WILD WRITING - THE CORONA VIRUS

Day One

What was it like when the virus came? some young person might ask twenty-five years from now. If there still are humans then, if the world is remotely habitable then.

When it first hit, people didn't pay much attention, thinking it was a flu like other flues. Until the numbers started rising astronomically, and the deaths were described a ssuffering and horrible. Until health authorities became the people on the news and the news was just about all and only the corona virus, watching the numbers climb, exponentially, in China, then in Italy, people dying faster than their bodies could be gathered. And then in New York, where people were buried in mass graves, no time or space to do anything else.

We were suddenly living in a pandemic that threatened us all world-wide. It wasn’t a sci-fi book or movie. It was here, and we were in it. We ARE in it.

I am fortunate. I live in a small village with good leaders – conscious leaders – on Vancouver Island where, thanks to limited ferry traffic, our officials have managed to keep numbers manageable. It is worse on the mainland. They expect a second wave in fall. I fear the “return to normal”, when all those tourists will climb into their cars and travel here with all their deadly germs. After all the weeks of us sitting in our houses, of people shutting down their businesses, of everyone being so careful – how easily and quickly it can all be undone.

It didn’t take long for the virus to be traced to wet markets in Wuhan, where terrified animals crammed in cages await, with full conscious awareness, their terrible deaths: dogs, cats, wild game from Africa. They barbecue small monkeys there. They boil dogs. I saw a photo I wish I had not ever seen of a dog’s eyes as he was lowered into the vat of boiling water.

(That young person, 25 years from now: I can feel you recoiling in horror, wondering what kind of humans we are. Well, in North America, animals in “factory farms” re treated no better . Pigs are kept lying down while they are fattened, barely squeezed into their metal confines from which they never move. And pigs re as intelligent as children; they re conscious beings, as are all animals.  Cows are beaten and abused on their way to slaughter. The metal bolt to the forehead which finishes them off must come as a relief. I don’t know what humans do to their minds to absolve themselves from committing these acts. I am glad for the many vegetarians and vegans, for whom no animal need suffer and die, in order for them to eat.

I once, horrified, watched someone lower a lobster into a boiling pot of water. The lobster reached out its claws, gripped the edges of the pot, trying to stop its immersion. Even a lobster can want to live, can feel fear, can dread a cruel death.)

What manner of humans are we? All my life I have waited for the transformation of consciousness, have been talking about climate change – now a climate crisis – have waited for humanity to wake up. And here we are in 2020, no farther ahead than we ever were, the planet so hot we are tipping ever closer to the apocalypse AND NOTHING CHANGES. We react to all the disasters, floods, forest fires, hurricanes as if each one is an isolated incident. And the tundra melts, and the icebergs melt, and the poles are melting, north and south.  Polar bears starve, or drown swimming for miles trying to find food. Whales are in decline for lack of food, pollution and warming seas. Koalas and kangaroos burn alive as wildfires rage beyond control. I have not recovered from the last wildfires and now, where I live, wildfire season comes around gain.

Always it is the suffering of the animals that bothers me most.  Animals live according to the laws of the natural world. The factor that unbalances and distresses the whole is man: with our greed, our profligate and wanton devastation of the land as “resource”, unsustainably, beyond earth’s capacity to give.

Here is the virus, forcing us inside. The climate begins to heal itself. Wild animals creep out into areas that have been unsafe. Before Mother Earth can breathe a sigh of relief, man is at it again: WHEN can we go back to normal?

Seriously? Normal is broken. Normal is what got us here. We need a new respectful, sustainable normal. We need social justice. We need to liberate the animals. We need to GIVE UP ON fossil fuels and put everyone to work creating clean energy systems.

To the person 25 years from now – if you are here, then we succeeded. Otherwise my words are going out into the universe, as they always have, in utter discouragement that we are so incredibly slow to understand, and even slower to act.

And this week, on top of the virus, and self isolation, a nutcase killed 23 people in Nova Scotia. I am sitting here in tears, drinking red wine, because you need wine to watch the news, sometimes, these days. A mass shooting in a small sleepy town in Nova Scotia. I feel like we have lost our innocence. And I feel like I am losing hope.


Day 2

What if we thought of this time of turning inward, of solitude, of reflection, as a time of re-visioning the earth we want to live in? In only weeks, skies have cleared and the Himalayas have become visible. Waters have freshened and grown clean. The hole in the ozone is mending!

This shows it can be done, easily, more quickly than we knew. All if takes is all of us everywhere, taking our foot off the accelerator, stepping back, slowing down, staying in, and Mother Earth sets about healing and mending.

What if we thought of this as a time to commit to Mother Earth: "for better or worse, in sickness and in health"? I will be here for you. I will speak for you. I will help you heal. This is why I care so much: all my life, nature has been my best lover. She has healed me, filled me with joy, showered abundant blessings on me, of sky, and cloud, and tree, and ocean shore. Her skybirds have sung to me, her trees have prayed with me, her stars have bathed my nights in beauty. When cares are troubling me, all I have to do is step onto the beach, or into the forest, and all cares fall way. A great peace fills me: no thoughts, only Being, with the trees, with the sand and the sea, with the sky.

For the animals, in their suffering, while others turn away, dont want to know, say they are made too uncomfortable by the pain, I say: I am made uncomfortable too. My heart breaks. But if the animals can live the terrible lives they endure at human hands, I can bear witness. I can reveal their suffering so, maybe, more people will care, and act and, together, we can make change, liberate them from their wire cages, show them the love and healing they deserve, because they are living sentient beings, who feel all that we feel: joy and sorrow, pain, fear, despair, abandonment, heartbreak. In their cages, their terrified eyes tell us they know they are awaiting a terrible death. Their eyes haunt my dreams.

