Creating Sanctuary

 

I built my house of driftwood and sea fog,

wrapped it around me, the way a sand dollar

creates its home from sand and grit around it

and carries it within.

I go there when the world is loud and cruel,
injustice and inhumanity too much to bear,

pull the drawbridge up, bathe in silence

and necessary peace, turn off the news,

turn on gratitude, quietude,
my beating heart
steadying

like the ticking clock on the windowsill

of my childhood.

I create a sanctuary there, where cruelty

has no place, and beauty
and compassion still exist
- (that line of monks, padding softly
through the snow) -
where all the values I hold dear

still shine. I create poems in that peaceful place,
a line of walking monks, some grace,

reminding us that beauty is still here,

kindness still lives. They are telling us

it is still all ours to give.

for Susan's prompt at What's Going On: Creation

The Journey

 

I have been a different woman every decade,

growing from terrified child to lost teen,

from oppressed wife to liberated free spirit,

from single mother to voyageur -

that one leap midlife the beginning

of a whole other journey.

I forgive the many missteps

that got me here. It takes a tree

a long time to grow strong and wise,
with flexible boughs to bend with every wind.

I make peace with having done

the best I could. Given my beginnings,

there is no way it could have been

otherwise.

I built my scaffold with hammer and tong,
making do with whatever lay at hand,

wove my spirit's home out of driftwood

and sea spray, set my sights forever

on blue sky. The call of the wolf

has always been

my reason why.

From the Edge of Hope

source

Fellow traveller,

across the cold, hard landscape

of our broken dreams,

I bid you safe passage,

(a safe journey, a safe return,)

a door open wide

on arrival to shelter you,

cool water to drink,

sustenance

and rest.

Masked men with guns

have overtaken the road

most travelled.

See the empty cars

with smashed windows

by the side of the road.

See the children inside,

wondering where

their parent has gone.

Where to find shelter

in a world so dark?

The forests are full

of hungry animals

who have been displaced.

Prison camps are full

of traumatized humans

whose lives have been blown apart.

How did we make
a world like this?
How do we dream
a better dream,
shelter for every
seeking heart?

My heart finds shelter

in a line of monks in orange robes,

walking across a winter landscape,

walking for peace - for compassion

- for hope - step after step,

not stopped by the bitter cold,

forward, only forward,

into whatever comes next.

I can only offer a blessing

for your travels.

(A safe journey, a safe return.)

May all beings find

a place of safety in which

to weather the storms ahead.

May all beings find shelter

behind that welcoming door.

(A safe journey, and a safe return.)

for Mary's prompt at What's Going On - Shelter.

I Wake Up and It Breaks My Heart*

 

I open my eyes on a beautiful West Coast morning: sunshine, forest breathing greenly, eagles soaring above, the eternal waves rolling in to shore. The world could not be more beautiful. Yet its human and non-human beings are suffering. Holding both these truths at once breaks my heart.

So much suffering: humans, whales, polar bears, Mother Earth herself, all of her creatures struggling to adapt to the climate crisis, wars, discord and injustice that (in)humanity has caused.

I have lived through suffering often in my 79 years. But what is on my tv screen these days I never thought I'd see in North America. Yet here we are.

I was raised to live in hope, "hand on my heart, hand on my stupid heart*", believing that faith and goodness and laws and rights and freedoms - that justice itself - would hold strong.

This box of darkness is too heavy. Yet I have to believe that, collectively, far more of us believe in justice and equality and human rights than not. We can put this box down, rise up to reclaim all we hold most dear, talk loudly to our representatives, VOTE!!!, help, protect and bear witness to our neighbours in harm's way. March for the dispossessed, both human and animal. Help where we can.

I carry two truths in my tired and aching heart: the world could not be more beautiful. That it also is suffering lives in my every heartbeat.

In the morning, I open my eyes on this beautiful West Coast world. And it both lifts and breaks my heart all over again.

* title and italicized lines from "Meditations In an Emergency" by Cameron Awkward-Rich

For my prompt atWhat's Going On: Help for Hurting Hearts. (Not sure how much help it offers, sadly. Other than sharing the journey.)

No Words

 I don't even have words for what happened this morning in Minneapolis. As I watched, a feeling of doom came over me. This. Must. Stop.

HUMANITY RISING

 

Where to find hope or inspiration,
when cruelty and lawlessness,
racism and fascism,
things we never dreamed could be this bad
in North America,
assault us every day
on our tv screens?

It is in
a line of monks
walking across America,
spreading compassion,
exemplifying peace.
Showing us how.

It is in humanity rising
in response to brutality,
neighbours turning out 
to support neighbours.
Love trumping darkness,
even if it takes a while.
Because this is not who we are.

