The Silence of the Heart

In the silence of the heart

grows the tender white lotus blossom

that is your life.

Water it gently with your tears.

Bathe it in the sunlight of your hopes

and the soft moonlight of your dreams.

Listen! for the trees are sighing,

holding out their arms as you approach,

hoping you will truly see them

at least one time before you die,

will let them hold you gently

as you cry.

Behind your sleeping eyes

lies the Watcher In the Woods,

the one who nudges you this way and that,

who sighs wearily, when you do not

heed her call,

this One who knows you best of all,

who has picked you up after every fall.

As we draw closer to the end of things,

our spirits slow, our voices gentle;

we are not nearly as certain as we once

so vociferously were.

It is time for silence now,

and reflection,

for looking back and for remembering,

with love.

We need much silence now,

a silence of the heart

weary from making its own way.

We speak more softly, and less often;

the young won't listen anyway.

They have to find

their own befuddled way,

their own steep price

in pain to pay.

Our song now is a murmuring brook

trickling over some knotted roots;

we are content to meander whimsically

through this just-before-winter,

letting go like the last withered leaf

on the gnarled old maple,

twirling dreamily down

to the mossy bank,

where we pause for a spell,

lulled by the water's flow.

So soft, its voice, as soft

as the somnolent song of our lives

the last notes sounding,

holding death at bay,

before they gently, softly, finally

fade away.

For Sumana's prompt at What's Going On: Silence

Alone

 

The pines, darkly shrouded

in morning mist,

line the river

like guardians of the wild.

The water roars its winter fury,

white spray tumbling over rocks

and through the narrow

rock-walled chasm,

green with the river's passage,

all these years.

An eagle surveys all

from his perch atop

a giant cedar.

And me? I walk in sorrow

along your favourite river,

holding your leash

and still - always - missing you.

Do you feel me,

searching for your spirit,

lost in the absence

of your soft padding footsteps

by my side?

How many sad walks

along the river will it take

before there are no tears?

Your being gone

is still too big an absence,

and it has nearly been

one year.

for Mary's prompt at What's Going On - Lonely ,  In this poem I remember how I felt the first time I walked the river at Stamp Falls after Pup's death. I still miss him, and it has been fourteen years, as many years as he was alive. He had, as Annell once wrote, "a spirit too big to kill."

Whalesong and the Language of Elephants

Google image

 

In the depths of the ocean, an otherworldly,
mystical, lonely sound is heard,
a song older than time, echoing
mournfully through miles of water
in distinctive patterns, that repeat,
improvise, and evolve.

Each whale in the sea, it has been learned,
composes her own song,
which is constantly growing and changing,
an example of cultural evolution
that far exceeds our own.
If only they could find a way to speak.
If only we could find a way to hear.

In the African savanna, or
at your neighborhood zoo,
if you sit in silence, and listen,
you might feel a throbbing in the air:
the vibration of elephant communication,
a sound below the pitch of the human ear,
their infrasonic calls.

Like humans, these gentle beasts feel community,
attachment, love, sorrow, grief, passion and play.
If parted for mere hours, on return
there is a joyous cacophony of welcome:
elephant cries of joy, ear flapping, trunks twining,
as if the benevolent being has returned
from years away, though he may have last
been seen earlier that morning.

Sometimes the entire herd
becomes completely still.
They are listening,
a trait we humans would do well to emulate.
Being Silent, we open our whole being
to what is here, before and all around us.
Becoming completely present to the moment,
we can hear trees sighing, a single stone
plunking into moving water,
eyes following clouds across the sky.
It is all magical. It is all Enough.
If we listen hard enough, we might even hear
the planet humming to us from its inner depths.
Mother Earth is continually speaking to us,
singing to us - singing us her song of love.
Waiting for us to love her back.

for Lisa's intriguing prompt at dVerse: Creature Feature:   speaking from concern at animals' well being during the climate crisis, and my belief that animals are sentient beings, and feel things as deeply as we do. (Legendary Creatures by Type)

source: In the Presence of Elephants and Whales, with Katy Payne, at On Being with Krista Tippett. Katy Payne has spent her life decoding the language of whales and elephants in efforts to better understand the species, and assist in conservation. Katy speaks of cultural evolution, demonstrated by the evolving songs of whales, and many other fascinating things. This is a wonderful interview, which set me dreaming about two species I love very much. I also am remembering here a news report many years ago, where scientists had heard a hum emanating from the depths of the earth.