Here is what I want you to know: we are all connected - to each other - to every other creature - to every alive thing. The virus has shown us that beyond doubt. We can use that connection to come together and envision a better world going forward. Mother Earth and the animals are waiting for us to come to their aid and, in doing so, save ourselves and a future for our children at the same time.

The alternative, if we do not use this as a time of awakening, if everyone follows the orange king over the cliff to our collective doom, is not acceptable. But as the election comes closer, I fear the less conscious among us may make that choice for the rest of us and seal our fate.

I pray not.



Wild Writing Day Three

Today when I could do nothing, I:

Sat with the news and wept with the people talking about the loss of their loved ones at the hands of a mass shooter

Watched a video of  a seventeen year old victim playing her fiddle and wept

Watched Dr Bonnie end her virus briefing with “I will spare a sigh  and a wish for thee” to her people in Nova Scotia and choked up

Felt my heart swell with pride at how nice Canadians are, and how hands reach out to help in every crisis

Today, when I could do nothing, I:

Tried to string some words together to say this is how it is for me today

Remembered that on other days, I can offer more, words that might help others, but, today, this is the best I can do

Today when I could do nothing:

I decided I cant listen to one word about trump and his misguided followers today. The mind boggling aspect of some of them standing on the steps of their state capitals with assault weapons “protesting” health guidelines, of some of their women donning the red robes and white headdresses of Atwood’s Handmaid Tale garb, of his advising ingesting bleach to cure the virus and some people actually doing it would twist my brain into knots, were I to try to understand what would be funny if it were not so absolutely deadly dangerous to so many others.

I did a quick spot cleaning, not the deep cleaning that is needed, because the weight of world affairs is sapping my energy so that some days, it is enough just to be living through these times. “Must do”’s can wait.
Today, when I could do nothing:

I shooed a very cute raccoon off my balcony. She was happily scooping up birdseed with both hands, and I wished I could have let her, but I live in an apartment, am not supposed to be feeding the birds, and didn’t want to alert the landlord. I flapped my hands at her and she sat back, assessing me. Very cute but, for her sake, and the birds, (and my continued tenancy) I had to say, regretfully, “Shoo.”
Cute little masked bandit, she shooed.

I lay on the couch and watched the trees outside my window dancing in the wind and uttered prayers of gratitude that:

Today, when I can do nothing, I have a roof over my head, food to eat, and I do not have the virus, the scariest virus – and the worst possible death – I can imagine.

I have my writing with which I can fill as many hours as I can sit at my computer

I have connections online with poets all over the world

I have books to read, movies to watch, and peaceful, silent hours in which no discord ever happens.
And for all of this, on a day when I could do nothing, 

I give thanks. I give thanks. I give thanks.

Day 4: What Do I Want to Remember?

The way the earth smells, outside my door,
every morning,
fresh, like summer mornings when I was a child,
beckoning me, trails and beaches softly whispering;
the quality of silence in my solitude,
peaceful, full, undisturbed,
as I turn on the computer and begin,
cup of tea to my left, and all of the words in the world
to summon, choosing the select few that describe
the life I am living today, in the time of covid:
indoors, life slowed, ordinary, familiar - safe;
outdoors, enticing radiant beauty all around,
calling me forth, yet an invisible threat
lurking everywhere.

I want to remember the jays and towhees
on my balcony, feasting; the jay with the strange yodel,
who lets me know when the sunflower seeds run out;
and the chubby raccoon, stuffing herself
with both hands, that I had to shoo away,
so the landlord doesn't know I am feeding birds.
She sat back, assessing me,
the level of threat, contemplating staying
(the seed was so delicious!)
Sadly, wishing she could stay,
lonely, missing dogs no longer alive,
I waved my arms : "Shoo!"
and she shooed.

I want to remember long sandy beaches,
stretching to forever, the smell of the sea, beloved,
the way the beach is a different hue every visit.
I want to remember trails through old growth,
the ancient beings breathing peace,
me drinking it in, awed, respectful,
connected...listening.

I want to remember apple orchards and
leggy, laughing children when
the world and I were young:
flying kites on Knox Mountain,
bike rides, popcorn, poverty, laughter-
happiness and Making Do.

I want to remember
that courageous, terrifying leap
over the mountains to the sea in midlife,
responding to the call of the wild shores
that freed my spirit forevermore.
I want to remember the grief of leaving,
the long years of exile, the better to be grateful for
the gift of my return, in old age,
to the beautiful shore.

I want to remember a long life lived,
the many blessings,
the ways I was helped
and guided by invisible forces,
the gifts I was given, the gifts I gave,
the journey made, the price I paid,
the running from, the returning to,
the song of Wild Woman
forever in my heart.
I want to remember the big, black wolf
who loped along wild shores with me,
who is waiting for me
at the end of the trail.
I can almost hear
his lonely wail.


Day five

Werent we beautiful,
in the olden days, six weeks ago,
gathering on the beach,
laughing together at all the loopy dogs,
or stopping in the aisles at the CoOp
to chat, no masks, no exaggerated
veering widely around each other
like tugboats or frigates?

Werent we beautiful
at the Friday seniors' socials,
doing Qi Gong, sharing poems,
gathered round tables, happy crones,
grey-haired and wise,
chatting and laughing?