It is in intentional writing,
our words, like the monks' footsteps,
travelling across the page or screen,
our fingers tapping solidarity,
our gaze as loving and serene
as Aloka's,
looking out at a world gone mad,
yet clinging to the peacefulness
within,
so the dark and toxic ones
don't win.

Seeking Peace

 

Walk for Peace photo

Everything is beautiful,
and I am so sad.*

Where to find peace in difficult times?

It's in a line of monks in orange robes,

walking across America for peace and compassion:

their quiet hearts, their smiles, their fingers
raised in blessing.

It's in the sunrise rising up over Rosie Bay,

in the crows strutting along the beach,

turning over shells, looking for their breakfast.

Everything is beautiful*
 and then I turn on the news,
speechless at the illegality, the inhumanity,
the cruel brutality,
yet also lifted up
by the voices of good people
fighting to uphold the rule of law.

Then, I have to
disappear, like a hermit,
into the forest,
to listen to the trees
breathing peace.
What we save, saves us,
I read somewhere,
and it is true.
The trees fill me with their peace,
and I emerge transformed,
renewed, restored.

I have carried beauty and sorrow
in equal measure
through the length
of my old age,
watching the world I love
fall apart.

We turn from scenes we never dreamed
we'd see

on the streets of North America:
an angry, ugly boil that has festered
and broken open.

I walk, like the monks,
intentionally,

to find some peace, and there she is -

a fox, where there has never been
a fox before -

peering from the thicket
- not alarmed, not running off -

just looking, as if to ponder what manner

of beast we humans are, to make so much noise

and clamour and distress on lands

meant for peace and plenty,
for beauty and for joy.

I carry the forest's peace
with me as I leave.
When the clamour is too great
it is the wild
that helps me grieve.

The fox sighting was by a friend, not me. But she sent me the photo and I put her sweet face into this poem.

***The italicized lines are from Mark Nepo's poem "Adrift".

A slight adjustment to last Friday's poem, for Susan's prompt at What's Going On - Peace.

What's going on indeed - things I never dreamed would happen this close to home. In Canada, we are appalled - and nervous.

In Difficult Times

 

facebook image from Walk for Peace

Where to find poetry in difficult times?

It's in a line of monks in orange robes,

walking across America for peace and compassion:

their quiet hearts, their smiles, their fingers
raised in blessing.

It's in the sunrise rising up over Rosie Bay,

in the crows strutting along the beach,

turning over shells, looking for their breakfast.

It's in the daily news, horrifying, heartbreaking,

violent attacks on innocent civilians, and it's in

the voices of those there to witness, asking

"what's your name? who can I call?"

We turn from scenes we never dreamed we'd see

on the streets of North America,
an angry, ugly boil that has festered
and broken open.
We walk, like the monks,

to find some peace, and there she is -

a fox, where there has never been a fox before -

peering from the thicket
- not alarmed, not running off -

just looking, as if to ponder what manner

of beast we humans are, to make so much noise

and clamour and distress on lands

meant for only peace and plenty.

The fox sighting was by a friend, not me. But she sent me the photo and I put her sweet face into this poem.

Begin Again

 

Walk for Peace

"Something that will not acknowledge conclusion insists that we forever begin."
from Brendan Kennelly's poem "Begin".

The year begins, not at all hopeful,
and yet......

in the early morning light, nineteen monks
chant prayerfully before setting out
on their journey across America,
walking for peace, for compassion,
bringing hope for better times
in their kind eyes.

Beautiful spirit-dog Aloka, a being of
unutterable love, walks beside them,
light on his paws, jauntiness in his tail.

This journey is met with tears
by people so hungry for kindness, for beauty,
in a year beginning even darker than the last,
as we watch leaders repeat the horrors
of the past, having learned nothing
about peace, or how to be happy
just being.

Bless the monks on their journey of compassion,
who are cold and tired with aching feet
they never mention and quietly bandage each night.
Two or three are walking barefoot
to make their offering even stronger.

Their gift is so great. They lift my heart.
They help me believe - that goodness
will always triumph in the end, because
the alternative is not livable.
Day by day, I will pace my small rooms
in spiritual community with the beautiful monks.
I will send out compassion and kindness
and hope. Each morning,
like the beautiful monks,
I will begin again.

for Sumana's prompt at What's Going On:  BEGINNINGS

Holding On

Maybe you don't know strength
until the world has brought you to your knees,
as low as you can go, and yet
you somehow find it within you
to get back up and try again.

Maybe you don't know hope
until, after the hardest winter of your life,
you see a tree frog on your deck,
and small green growing things
start popping up out of the soil.

Maybe you think you are alone,
until you come home exhausted
after the worst day ever, and
two wriggling, barking explosions
of joy leap around, tails wagging,
as if you are back from an Arctic expedition
and have been away too long.

