SMALL KINDNESSES

Edgar Allen Crow

by Pennybright Studios

A small, weary philosopher sits
on my left shoulder, muttering in my ear:
"There's no hope; clearly
the world has gone mad".

But then, an old woman fleeing
the wildfires, her house burning behind her,
says, with tears, "People are so kind",
because of all the helpers who appear
in tough times like these.

We are pleased to observe the kindness

of people to each other when things are
dark and scary. We applaud those who
stand up, reach out, object.
We love the helpers.

This is what we tend to see on the news:
a population at odds
with its own inner knowing,
in danger of forgetting how to
dive within and tap into our greatness.

When we focus our gaze on the small things,
life grows happier: how the surfer
stands up on the lip of the wave and
slides softly down - her joyous shriek;
the kindness in dogs' eyes, their tails wagging
an endless happy-to-meet-you.
(Let's all be like dogs.)
We stop to ponder the dewdrop
on a morning leaf, six fat robins on the grass
listening for worms. (We listen, too.)

Since the small philosopher and I are old,
we are free to be as odd as we please:
to pontificate, or cease from speaking
altogether; to be amazed by every blossom,
every bird, the way a cloud puffs
perfectly against the sky, as if seeing them 
for the last time, as one day we will.

For so long we "sought the approximate
weight of sadness*," but in the end,
it is joy and beauty and the possibility
of peace which frees us. It is kindness
in twinkling eyes, in "how can I help you?",
in "have a wonderful day!"

It is those heroic folks going into the flames
to put out the fire, while everyone else
- and all the terrified wild creatures -
run the other way, who remind us that
we humans have it in us to be
completely awesome.

My weary philosopher is tired now,
nodding off on my shoulder, ready for
a morning nap. I shall be kind and stop
my annoying tapping on the keys
that are keeping her awake.
But I close with the words
of that old woman on the morning news,
who just lost everything she owns,
and all she had to say, with tears, is
"People are so kind!"

*Inspired by "The Metaphysicians of South Jersey" by Stephen Dunn. The italicized line is his.

for my prompt at What's Going On: Small Kindnesses

WILD WOMAN TELLS ALL

 

Wild Woman, Indicating the Direction

Listen up, kids, because

Wild Woman has a few nuggets

of hard-won wisdom to share.

Call 'em Crone Crunchies,

because you can put toppings on them,

and try to make them sweeter,

but in the end,

you're still eating what's underneath:

good for you, if not especially tasty.

 First, you will look all over:

another book, another path,

a different place, a different life,

tried on like your Grandma's old hat,

beautiful in its day,

but bearing no resemblance

to the life you will eventually

call your own.

You will look to person after person

to be that Other who will magically

make you whole,

then find out it is an Inside Job.

Sorry, for that is the hardest truth I know.

Also difficult, but necessary,

is looking Within

and discovering that,

contrary to all your misgivings,

you are not more horrible or less deserving

than any other human.

You'll do, in a pinch.

You will give of yourself till you are

stripped bare, yet it will never

seem to be Enough.

Enough is what, eventually,

you will discover

you are left with, after you stop

all the Looking and the Doing,

and you down-size on

the Reclamation Projects,

for there clearly isn't enough time

to save the world,

or anyone, really, but, perhaps, yourself.

Enough is what's left after you strip away

what doesn't serve you,

sit on whichever porch you've landed up on,

and just stare at the sky

and listen to the birds.

After all that striving and searching,

isn't it a bummer it took so long
to discover

that it's just that easy?

for Susan's prompt at What's Going On: Talking / Conversation

WHEN I COME BACK, I WILL BE GRIEF

 

We start out whole,

losing pieces of ourselves

along the way,

and then reclaiming them.

That is the journey.

I am collecting the last few bits,

before I fly into the light.

I pick them up:

ah, there you are!

and add them to my pack.

When I return,

I will change my shape.

I will be cattails,

standing dry, bent and broken

at the edge of the dried-up pond.

I will be wolf-pup,

peering fearfully from my den,

knowing, to survive,

I must elude

Earth’s biggest enemy:

the predatory Two-Leggeds,

and they are

everywhere.

I fear

I will find a planet burning,

from Big Oil,

humans and animals

on the run.

I will be Tree,

gasping for air,

a sudden irradiation

as the orange tongues

lick greedily at my corpse.

I will be deer,

fleeing the flaming forests.

I will be mother orca, holding

my dead newborn calf

above the water

for seventeen days, grieving,

unable to let her go,

saying to the humans:

See! See what you have done!

I will be grief itself,

watching the world I love

burning itself up.

As I am now.

As I am now.

I wrote this several years ago, when a wildfire was burning near where I lived. Each year, more wildfires - more forests - more small towns - more First Nations reserves - burn. This year, across Canada, the scenes are apocalyptic: orange skies, animals and humans running between sheets of flames. Animals losing their lives, humans losing their houses in numbers higher than we have ever seen.

The temperatures climb, the earth and forests dry out - all it takes is a lightning strike to start a blaze. And would you believe governments are STILL approving the building of more pipelines? Corporate oil is making a killing - which is literally killing us.

The human pain is devastating. But my heart is with the animals, both domestic and wild, living and dying in terror because of the world we have so badly misused. I hear their screams in my dreams.

Sufi Dancing in My Head

[This NASA photo of the so-named Eye of God,
is of the Helix Nebula, taken by the Hubble Space Telescope]

Big old orb up there,

filled with a zillion stars

and shiny with stardust,

keep a benign eye

on us down here.

Beam that benevolent

celestial eye

all across this planet.

Sprinkle kindness

and stardust

everywhere you look.

When we gaze up at you,

may we each

become a Rumi,

filled with ecstasy and wonder,

so when you next look down

you'll see us all

grinning

like mad fools,

and wildly dancing.

for Sumana's open link at What's Going On.

This poem was written in happier times. Right now wildfires are burning all over BC and whole towns are being evacuated. Skies are apocalyptic, and terrified wild and domestic animals can be seen running through corridors of flame. Many wild ones will die. It is hard to  write anything positive as it feels like denial. So I pulled up this old one, from a time when dancing on the earth was more appropriate.

His Eyes

 

His eyes

looking up at me, age four,

huge, round, dark blue,

innocent. When I told him

he would have a baby sister

and we would teach her

how to walk and talk,

"and how to be happy" he said,

his kindness making me

catch my breath in awe

at the largeness

of his soul.

His eyes, always laughing,

as a child, so joyous,

dancing with his baby sister,

hugging her close; later,

as a teen, so protective,

holding her hand on the street

as bullies taunted him.

"Dont worry. Just keep walking,"

he said. Keeping her safe.

His eyes, at seventeen,

in the psych ward

as his world collapsed:

still, the same blue eyes,

still, the same wry smile.

His eyes, through his illness,

haunted, tortured,

as his dreams all dimmed,

his life growing lonely

as the walls closed in.

His eyes, that Monday morning,

through the tablet screen:

trapped and helpless

on his hospital bed

as life throws another hurdle

in his path, that has already

been so hard.

If I could switch places

with him, I would,

but I can only look into

those same blue eyes

with all my mother's heart -

those eyes still the colour

of all my morning skies.

In 2021, my son, age 50, whose life was already challenging, suffered a serious stroke, affecting the left side of his body. A musician, he can no longer play guitar, or compose music. He still writes amazing poetry though.

For Mary's prompt at What's Going On - Eyes