Weren't we beautiful, thinking
the weeks would keep rolling out,
taking for granted that they
would all be the same,
that we wouldn't be turned
so suddenly into hermits,
like Cinderella's pumpkin at midnight,
germ-conscious and wary
and oh, so vulnerable?

Wasn't it beautiful to pretend,
back then, that death lay
up ahead, somewhere undefined,
not close, not stalking us
around the CoOp,
not lurking on doorknobs
and groceries?

I remember an elderly woman,
years ago, mourning the death of her husband:
"We'd sit on the patio every evening,"
she wept. "Everything was so beautiful, then."

It used to be my childhood years,
and my years as a young mom,
with that patina of gold, that shine,
in memory.
Now it is mere months ago,
as we unknowingly went through
our last weeks of Normal,
innocent and unaware.

Life was so beautiful, then.


Day Six: What If...?

What if a tsunami comes
and swallows that whole shelf of books
I have spent the last few years writing?
What if the books survive, after my death,
but no one reads them?

What if my poetry dies with me,
does not live on, this road map
that charted my journey
and everything I have learned?
What if no grandchild picks one up, one day,
and turns the pages, getting to know me
better than they ever did in life
because they are reading the words of my heart?

What if I never get to live with a dog again?

What if this virus will be with us forever,
wave after wave of peaks and valleys?
What if we can never go out again
without worrying about disinfecting everything
when we come home?

What if, this summer, temperatures climb
to unlivable levels?
What if fire season gobbles
more and more forest,
and burns the koalas and kangaroos
that survived last year's inferno?
What if we survive the virus
and the air gets so polluted again
that we choke on it, trying to breathe?

What if the polar bears and grey whales and orcas
all go extinct?
What if the melting ice at the poles
tilts the earth on its axis?
What if the sun beats down beats down beats down
mercilessly, because we did not
change our ways in time?

What if we keep on treating animals
the way we have,
and the virsuses keep mutating
because of our refusal to change?

What if, while I was getting groceries,
the virus caught a ride on me
and is making its way into me
and the most horrifying death I can imagine?
What if, standing at the beach, heart swelling
at the beauty of the shore,
on this grey, misty morning,
- I so grateful grateful grateful to be here -
it was the last time I ever stand there?

What if, one day, all that is left
are clearcut slopes, burned forests,
crumbling high rises, deserted cities,
a boiling sea, and skeletons
with mouths hanging open
from begging for water
with their last breath?



Day Seven: This Poem Starts (or Doesnt Start) Here

This poem didn't start here,
and it won't end here.
It began in 1960, in my grade nine classroom,
when the words started coming
and I couldn't stop them,
so I began writing them down.

Each acquaintance on the road to Never
whispers through the soul
that first poem said
and leaves a soft thought to remember
when Tomorrow dawns cold.

I was fourteen. Since then,
the words have accompanied me
on a long journey: through pain and sorrow,
heartbreak and healing.,
under blue skies and grey,
me always looking up
in joy, in gratitude, in love and wonder,
words skipping across the page,
at first in search of, and then finding
better tomorrows.

The words watched me grow old.
They grew wiser. They began to look back,
to sum up, to see the wondrous pattern,
the many gifts, the way I have been guided
by invisible forces.

The words drew me to the sea;
they exulted with me up and down the shore;
they wrote odes to joy and to
a big black wolf; they mourned his loss.

They began to chart the Crone Path,
but this poem isn't ending yet.
There is still one chapter, still more beaches
to trod, still more blue skies, more looking up,
more gratitude, more wonder,
No, this poem isn't ending yet.
Not yet.

Day Eight

To live in this world, you must develop
a rubber-soled (souled?) heart.
It leads you forward into the fire,
seeking love to fulfil you,
till you lose all reason, then lose love itself,
and have to rebuild yourself from the ground up.

To live in this world, you must learn,
many times, that all you hold most dear
will be lost, no matter how tightly you grasp it.
In fact, the more tightly you hold on,
the more certainly the day will come
when it is wrenched from you, or simply
turns its back and walks away.
So you learn to surrender, learn to just be
with what is, Now,
be ready, when the time comes,
to be grateful for the gift,
to open your curled fingers
and let what you loved most in the world
fly away.

To live in this world, you will be taught
this lesson more than once. It will be repeated
until you learn to keep your touch light
on the dear ones around you, to recognize
at the going in that there will be a coming out,
which is probably why the old
are so gentle and nostalgic,
so close to trembling tears,
any why our eyes are so wise
and knowing and sad.

To live in this world, you must develop
a high, hopeful heart, a merry laugh,
(and, as you age, a cackle).
You must always keep in mind,
(riding on your left shoulder

and whispering in your ear,)
that the recipe for love, my friends,
has always included sorrow.




Day Nine:

Well, the cashew milk is gone,
and there has been none at the CoOp 
the last three times I've looked.
This is a small thing, when I have
food and shelter, am not homeless,
am not ill with the virus (yet).
The bare shelves show us how far we have strayed,
in dependence on capitalisim's systems,
from our earth mother who provides
enough for our need,  our local chief tells us,
but not  our greed.
My grandma lived in a small cottage
her entire life, grew a garden,
wasted nothing; had a drawer full of
folded brown paper bags and bits of string.

Now I am annoyed by the store's failure to recognize,
week after week, that more of us like cashew milk
than they are accomodating when they place their orders.

