

and the singing of this song was one of the most beautiful parts of the whole night.

love isn’t always easy.

but i’m pretty sure it’s always good.

we cannot live through anything alone

little fish

As if birth weren’t enough.
So soon the swimming begins, the forage,
the panic of shelter and safety,
cures for hunger and loneliness.

And yet survival
isn’t the answer entirely.
We want a theme song,
God beaming down backstage,
a waterfall confirming our singular bravery.

What are we to make, then,
of our disasters? Are they not equally
spectacular? Can we not thank God
for spinning the story southward,
hellward, away from our golden halos?

Even darkness has its defiant pleasure,
its outrageous glory. Without a flag to herald
our descent, without lyrics to lessen the fall,
without poetry to take the sting out,
we fling ourselves against the current, our muscles
all twist and torque, the body of our heart
shuddering in cold solitude.

We cannot live through anything alone.
The islands we think we can claim for victory
are castoffs from the mainland.
We cannot live through anything alone.
From sheer rock someone articulates a profile.
We cannot live through anything alone.
A desert interrupted by oasis.
We cannot live through anything alone.
Each cry of despair
has an echo.

Here. Take this hand.
It is big enough
for all of us.

– Maya Stein

can't go alone

suspended in air

everything starts somewhere. a pile of old family photos. your grandfathers hankies. sticks collected on a pebbly beach. forgotten letters. small poems. a grief that has nowhere to go.

as an act of survival you start sorting. gluing. collecting. cutting. stitching.

and somewhere along the way you realize you’re telling your story.
with words, with pictures, with things.
you’re both writing and reading the tale.

you’re following the thread to the roots of your being.
through the bones and muscle
through the blood and veins
through the years and the distance and the memories and the fears
to the place where it all began.

and the beginning keeps bringing you back to the end.

your delicate architecture.
your fragile aliveness.

everything starts somewhere.



Delicate Architecture

new works by Raechelle Vyn

the Silver Bean Cafe

July 13th – 31st


delicate architecture

“Here is your delicate architecture

your fragile aliveness.”

– Maya Stein


a small show of new works

delicate 3

July 13th to 31st

.the silver bean cafe.


Previous Posts Next Posts

Words + Photos + Credit

Unless otherwise noted, all original photography and text are property of Raechelle Kennedy. If you see or read something here and feel inspired to share it somehow, please be considerate and give the artist (me!) credit, or even better, drop me a note and make sure I don’t mind.
Thank you!

Here + There

Secondhand Sainthood and the gift of losing it all – Topology Magazine, December 2015

Ten Things Made – Topology Magazine, December 2015