I Fortify My Heart

 

I fortify my heart

against the loud and clamorous voices

that speak untruths -
against the hearts that have no love in them,

who seek to divide and disappear

the most vulnerable among us -

against those promoting hate

who have forgotten there is no Other,

only Us.

I fortify my heart

against despair, against hopelessness,

against surrendering the rights

that we hold dear,

that are vanishing week by week.

I fortify my heart by believing

more of us seek justice, truth, and humanity

than those sliding into the pit

of fascism, not understanding

that they, too, will suffer

under its yoke.

I fortify my heart

by understanding that the arc of justice

is long, that the universe tilts itself 

towards light, and goodness, and justice,

and that one day, when all of this madness

has done its worst, there will be a time 

of reckoning, of healing,
of restoring what has been lost,

a time when peace and dignity will return

to a continent that has forgotten

who we are and who

we are meant to be.

For now,
I resist.
I resist.
I resist.

for my prompt at What's Going On - Resistance.

I resist, but I also experience much grief at the state of the world, and outrage at all the injustice. But because everything is so dark, I have had to learn to protect myself by striving for balance, finding solace in nature - and also understanding that the pendulum swings from one side to the other, and that this will not be our forever reality - if humankind survives this difficult passage. I have to believe that truth and justice will - eventually - prevail. The North American spirit is used to being free.

COURAGE

 

Mi'kmag mother kneeling in front of police
at an anti-fracking protest.
APTN News photo

Courage
is peacefully protesting
for the rights of others,

even when it draws the ire
of the oppressors.

Courage 
is speaking up
against racism and injustice,
when others in the room
are silent.

Courage
is never giving up
our insistance on
democracy and human rights,
even as masked agents
disappear people
right before our eyes.

Courage
is feeling the fear,
seeing the militarized and brutal forces
lined up against you,
donning your frog costume
and dancing your froggy dance.

Portland's brilliant response
to the arrival of trump-sent militia in their city.

for Susan's prompt at What's Going On - Courage.

The Face In the Mirror

 

The Dog of Joy

Over the years,
as I looked in the mirror,
I have seen many changes -
the same eyes as my mother,
my grandmother,
all the Marrs.

Once, at fifty,  I saw my grandmother's face
looking back at me.

I have seen happiness
in that mirror.
I have seen hopeful eyes
and long wild hair.

I have seen sorrow, and loss,
and heartbreak -
and then transformation.

And now I am old.

Someone cut my long hair off
without permission.
I begin, fiercely,
to grow it back,
wilder than ever.
My face knows so much
that I wish I had known
back then,
but that is not the journey.
The journey is long,
full of stumblings,
and starting overs.

And no matter who it is
who looks back at me
in the mirror,
always
-always!-
behind the outer self
that the world sees,
is that wild girl 
galloping along wild beaches
with a big black wolf.

Inspired by my comment on Jae Rose's poem, that reminded me of a few things. Smiles.

ALIVE, ON PLANET EARTH

 

Fabulous wave shot by Geoff Johnson
at UkeeTube

When the Westerly blows,
and waves crash rapturously
upon the shore,
when treetops poke their spires
up through the fog and mist
along the slopes of Wah'nah'juss,
my heart exults in wonder.

When the eagle's piercing cry
echoes across the harbour,
and the heron picky-toes
along the rocky shore
seeking her breakfast,
when dogs with loopy grins
go lolloping in and out
of the waves at Chestermans,
and surfers stand to ride, and fall,
and rise again,

When the morning sun rises
over Lemmens Inlet,
geese flying above in a wavering V,
as the sandpipers whirl and swoop as one
along the water's edge,
and ravens croak their gobble-cry,

When sunset paints the sky
with colours too fantastic to describe
as the big old fiery orb sinks down
below the horizon at day's end,

When just being alive and breathing
in this forever power-place
seems wealth beyond compare,
and I most richly blessed,
thankfulness expands my heart
to bursting, again and again,
so dearly do I cherish the beauty,
the sheer interconnected wonder
of Clayoquot Sound.