Sigh.

I am sorry, Mother Earth, that we have become
so selfish and voracious. I am humbled and grateful
that, even now, you so generously unfurl your spring blossoms
for our delight, that you spread your blue skies dotted
with puffy perfect clouds to bring us joy,
that we still have water from our taps to drink.
The elders warned that one day  a gallon of water
would be worth more than oil.
That day has come. Oil went to zero dollars a barrel
last week, and a single use plastic bottle of water
goes for $1.79. Wow.

My friend is taking my recycling to the depot today
because I am too headachey. I feel guilty:
so much packaging and waste that
I should be dealing with myself.

The cashew milk is gone, has been
gone for a week. But there is soy milk,
thankfully, and another week ahead.
Maybe next time I go, the CoOp
will have cashew milk, my tea will taste right,
and the world will right itself
once more.


Day Ten

If you knew this was your last day,
or week, or month,
how would you spend it?
What would you tell people?
Would you pick up the phone more often,
speak words of love and appreciation?
Would you sit at the shore for hours,
watching the forever waves
endlessly advancing and retreating,
until, behind your eyelids,
they were engraved forever
on your heart?

Here’s how it is:
we have this moment, now.
No more are promised.
The ferryman will come.
We knew this when we bought the ticket.
He will glide beside the dock,
and nod: we will step in.
It will be too late then
to change what might have been.

Here’s what I really want you to know:
I carry it all in my heart: summer days
under my grandma’s weeping willow,
teardrops and song under a teenage moon,
young motherhood, with all the struggle,
and the laughter, all those leggy children
laughing in the sun; I carry it all,
the coming home to myself,
my great leap to the sea,
the big black wolf who taught me
all that love could be. 

I carry it all,
I carry it all with me: the richness,
the gifts, the gratitude, the beauty
and the sorrow, (for the recipe, my friends,
has always included sorrow.)
It has been more than I ever dreamed,
and all that it could be. My heart is full
to the brim with gratitude and wonder,
should I depart Tomorrow.


Day Eleven

Why You Should Pick Me:

When I was young and so badly wanted a partner to share life with, I was never able to say - or even think - why someone should choose me. I hoped they would, of course, but I feared  that, once they knew me, they would find me wanting, unlovable, not enough. Anyone I admired, I would run the other way from; never could I set my sights that high. I attracted to me exactly what you might expect: emotionally unavailable, cruel, using people who betrayed me and broke my heart till I didn't want to go through that pain any more, so I gave up on finding love. A big black wolf taught me how love was supposed to be. But by then I had given up on finding that with a human being. This is why I mourned his loss so hard and for so long and am mourning still.

Now that I know my own worth, this is what I might have said, had I had a different beginning in life:

1. I have a kind heart.
2. I don't like confrontation or discord.
3. Peacefulness is more necessary to me than love.
4. I like to help people.
5. I love to give people gifts.
6. I have a zany sense of humour, and I cackle.
7. I am very broad-minded.
8. I respect and have great empathy for the struggles of other cultures in the Euro-dominated, racist world we live in. I don't see "colour"; I see people.
9. I have great hope that global consciousness will evolve in time to save the planet.
10. I have great fear that it won't.
11. Don't even get me started on donald trump. And what is up with his skin lately? It looks like lizard skin. Reptilian consciousness in evidence. He has dead lizard eyes.
12. I love dogs more than people.
13. I love people more than scorpions, but with the same wariness extended to both. Smiles.
14. No one picked me. But, after I picked myself, life got much happier.


Day Twelve

This poem won’t return us to six months ago,
before the virus altered our world
and removed our innocence.
This poem will wonder about six months from now
and who among us will still be here.

This poem won’t change the landlord’s heart
and bring you a puppy,
but it will remember the puppies you’ve loved.
(It might bring you some tears.)

This poem can’t make your legs stronger
so you can walk farther, but it will fold itself up,
stick itself in your pocket, and amble with you
slowly along the shore, breathing in the salt
and the seaweed, checking out the travelling clouds,
thrilling to the song of the waves, taking notes
for the next poem.

This poem can’t fix all the things
that need fixing. It is too big a job.
But it can reflect on
the state of the world, with concern and dismay,
and offer some solace and hope to the world-weary.

This poem can point the way to a better tomorrow,
can encourage, empathize, offer support
and a way forward. It can offer hope
to those losing hope, direction to those
searching for a Way, some life wisdom
to the young and worried, a virtual hug
for those sitting in silent rooms, alone,
just as I am sitting in a silent room, alone.

This poem can’t bring you the love
you waited your whole life for; it can’t
restore all that has been taken away,
the many loves you  have lost.
But it can send you down a path
into an old growth forest, where you
can breathe in the peace, and fortify
your heart in the healing silence.

This poem can’t turn back the clock,
but it can remember.


Day Thirteen

This is what the living do:
we wake up each morning to the day,
our beds a time capsule,
carrying us through years
of dreams and memories.

I closed my eyes, in bliss, at forty,
when I opened them this morning,
incomprehensibly, I am seventy-three.

I put out seed for the morning sparrows,
watch them hopping, while I make
my cup of coffee, because
this is what the living do; we have
our rituals, our small comforts,
our ways of coping, our day after day
of sameness, moving us inexorably
to an unknown day up ahead
that we don’t like to think about.

But, when we do, we remember
to cherish these small blessings,
this glorious ordinary made special
by the pandemic, which so easily
can take it all away.

I remember
to be grateful for the gifts.