Maybe you start to think that life
will never get any easier, that struggle
is all you will ever know,
until you remember other hard times
and the better days that followed,
and remind yourself that,
after the cold winter, good days
and sunshine and laughter and hope
will come again. 

Maybe you feel so discouraged
that even the blue sky fails
to lift your heart. And yet,
you were born for sunny days,
and visits from the neighbourhood deer,
and green smiles from the tall cedar.
All - all - are surrounding you
with all the beauty they know,
in order to comfort you,
remind you you are loved,
and keep you holding on
for better days.

Dedicated to a loved one who is struggling harder than any one human should ever have to do.

Ordinary Things

Monks for peace with Aloka

Ordinary extraordinary things........

monks' bare feet walking

across the winter landscape

just walking, as meditation, as love,

as compassion, as gift -

to hearts and minds bowed down with grief

at what is becoming of our world.

Right here, right now,

a light film of unexpected snow on the lawn,

my chair, my computer, my keyboard

seeking the next poem,

the comfort in a cup of tea -

ordinary things, surrounding us, ready to serve -

small gifts, to warm the heart,

while, day after day, mile

after mile, the beautiful monks

keep walking along the icy streets.

Today it is colder, so Aloka the dog

is placed in the RV. I hope the monks

have all put on their shoes.

How thin their robes,

how large their journey,

a gift of love they give us

with their every measured step.

How emotional, the tears and smiles

with which they are met, by people

hungry for goodness, for kindness,

- for some hope -

and for peace in a world gone dark.

Inspired by The Patience of Ordinary Things by Pat Schneider.

LETTING GO

Right here, right now,

I am gazing at the bare branches
of the cherry trees,
divested of their leaves.

The visiting dog is

rolling and rubbing himself

on the lawn, and groaning,
making us laugh,

reminding me of my own wolf-dog,

how he cracked me up every day,

how, at times, he tried to talk.

What is wisdom?

What is letting go?

the poet asks.

I ponder.

Now is the time for

long, slow days,
remembering:

all the losses, all the gifts,

the hellos and the goodbyes.

How joyously we welcomed in

all of those highs,

how we mourned all the lows.

And yet what we were mourning

were the things that had brought us

the most happiness. So were they even

losses in the end?

Perhaps wisdom is

the letting go,

the acceptance of

Being Here Now.

I cast my mind back

through all the years,

plucking out this memory,

and that, like silver-backed salmon

from shining seas.

Truly, I am not counting losses

at all, but only gifts. Old age

is a time when, though we carry grief,
we hold it with gratitude,
hearts replete with
all of the beauty,
all of the blessings.

Letting go
of the beauty of this earth
will be the hardest.
But, for that,
all that we need do
is to
surrender.

for Mary's prompt at What's Going On: Letting Go.

Pantoum

 

source

The owl in the cedar hoots under the wolf moon.
The village is silent, dreams just out of reach,
as wolves, bears and cougars pad about in the darkness,
I, awake and listening for what the silence has to teach.

The village is silent, dreams just out of reach.
Darkness, dark, it has never been so dark.
I, awake, and listening for what silence has to teach,
as the world is going mad, the horror fresh and stark.

Darkness, dark, it has never been so dark.
When will this world I love ever learn to live in peace?
The world is going mad, the horror fresh and stark.
Who will stop the madness? When will the nightmare cease?

When will this world I love ever learn to live in peace?
Wolves, bears and cougar, are fearful in the darkness.
Bless all the furry beasts. May they find shelter soon.
Wise owl in the cedar, lonely under the wolf moon.

I haven't attempted a pantoum in a while, so gave it a try.

WHAT BELONGS TO US

What belongs to us?

Not the sky, though our eyes fly to it
many times a day,
for beauty, for inspiration, for hope.

Not the earth, brown and humble and mothering,
though it forms a platform for our feet
and keeps us standing.

Not the trees, breathing peace and oxygen,
removing carbon dioxide and human toxins
from our struggling bodies.

Not each other, for we live and die alone,
though love is threaded through the generations,
and weaves a tapestry between our hearts
and every other.

Not the dreams we dreamed,
that got replaced by other dreams,
which turned out to be the right dreams
after all.

Not every item in my small rooms,
gathered with love, which will be scattered
when I move to a hospital and only need
a comb and toothbrush.
(Goodbye, all my wolves!)

What belongs to us? What do we
take with us on this long journey
to the end of things?

The memories. When we are lying in a bed
in just a hospital nightgown
(please bring me cozy blankets!)
our thoughts will go back to the beginning
and all the way through
this amazing, astonishing, unpredictable
and magical life,
and we will see the signposts
where we were helped and guided
off the wrong paths and onto
the path that is only ours

and we will be
grateful, grateful, grateful
for it all.

Inspired by What Belongs To Us by Marie Howe