How grateful I am
to have walked this earth walk
along its beloved shores,
the song of the waves
forever advancing and retreating
in my heart;
how dearly I feel the blessing,
rich with all life's worth,
just to have another day,
like this,
alive, on planet earth.

Warren Rudd photo

I have posted an earlier poem for Sumana's prompt at What's Going On: What makes you feel most alive? because I could not say it any better than I already have. And for Jennifer at dVerse: a poem based on a poem of Place by Ted Kooser - to write about our own locale.

Truly, where I live abounds in life force, and astounding beauty. Its citizens draw from the powerful energies that surround us. We are blessed. I am forever grateful for my years here.

Black Like Me

Lokman Vural Elibol/Anadulo via Getty Images

I am called black, though my skin is really brown,
rich and warm, like coffee with cream.

I had just begun to feel comfortable in my skin
in North America, as our leaders began
to include some positive and inspiring figures
who looked like me.

But now. Oh, now.
Masked goons attack us based on how we look,
slam us into the pavement, are unmoved
by our screams, our tears, our sobbing children. 

We are entering the dark night of the soul.
When we emerge from this time,
I dream we will turn to the light,
vote away all that is doing harm,
that all of us who possess human hearts
will join together, strong in our belief
that each living being matters,
is someone of value, who deserves
to live unassaulted in what was once
called the "land of the free."

for Mary's prompt at What's Going On: Black or White. I am speaking here in the voice of a person of colour, who has my complete empathy for the cruelty and injustice so many are enduring now, for no reason other than the colour of their skin. (The title is a reference to the book of that title, written by John Howard Griffin,  who coloured his skin so he could research what it felt like to live in darker skin. It was a revelation to him.)

For years, all the way back to my teen years, since I became aware of racism and social injustice, I have worn my white skin with discomfort, knowing that it implies privilege I deserve no more than any other human on earth. For eight and a half years, I worked with the beautiful local First Nations community, in a centre for Indigenous families (children included) who were recovering from addiction issues but, even more so, from the legacy of intergenerational pain and trauma of the residential school system in Canada. 

I am all too aware that my white skin is that of the oppressor of people of colour all over the world. When Obama came to power, I felt such hope, as so many of us did. We are living with the backlash of that event right now and it is ugly. The terrorizing and brutal treatment of people of colour in the USA, the disappearing of citizens, is something I never thought I would see to this degree in North America (though racism has always been part of the story and is rising in Canada too.) Yet here we are. Hopefully, not for long. I applaud the strong voices raised in opposition, and the millions of marching feet that rise in protest. May each pair of marching feet march into the voting booth at every opportunity.

The arc of justice is long and more of us believe in equal rights for every human than those who do not.  I believe we will emerge, maybe sooner than we think, from this outrageous time, and begin working to restore and retrieve what is being lost. We live in hope.

LOVE SONG TO JANE

 

The wonderful American singer and song writer Dana Lyons has written this love song to Jane Goodall. Jane also requested he write Circle the World to honour World Peace Day. I love his songs.

I first heard Dana sing the night we closed the Peace Camp down in 1993 after a summer of blockading to save the old growth forests of Clayoquot Sound. He visits here from time to time, most recently this week.

I thought I'd share this with you, as we continue to honour Jane's amazing impact on the world. She showed what one person can do.

TOFINO MAGIC

Tofino is full of creative people - poets, writers, sculptors, artists, carvers, performance folk of every type. Tuesday night we gathered at the Common Loaf Bake Shop for a book launch of Joanna Streetly's new book of poems titled, All Of Us Hidden. Joanna asked me to talk about poetry, so I offered the following. Live music followed our presentations, and Tofino's special magic happened, as it does every time we gather together to share our love of the arts, the written word, and music.