Yesterday I carried my brown bag
of groceries home from the CoOp.
The sun was so warm; two smiling friends
walked towards me. We stopped,
a careful ten feet apart, and chatted.
We talked about our hair, which needed cutting
even before the shutdown. We stood there,
laughing in the sun, hands poking at our heads,
glad to have seen and spoken with other humans
on this sunny warm morning
in Clayoquot Sound.

The waves were big yesterday; the surfers
were happy. I walked to the big log and sat,
watched the breakers come rolling in,
felt my heart expand with the prayer I recite
every time I am there: thank you, thank you,
thank you, for this: for the gift of living here,
for not (yet) having the virus, for the beauty,
for the many gifts I’ve been given.

This is what the living do: we remember.
On this beach, I walked for miles and years
with an exuberant, big black wolf.
And now I live alone.
I visit the sea. I am still living,
less exuberantly, but no less gratefully.
I remember him.
I remember it all. 

Day 14

What do we say in dark times?
When leaders are crass and corrupt,
when they give us no hope,
when a pandemic starts in wet markets,
which open again the minute the lockdown lifts?

When the forests are burning,
and all the wild creatures are suffering and dying,
when children are in cages at the border,
and whales and elephants die,
and nothing changes
nothing changes
nothing changes
except our awareness
that we are the ones
who need to change.

Tell me the cry of your heart,
and I’ll tell you mine:
the animals are starving, and burning,
are being abused and beaten,
locked in small cages, terrified,
awaiting their brutal deaths,
or encased in steel bars in factory “farms”,
laid out on their sides, unable to even turn over,
when the virus is now in the meat factories,
but everyone still has to have meat.

I hear their cries;
I see their tears, feel their grief,
their despair, their terror,
their endless pain.

We don’t have to be heroes; we just have to live
as conscious, caring beings who love the earth
and its creatures. Our hearts will
show us the way.

Grief will dare you to love once more,
the poet said and, at first,
I didn’t believe, for my grief was deep.
But now, after ten years, I find myself thinking:
maybe, once more, a little black pup,
once more all that love?


What do we say in dark times?
That beings can’t live without hope;
that kindness lifts hearts;
that we need to learn new ways
to live on Mother Earth.

That all of this learning is worth it
if it has taught us how to live
more kindly.
That in dark times, our spirits rise.
That it is time for all we earthlings
to grow wise.


Day Fifteen: 16 Things About Me

I live in Tofino on the West Coast of Vancouver Island. It is spectacularly beautiful.

I blockaded in 1993 to save the old growth forests here. They still need protecting.

Living here was my dream. When I got the chance to come here, it was the biggest trusting I ever had to do. Ask me how scared I was: I was a wreck. But I knew I couldn’t live without a dream.

It repaid me with ten years of joy, and a big black wolf who was the love of my life.

Illness forced me to leave; I was homesick for the next seventeen years.

Then the universe offered me – miraculously – another chance to come back. There was only one possible answer. More joy.

I raised four kids as a single mom.

I had to be strong, so I suffered many losses without shedding many tears.

When my wolf died, I started crying, and now I cry over everything: him, books, movies, people being beautiful, and especially dog and wolf deaths.

I have been a poet since I was fourteen.

I cackle.

I worry about Mother Earth. We humans are too slow to change our ways.

I try to believe in the transformation of consciousness, but see above.

I have read myself to sleep every night for 68 years.

I am 73 in the Year of Living Dangerously.


Day Sixteen:


Here’s how we know we are not alone:

because we are surrounded by small universes:
the squirrel on the cedar branch out my window,
and how he tilts his head when I greet him;

because of the bluejays and juncos pecking
at seed on my balcony, and the one with
the strange yodel who alerts me
when they need some more;

because, on the beach yesterday, at low tide,
there was so much life: crabs scuttling ponderously,
starfish and anemone clinging to rock walls
or bathing in tide pools; mussels
clicking in their mysterious language
along the rocks;

because the early morning moon was
huge and round and buttery,
going down behind the hills in Lemmens Inlet;

because of the village dogs who love me
because I carry treats in my pocket, and how they
drag their owners over to me, their tails wagging
with joy, their happy eyes alight,
and how they make my day;

because the air smells like summer mornings
when I was a child;

because there are small universes everywhere we go,
when we step out our door;

because tree branches sigh soft songs to us
along the forest trails;

because my poem reaches out to you,
and your poem replies.


Day Seventeen
Thank you.





Day Eighteen

Hold on to your quiet centre,
the wise woman said,
for only solitude is your long-time friend.
After a time of flailing, silence
came to live inside me,
spreading its peaceful ripples
through my being, till stillness
was as natural to me as breathing.

Hold on, she said, because when everything
feels like it is falling apart,
it is a time of transition from which
you will emerge changed, honed,
like iron forged in fire,
stronger; you will see with new eyes.

As the old life is softly falling away;
a new day dawns.
As the corporations fall,
we shall turn to our local and regional
farmers and gardeners and suppliers
to bring us what we need.
Sometimes going back
takes us farther.

The wise woman said, if you hold on
long enough, you will find a new world
is forming around you.
Who knew? That good would come from terror,
that we would see so clearly Mother Earth
and her peoples’ need.

Let us topple the Mad King off his throne.
The stone under his seat is not speaking.
Its silence tells us it abhors the sitter
as much as we. It asks for a true knight
to arrive in time to save us.
We await its crying out with relief.
We prepare the flags and the feast
for the passing of old times, and the
beginning of the new.


