A Hard Year

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Even in this bad year,*
I learned:
how to change my perspective
from angst to rueful observation of human folly,
from a distance, in order to preserve
what inner peace I can. How to stay open
and aware of what is, yet not to let it bury me
in gloom, so that I have something sunny
and positive to offer those around me:
belief in the Bigger Picture, which is unfolding
towards the other end of the spectrum
in its time. (May it accelerate!)

I watch the news. I shake my head.
I wonder what it will take for some
of those in power to stop the madness.
I am surprised by the change from anger
to - is it resignation? fatalism? or trust
that the arc of justice is long, and the pendulum
will swing once more the other way,
hopefully to not be forgotten ever again.
May humankind find the harmony 
of living in the middle, with equity for all.

Why is it that the world needs to turn more brutal
in order for us to relearn compassion?

What do I hold onto?
The expansive ever-changing and yet eternal sky.
The reminder that, as we fall,
we break open, receptive to all that life
is trying to teach.

Who teaches me the most?
Dogs, who live only to love,
and birds, who survive on seeds and berries,
trusting only their own small wings.

Wild Writing: Day One: Inspired by the poem Bad Year by Jane Hirshfield The italicized words are hers.

The Last Things I'll Remember

 

The small cottage on Christleton Avenue

in the '50's: peonies, pinks, sweet pea, their scent

mingling on the breeze; me drifting

in the hammock - my boat of dreams -

under the weeping willow.

The little house on Ethel Street,

full of leggy, laughing children,

who disco-danced during sleepover evenings

for my weekend entertainment; the garden

out back, the swish-swish-swish of the sprinkler

in the early morning, before the children woke.

The coffeehouse, full of stained glass, music

and hanging plants, where people believed in me

till I could believe in myself - where my heart melted,

growing ten sizes, big enough

to make a mighty leap:

to Tofino, place of my dreams: wild waves,

old growth forests, eagles and herons

and wolves padding softly, one of whom

came to stay.

Then away, to my little green trailer

out Beaver Creek, Pup's kingdom,

after we lost our heart place by the sea.

And oh, Pup! I will remember most of all -

his wild wild ways, his loud loud bark,

his knowing eyes, true mate of my wilderness soul.
The one I hope will greet me
when I reach the spirit world.

And the very last thing of all: one last look

at the blue sky, companion of all my days,

always changing, ever-beautiful,

that kept me forever Looking Up.

* Title and inspiration taken from Joyce Sutphen's wonderful poem of the same title.

for my prompt at What's Going On : The Last Things I'll Remember

Here I Am

 

Here I am, at the farm, fire crackling in the fireplace, snow falling on the horses in the field, happy dog snoozing beside the fire. The tree is full of twinkling lights, all is quiet and peaceful, and I remember other Christmases in other years. 

How I loved Christmas when my kids were young. It was magical. Because we struggled to survive all year, on that one day, there was excess, the shrieks of happy children, then quiet, as they retreated to read their new books and I cooked the Christmas feast.

Now my granddaughter is making Christmas magical for her small kids. On Boxing Day I will see them open my gifts and wonder where life will take these small voyagers, along paths we cannot know.

It's Christmas Eve, and I am at the farrm, remembering Christmas across the span of years that have been mine. The journey has been amazing. I am grateful for it all.

WOLVES IN THE TWILIGHT

copyright Gaby Harig

 

The wolves came to me in the twilight,

hungry and sad, looking at me with

questions in their eyes. I could not

meet their gaze.

So many heartbreaks, all over the world -

the wild ones and I

feel them all.

It is not enough any more

to walk in the forest

or along the shore,

to breathe in the beauty and peace,

for my tattered heart and its grief

to find some relief.

For the wild ones, each day is a struggle

to find habitat and food,

to keep their young alive.

How do I carry the weight of the world

when the leaders don’t care

if any of us survive?

I am watching the planet I love

slowly melting into the sea.
Injustice is everywhere -
it is too much for me.

Children march for their future

not yet even begun.

The tycoons grin

as they stuff their wallets

with air stolen from

the lungs of the young.

The wolves came to me in the twilight.

“Give us some hope,” they said,

but I had none to share.

My pen, my heart, my hope

fall silent

in this spiritual poverty

(of which I am only too
aware.)

I can hear trees weeping

in the forest,

the wind wailing laments

at the shore.

I will carry this pain

with me

till I can carry it

no more.

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

Sad. Hungry wolves in winter. And yet it is Christmas Eve. I wish you some joy, time with loved ones, some hope for a better year ahead. We live in hope because we can't live without it. Thank heaven for dogs.

 

source

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.