Poetry has companioned me through my life. I remember when my first poem wrote itself. I was sitting in school in grade nine when the lines of a poem began writing itself in my head. I started writing down the words, like taking dictation. I have been writing ever since.

Poems chart our journey. They leave signposts along the way so when we are gone those who come after can read them and remember who we were in this life. Poems have channeled my joy, my gratitude, my love of the natural world and its incredible beauty, my love affair with Clayoquot Sound, and with an amazing big black wolf-dog who shared my wild wilderness heart. I have written my activism, my angst, my grief at the climate crisis and its impact on all beings – especially the beyond-human souls with whom we share this struggling planet. 

Mostly, I strive for gratitude – for life, for its beauty, for the love that has resulted in the grief I carry. I bear witness, I grieve. But I also try to leave something in my poems for readers to take away with them – some hope, some compassion, some awareness….something of beauty to shine through the darkness.

Poems don’t always have to be serious. For fifteen years I have written poems online among poets from all over the world. They love my Wild Woman poems, and all the predicaments Wild Woman got into in her more agile years. Every now and then, a funny poem arrives. I will leave you with this one, written when I was writing among some wonderful poets at a site called Imaginary Garden With Real Toads. I worked hard to keep up, as they were very good and much younger. One day this poem arrived and made them laugh.  I share it with you to show you poems can cross the whole spectrum of human emotion: from dark to light, from grief to gratitude, from despair to hope, and from tears to laughter. One of the best of those poet friends hated haiku, so I wrote this for her:

OLD FROG MAKES HASH OF HAIKU

Old frog falls in pond
reviving briefly.

Old frog sits in stupor,
finally thinks of Word.

Old frog – ancient enough
for dimness to be forgiven.

Old frog, swimming with the young fry –
Glub glub.

(Everyone loved the "glub, glub!!)

DONA NOBIS PACEM: SPEAK LOVE

 

When all the world is changing,

rearranging,

and the life we knew is struggling

to survive the wrecking ball of chance,

a frenzied kind of dance,

I walk my heart into the rainforest

to find my way,

the great trees, breathing peace,

whisper to we noisy humans

"Please find a better path

that helps us stay."

When down is up and justice

is being trampled underfoot,

what still remains?

Kindness.

Our loving hearts.

Speaking Love.
Seeing No Stranger.

Protecting our neighbours.

All that we know to be true and plain.

Marching, singing,

hearts rising in fierce knowing

that democracy must stand.

In the midst of floods and fire,

storm and warming seas,

what still endures

across the land?

Mother Earth,

in her heartbreaking beauty,

caring for her many beings,

even those who've

lost their way.

She knows that darkness may endure

for a time, but the arc

of justice is long

and, in the end,

my friend,

only what is true and gold

- only Love -

can stay.

Today we are blogging for peace with Mimi Lenox at the Blogblast for Peace 2025 whose theme is Speaking Love. Still blogging for peace, after all these years, and it is even harder to find. But not impossible, when you count the millions of marching feet asking for democracy, social justice and peace these days.

Speaking Love reminds me of Valarie Kaur's activism. She wrote See No Stranger, a Manifesto of Revolutionary Love. These days she is showing up outside ICE detention centres, trying to persuade agents to rediscover their human hearts.

I guess we'll just keep blogging till human consciousness evolves. These days, we have a long way to go. But the arc of justice is long.

KINSHIP WITH THE WORLD

Chris Lowther photo

Sometimes a heron flies over,
looking like a skinny matron
with her purse clutched under her wing.

Two eagles, wings spread,
circle lazily,
sky-surfing the thermals

and,

sometimes the same slug
shows up curled cozily
in my potted calla lilies.
I lift him with whatever is at hand,
and take him far across the yard,
hoping he will lose his way
and find another bed.

But, sure enough,
several days later,
there he is again,
so comfy in his preferred spot.

Last week, 2000 geese
landed on the local airport,
stopping all air traffic, 
and had to be gently encouraged
off the runway.