(The secret no one has yet dared to speak
is that we are the very knights we need.
Let us gather in our numbers,
cast our ballots in the Box of Possible Tomorrows,
and take the high road home
to a kinder, gentler world.)



Day Nineteen

Nine surprising things that are worth more than money, than Stuff, than Things:

Yesterday I visited Menina, a dog I love. Her eyes glowed when she saw me as, because of covid, it has been too many weeks. I noticed her fur is greying, which means time is finite, (as it is, as it always is, though we try to deny it.) Meanwhile, she is here. And I am here. We smiled as we walked through the forest together.

I live near old trees, their presence so stately, so enduring, so tranquil, that my heart fills with stillness as I walk through their peaceable kingdom.

The small blue yodeling jay on my balcony has a special song once he has eaten all the sunflower seeds. It means “More!” and he is the only one of my avian visitors who does this. I love that he keeps coming back. This morning, I sat on the balcony in the sun and he came, undaunted, to the seed bowl near my feet. He cocked his head this way and that, looking at me out of his sideways eyes, but was not afraid, a small gift to me from the world of the wild ones I love so much.

Yesterday afternoon, there was a sudden downpour, like a creek washing down from the sky, with thunder and lightning. My heart, as the thunder rolled, travelled back in time to my Grandma’s back room, where we sat in the afternoon through every summer of my childhood. My Grandma loved thunder, and fairies, and told the best ghost stories about people in our Irish family.

The government is giving low income seniors a one-time payment of $500, in the midst of the pandemic, when so many billions are flying in every direction. That is a lot of money, in my world, though some criticized it as too little help. At this time in my life I know that, whatever one receives, gratitude is the only appropriate response.

The other morning, two friends and I did a social distancing walk at low tide. We saw so much life clinging to the rocks that are usually underwater: starfish, purple and orange and squishy,  clumped together along the rock wall, green spiky anemones in tidal pools, a lone crab clawing his way ponderously along the sand, waving its arm menacingly as we bent to view him, small knight fending off three giants, so brave!  So much life, everywhere, striving to live, as we strive, through the threats and the challenges, and the sure, sweet progression of day following day.

We are at the beginning of Phase 2 of the pandemic, being led calmly and carefully by Dr. Bonnie through the stages of keeping the curve flattened. I am grateful for all the people observing social distancing, caring enough to comply with the guidelines, keeping each other safe.

What is worth more than money? A dog’s love. Wolves. Friends. Poetry. My humble room, filled with my treasures, in the most beautiful place in the world.

Gratitude. Gratitude. Gratitude for it all.




Day Twenty

Things to do in captivity:

Pace the width and length of your confinement; think about Nelson Mandela, 27 years in a cell, holding onto a vision of the sky.

Make a To Do list.

Ignore the list. You have already been putting those jobs off forever. They may never get done.

Turn to the small joys that get you through: books, movies, tapping at the keys, (persistently, like an obsessive  woodpecker pecking holes in a soft brown trunk.)

Do you think of all you might have done, that you thought there would always be time for? Do you castigate yourself with shoulda, coulda, woulda? No point. Too late now.

Do you dream of what you’ll do once captivity ends? Rest and wait. Those days will come again; this time, we will be ready.

Dear fellow humans: I see you sitting at your windows, pale and wan, looking out, dreaming of summer days on the beach. I, too, go to my sliding glass door many times a day, slide it back, stick my nose out to breathe the outer air: such joy to sniff sea breezes, watch cedar branches tossing in the wind.

In closed rooms all over town, humans are locked in, the way we cage animals. Now we know how they feel. May we set them all free.

What does your heart say? These are lessons we needed to learn. Mother Earth tried to tell us, with wildfires and floods. Finally, she had no other way. Through the animals we tortured and abused came this mutating virus that scares us to the bones of our being.

As you pace your rooms, whether small or grand, reflect on where we go from here. “This may not be the darkness of the tomb,” the wise woman* said, “but the darkness of the womb.” She says we can birth a new day from this time of gestation, a day whose time has come.

Look for the rainbow warriors. Look for light under the doorway to tomorrow. Let’s head for that light; let’s depose the criminally corrupt. May wild women warriors stride into the corridors of power and set earth and humankind to healing.


*Valerie Kaur

Day 21


I remember……

The slap of  water hitting the side of my grandma’s cottage waking me on summer mornings, as she hosed things down against the coming heat

I remember the smell of the air, lake-scent and weeping willow, bathing suits hung on the line that never dried out between swims, the hammock under the willow tree, where I read and dreamed

I remember the smell of sweet pea and pinks, and the tall hollyhocks planted near where grandpa parked his brown and white Ford, how he said Ford was the best, and he drove that car forever. I remember his gruffness, but also the twinkle in his eye, and the shiny dime he would send me in its own small envelope, when I was back in the city with my parents

I remember that, back then, a dime could buy a  popsicle,  some penny candy and Dubble Bubble

I remember that my grandma’s house was peaceful, was my safe place, so quiet I could hear the metal clock on the kitchen window ledge ticking and tocking from every room in the house

I remember Grandma’s tea parties, card tables set up in the small living room for bridge, fancy teacups, sandwiches and dainties

I remember playing Old Maid with her, and how she always fooled me into picking the Old Maid, and would laugh at my chagrin.  When I tried the same tricks with my grandchildren, I could never fool them. I was always the Old Maid. Prophetic, as it turns out