Other lives are living all around us:
check out the intricacies of that spider web
dewy in the morning sun,
complacent spider sitting in the centre
just waiting for her breakfast
to arrive.

Cosmo, big friendly Malamute,
comes smiling into the yard,
dragging his smiling owner.
He graciously accepts a treat,
then rolls onto his back and writhes
with pleasure.
Before they leave, he serenades me
with his wolfy howls,
to tell me he misses me already
before he is even gone.

Universes large and small
live out their lives
as we do, day by day,
sometimes unaware of the wonder
that abounds, when we live,
eyes open, in kinship
with the world.

for my prompt at What's Going On: Kinship With the World

ONCE IN AUTUMN

 

Once in autumn.....

Nekiah hand-stitched every leaf,

with unerring eye,

making Tree Spirit costumes

for you and your friend,

Isaac Blue Sky.

We didn't know,

back then,

just how precious

were those fleeting days

of grace,

how quickly life

was flying by,

too fast the pace.

First, you grew.

Too soon,

before I was ready,

before you were, too,

you were out of the nest

and away;

for your heartbreaks

my heart, too, would pay,

you, so young and heedless

and rash,

my hair slowly turning

the color of

silvery ash.

Too soon,

Nekiah was gone.

It was cancer.

Isaac Blue Sky's life

was forever

fractured.

Those innocent faces

up there,

those round trusting eyes

that enraptured,

those smiles that had

not yet known pain........

remind me that once,

once in autumn,

we all lived precious days

that will not,

          will not ever

                     come again.

SAMHAIN

 

They say the dead are among us, we just can't see them. On Samhain, when the veils between the worlds are thin, are your paws padding softly beside me, as they did for so long?I keep waiting, for the weight of your snout on the side of my bed, to wake me each morning, as it did all your life, and on the morning after you died, then never again. Perhaps you are just the hint of a cold breeze on my cheek, an ache, some tears, a sigh. Where have you gone, my big, noisy boy, when I can no longer feel you, other than a missing that goes on forever, in my heart?

Remembering you
is joy and pain together -
tears, a smile, an ache.

for Frank at dVerse - Halloween / Samhain

What Remains

When all the world is changing,
rearranging,
and the life we knew is struggling
to survive the wrecking ball of chance,
a frenzied kind of dance,

I walk my heart into the rainforest
to find my way,
the great trees - eternal - breathing peace,
whispering to we noisy humans
"please find a better path
that helps us stay."

When down is up and justice
is being trampled underfoot,
what still remains?

Kindness.
Our loving hearts.
Protecting our neighbours. 
All that is true and plain. 
Marching, singing,
hearts rising in fierce knowing
that democracy must stand.

In the midst of floods and fire,
storm and warming seas,
what still endures
across the land?

Mother Earth,
in her heartbreaking beauty,
caring for her many beings,
even those who've
lost their way.

For darkness may endure
for a time, but the arc
of justice is long
and, in the end,
my friend,
only what is true and gold
can stay.*

for Susan's prompt at What's Going On: Eternal/Unchanging

*A reverse take on Frost's poem "Nothing Gold Can Stay". In this poem, I surmise that, no matter how tough the times, humans caring for each other, kindness, hands reaching out, feet marching - justice itself - all the best and golden qualities of humans - and Mother Earth's own struggle to survive - will carry on.

We live in hope. 

The Calla Lilies Are Wilting

 

The calla lilies are wilting,
and I pluck their fronds
as they languish.
But the geraniums have
a few brave blossoms yet,
and I am loathe to empty
my potted garden
while they are still 
working so hard
to stay alive.

I think how bare
that space will be
after the profusion of summer blooms,
once the pots are emptied
and tucked under the eaves
till next spring.

Yet the rains are here,
more days than not
and, soon, one sunny afternoon,
I will need to end
their gallant sojourn
under my big window.

It is the season edging us
into winter storms
and wildish waves.
The calla lilies are wilting,
in the time when all the creatures,
including us,
prepare for the long, dark,
cozy days of winter
and we all start gathering nuts
and singing
our cold weather songs.

for Kim's prompt at dVerse: creating our own micro-seasons

KINDNESS, IN THE TIME OF COVID

 

I remember those days:
at first, I was afraid to exit my apartment,
germs lurking everywhere - on the railings,
the doors, the laundry equipment.

We looked at each other in the CoOp,
eyes smiling above our masks,
staying carefully apart from each other,
protecting each other. Only
ten of us allowed in at a time,
in those early days.

I remember washing vegetables,
wiping down library books.

In our small hospital, exhausted doctors
and nurses tended the very ill.
All staff wore layers of protective gear.
They could not afford to get sick
with so many needing care.

Some staff rented motel rooms
so as not to carry germs home
to their loved ones.

We had two ambulances and
only one oxygen machine;
if it accompanied a patient out of town,
it was a long wait till it returned.

Dr. Bonnie Henry was our lifeline then,
with her calm instruction, her voice
on the news, enjoining us all
to be kind.

What I loved most: nation wide,
on the evening news, at 6 p.m.,
we watched people coming out
onto their balconies, all over the province,
banging pots to thank the medical staff
and service workers,
who had to walk into danger every day,
risking their own health,
worrying about their own families.

What I remember most, from those fearful times,
is kindness, and how dedicated everyone was
to caring for each other. 

for Mary's prompt at What's Going On: Remembering Covid

HERON II

 

Christine Lowther photo

Heron,
you once soared the skies,
perched in treetops,
picky-toed along the mudflats
in search of a meal.

Now the tide
has brought in
what is left of you:
two feathered wings,
still connected,
the rest of you washed away.

How did your end come?
I hope it was peaceful,
swift, before you knew
you were leaving
this world
you loved.

In silence,
we spread your wings,
extended them
as they were in life,
so your spirit could
fly free.

THINGS TO SAY INSTEAD OF "I'M FINE"

Remote Passages photo

On the street, passing villagers ask

"how are you?" and the expected response

is 'Fine, thanks,' even if one is hobbling,

and the other already walking away

before I can ask them the same.

For how is there time, as we're

rushing off to our various errands, to say,

(though sometimes I try): "It is so beautiful

today, it makes my heart sing" or "When

I saw the eagle fly across the harbour,

my heart flew along with him, for just

a little way."

We generally have an unspoken agreement

not to mention trump, covid, or the climate crisis,

the intense heat, the wildfires,
the horrifying floods,
houses and whole towns chest-deep in water,

climate refugees already

on the move, though leaders stay tight-lipped

about the state of things, as if the world

were not crumbling and melting
and sliding into the sea.

Wouldn't they be shocked

if I stopped right there

on the sidewalk, and said: All my life

I've loved people who never felt loved enough.

I gave all that I had, though it seems to be

forgotten, suffered many losses,

yet stayed grateful for the beauty

all around me, and the gifts I've

been given. From where I was to

where I am now was an amazing journey,

for which I'm thankful, and I'm tired now,

my quiet heart at peace.

But "Fine, thanks," I say, smiling,

which is likely a relief

to those who ask.

Inspired by "List of Things to Say Instead of I'm Fine" by Marlin M. Jenkins.

HERON

 

Great Blue Heron: A Delicate Balance
by Tofino Conservation Wildlife and Landscape 
Artist Mark Hobson

Graceful heron,

swooping across

the evening sky

like a pterodactyl,

Prehistoric bird

perched on a treetop,

my heart swoops with you,

then stills,

standing by the silent pond,

waiting for the night to settle

around us both

softly as feathers.

***

Song of the frogs

in the fading light,

soft fade the hills

in the falling night,

God touching earth

with a gentle might,

and all is beauty

within my sight.

Soft falls the light

on garden walls,

a rose-hued mountain

as day's curtain falls,

a froggy symphony

serenades the night sky,

and grateful, grateful, grateful

I.

The pond at Port Albion, where I perched for a few months when I first came back to the West Coast. It was beautiful there.

For Sumana's prompt at What's Going On : Ekphrastic poetry, to write a poem based on a painting.