I remember sitting with her in the living room, looking into the small gas fireplace and her telling me to look for the fairies dancing in the flames

I remember summer afternoon thunderstorms, and swimming, once, during a storm, the lake full of ripples, the sky dark grey and lowering, the scent of metal in the air as the lightning flashed

I remember picnics at Mission Creek with my cousins; the time Jeanette got stung by a bee; the time the husky, Mickey, rolled n something awful, and we gasped for breath, laughing, all the way home

I remember Big Boy, the huge black cat, and how my grandma would hold the door open for him, then let go of it too soon so he had to streak out, yowling, to avoid getting his tail caught

I remember the Big Brown Chair, and my cousin Teddy and I vying for who got to sit in it. I remember him looking into the yard, saying he saw a little brown bunny; when I got up to look, he leaped into the chair and said I was the silly brown bunny that let him have the chair

I remember having just turned fourteen, the summer my father died, sitting reading in a chair in Grandma’s front room, when my cousin Charlie arrived for the funeral, and his astonished, “That’s Sherry?” because I had grown and learned how to do my hair


In memories of childhood, it is always summer, and I am always at my grandma’s, where I spent every summer of my childhood, where I learned what safety felt like. I have created that same peacefulness in my own home ever since.



Day twenty-two

What I missed the day I was absent from fourth grade:

Playing hopscotch: throwing the keychain into a square, hopping one-legged, swooping down to pick it up, the two-squared hop, then back on one leg: chalk lines blurring as many feet make the perilous passage

Skipping, so hard to master, especially the long line held at each end by one of the girls, trying to hop in and skip without tangling in the rope; double dutch, which you never mastered, one needing to be coordinated and fleet of foot and eye

Small folded paper triangles, you fit your fingers inside, opening and closing them like beaks while the other child picks which square to lift, to see what is written underneath

Chalky-tasting heart-shaped candies with words printed on them: you’re sweet, be mine. They didn’t taste good but we ate them anyway because: candy!

The teacher’s smile, just for me, as I bent industriously to my work, carefully etching the word “paw”, falling in love with the word, the beginning of my love affair with writing words on paper
The morning I gave a note to my mother that said: I am going to run away, and how she sent me one back that said, wait and I’ll go with you and how it made me laugh

Being called Sheryl the Barrel, which I hated

Squishy, soggy, unappetizing sandwiches, and envying the kids who had better lunches, with packaged snacks

The smell of white paste; the smell of the classroom: paper, stale air, orange peels, the window open but never a waft of air large enough to freshen what we were breathing

Inkwells, what a recipe for disaster; pens with nibs, how we had to practice cursive by doing entire rows of O’s across the page, and how my pen nib caught, made holes in the paper, made ink blotches that were not fixed when I used the soft blotter; how my penmanship has always been awful, while some of the girls did beautiful penmanship, round and sweet. Do kids learn cursive any more?

Social disasters, me awkward and freckled and shy, a perfect target for the laughing nasty kids who got a kick out of making other kids blush, or cry.

Running home planning to play dolls with my friend; I would say to her “let’s not make our dolls fight today”. But always, she wanted the dolls to fight, and we would storm out, angry protective mothers, deeply offended on our doll’s behalf, and not speak to each other the rest of the day. The next day, I would run home, and say the same thing.



Day Twenty-Three

You can’t have it all, said everyone, all my life,
all the time, and I never did. But I had teen years
full of dreams and deep longing, the smell of
sweet pea and honeysuckle and peonies
on warm summer evenings; shy teen kisses
in City Park, a smiling brown-eyed boy
picking a blossom off a tree, saying
Poor man’s orchid” as he handed it to me.

You can’t have it all, but I had
a cottage full of noisy, laughing children,
a big garden, a sprinkler going chook-chook-chook
on summer mornings. I had hikes up Knox Mountain,
flying kites on its slopes, the lake stretching, blue
and shining into the distance, ringed by what I called,
in my babyhood, “the Big Blue Hills.”

“What do you want? Jam on it?” my mother
would laugh, when my wants exceeded the needs
of our impoverished household.
Yes, I wanted jam; I was always hungry, back then,
which is why I find it so hard to be hungry now.

“If wishes were horses, then beggars would ride,”
smiled my Grandma, who was prone
to inscrutable wisdom,
and my life’s greatest teacher.
I pictured the beggars, their torn clothes
turned to velvet, on horses with thick manes,
tossing their heads imperiously.
And there would be castles for them, too,
who had never had homes.

There was a sea monster who lived in the depths
of the lake of my childhood. Some saw Ogopogo,
though I never did. I remember its statue,
and how my son climbed on it when he was eight
while I took photos. His eyes were innocent then,
of the suffering that lay ahead when he turned seventeen.
Mine were unaware, too,
that motherhood grows more painful
as one’s children age; I am glad
I did not know, so our laughter rang out often
in that small house we so soon outgrew
that was our only home.

You can’t have it all, they say, over and over.
But I had this: a life, children, song, laughter,
poems, friends, the beauty of blue skies
and nature, to keep my heart dreaming.
And it is enough, and more than enough,
for me.



Day Twenty-Four

Bear with me. I want to tell you something about how my inner being resists and rejects the racism, hatred and division coming at me on the news, encouraged by someone placed in a position of leadership who is not equipped intellectually or morally to lead? I want to tell you how many decades I have spent writing about and protesting for civil rights, African American rights, indigenous rights, women’s rights, immigration rights, animal rights, gun control, environmental issues and the rights of the creatures on Mother Earth to survival and a clean climate.