Heron by UkeeTube

Happiness Is....

 

Look closely to see the heron against the rocks.

It's Saturday, and I want to tell you something
about happiness. It comes on soft little feet
into your life when you aren't even looking.
It taps you on the shoulder, disguised as
a dog you pass on the beach, a smile
from a stranger that says "people are good",
a special treat you buy yourself just because.
It reveals itself in the pot full of
tightly closed buds you brought home
from the nursery when, one morning,
you step into the yard to find
some of them open, and reaching for the sun.

It fills your heart when you breathe in
the early morning, and it smells like
summer mornings when you were a child
at Grandma's house, your safest place in the world.
You may not be thinking about anything,
just watching a cloud perch itself
on top of the rounded hills
across the harbour; your heart swells
to overflowing at the beauty:
happy, happy, happy
and
grateful, grateful, grateful.

Happiness is seeing nature's beauty,
all around through awakened eyes.
It is kinship with the world, one being
among all the other beings.
It lives in the song of the waves,
an eagle's cry, the sight of a heron
perched on the topmost branch
of an old growth cedar,
and you wonder how the branches
hold his weight and how
his feet find purchase.

It happens when a hummingbird flies,
by accident, inside your house.
You cup its featherweight lightness
in your hands, walk outside,
and set her free. Her darting flight
away from you is just how happiness is:
you don't want to hold it too tightly;
you know it needs its freedom
to come and go. Cupped hands,
only for a moment, and then release.

You know it will always
come back.

Full Circle Moment

 

I met my hero one day, when I was newly arrived in Tofino, the land of my dreams. I told her, when I was a single mother living inland, I read of her, another single mother, living her dream with the orcas up the Coast. I said I told myself if she could do it, I could do it too - make my dream come true. She smiled. She said she had just come from visiting her hero, Jane Goodall, that she had told herself if Jane could do it, she could do it too. 

Full circle moment,
hearts beckoning hearts,
dreams inspiring dreamers.

A haibun for my prompt at What's Going On : A Message from Jane Goodall

The woman who inspired me is Alexandra Morton, who has dedicated her life to the orcas, and in recent years to saving the wild salmon population that is endangered by fish farms - wild salmon that humans and whales and bears and wolves need to survive. She has made some progress in moving farms out of the Broughton archipelago, but there are still farms in other areas, including Clayoquot Sound. The sea lice and offal from the farms are infecting wild salmon, since government allows the farms to locate on wild salmon migration routes.

Wild Woman, Tapping the Keys

 

Wild Woman keeps tapping the keys.

The words come from who knows where?

The white bird asks: is this the best

humanity is capable of? She flicks her tail

in annoyance. Do better, she says,
and flies slip-sliding away.

Wild Woman has such a weary heart

from struggling - forever, it seems -

in hopes of a more just world.

Her worst nightmare has arrived,

something she never thought to see

in North America, which has fought

so long and so hard a fight
for justice.

She is so tired of marching, 
fighting the same old fights
over and over again,
every few decades.

If Wild Woman keeps tapping these keys,

might a miracle occur?
Might the transformation

of consciousness she has waited
a lifetime for
finally occur?

The arc of justice is long.

Maybe not in Wild Woman's time,

but, she hopes, in her grandchildren's time,

the white bird of peace will smile again.
Maybe the song of humanity -

of equality and freedom of choice and of voice -

will ring again in this land, that has fought and bled

 for hundreds of years to quell the racism,

the hatred, the othering, 
at its core,

and will reclaim the hard-won

rights to that underlying dream
that has always been

the land of the free
and the home of the brave.

Wild Woman is in mourning. But she hears

the white bird's call. The hope of that small bird

keeps her tapping on the keys,
seeing what messages come,

keeps her believing that our better angels

will one day vanquish, once and for all,

those who want a world

all painted white.

for Bjorn's prompt at dVerse: to write from another perspective. 

I tapped the keys. This is what came. I can't believe we are having this same fight again for social (or any other kind of) justice. More scarily now than I ever expected.