How do I get inside this topic and peel away the layers so you, too, can feel my outrage when I see people in Ku Klux Klan costumes openly marching? Men with American flags and assault weapons yelling their rage on the State Capitol steps? A person in high office making inflammatory statements and telling lies, instead of leading with calmness and grace, leading us all down a slippery slope?
How do I come up with a poem strong enough to ease the pain in my heart, that will help open eyes and inspire change? How do I pick one thing, when so much needs to be transformed, starting with us?

Poets are prophets; we are the canaries in the mines. How do we open the doors, squeeze through the bars, Just Say No to the devastation happening everywhere?

In the time of the pandemic, so much else gets forgotten; yet it is all connected: the wet markets of Wuhan (still open) where the virus jumped from wild creatures to humans – wild creatures who should have been left in the wild, not carried to open markets to be boiled and barbecued and eaten. The virus is now showing up in North American meat processing plants, and, recently, even in fruit and vegetable processing plants. How do I tell you that I now look at the vegetables I am slicing with suspicion, boil them to death, hope no stray virus cells survived to arrive on my plate?

In our going forward, we need to go back: stop the global corporate stranglehold on our economy; return to shopping and eating locally, supporting small farmers nearby  instead of importing food from across the world, polluting the skies to eat things from Australia that we can grow right here.
Let’s go deeper: let’s return to understanding that we are one small part of the natural world, not its overseers, lords and masters. We are waves, not the ocean; we are cogs, not the wheel. When we stop dominating and become one part, earth begins to heal and other beings begin to regain their compromised existence.

Dare I dream once more as I once did that the transformation of consciousness can topple this toxic regime and return us to something approaching dignity and social justice? That the corrupt will be banished and we will set to work restoring what has been lost, transforming what needs to change, working with our fellow man, caring for our fellow creatures, remember the hope of “Yes, We Can!”

I hope so, for I need to tell you that the years since 2016 came close to extinguishing hope in me. Yet poets are prophets; we are the canaries in the mines. I cannot abandon my post. There is still a small spark of belief that enough light-bearers will vote to topple the dark mercenary lords of corruption.

Stay tuned.



Day twenty-five

Let this be the year of the rough draft,
the year your pen caught fire and moved
across the page faster than you could keep up.

Let this be the year when you slink out 
from under all of the 
Things You Should Be Accomplishing
and indulge in long, 
slow walks along the beach,
watching movies all afternoon,
putting off onerous chores 
until you feel like it
(which might be never. 
There is always that possibility.)

When those thoughts come upon you 
and stab you with the memories
of times when you were not yet evolved
and you cringe at the memory of things 
said and done out of  Your Great Unknowing, 
rather than flagellate yourself with
a muttered “Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!”, 
let this be the year when
you grant yourself some compassion, 
as you would for anyone else,
and say “I wasn’t whole then. 
I wasn’t healed. I didn’t know.”

Here’s what I forgot to tell you: no one 
ever expected you to be perfect.
They only hoped you would not be harmed
and, in turn, would do the least amount 
of harm you could.

Let this be the year when 
the last 40 years of your living
hopefully make up for the first 30: 
the kindnesses shown,
the gifts of time given, 
the encouraging words, the support,
all to repay the many times 
you may have failed before.

Sometimes the words 
fall out of your mouth with a life of their own.
I remember the time
the words dried up on my tongue. 
“Do you still love me?” he asked,
as he had asked so many times, 
for my reassurance.
And this time the words would not come, 
so I gave him a silent hug, 
and he knew it was over.
I remember that small courtyard, 
the evening, the silence,
him telling me at the gate 
that he had really loved me.

Going into my house, free from 
the weight of his loving.



Day Twenty-Six

What keeps me awake at night……

The suffering and abuse of animals, both wild and domestic; the struggle they have to survive, because of us, because of us!

The climate crisis – warming seas, melting poles, dying whales, starving polar bears, the acceleration of climate breakdown and the fact that NOTHING CHANGES.  
       
trump. trump keeps me awake at night. He is spawn of the dark side; his eyes are dead and he exhibits not one single iota of humanity.

The virus – will it come near? Will it infect anyone close? When the tourists come, will they bring it?

Memories of things I wish I had not said or done

The things I should be – and am not – doing now

I chase these thoughts away by reading, entering other lives, other worlds. Now the libraries are closed, the tablet falling on my nose when I fall asleep hurts more than a friendly book. I could end up in emergency with a broken nose, in the middle of a pandemic.

When the Big Picture is too much, I say prayers of thanks for the small blessings, which are such a comfort now. Or I start counting my breaths to a hundred, get bored by ten and go to sleep.

What if I were to tell you that this world can be so different,  that it isn’t the leaders who will change it, but the masses of us all over the world who are suffering the results of bad leadership. We can topple them off their thrones and elect wise women and grandmothers, some nurturing energy to begin to heal the earth and ourselves. (It is happening now in New Zealand!)

What if I were to tell you to cherish every moment of your younger years, because they go so fast. And how, at my age, each year I feel more tired, move more slowly, have less drive (and less ability)  to get things done. And how I have to surrender to that, because it is what it is. Low energy requires a slow routine and, after a lifetime of hard work, if not now, then when?

Only sometimes do the memories haunt and keep me awake all night. Mostly, I read myself to sleep and, if I dream, I don’t remember, except that in dreams I am always searching for houses, as, in my waking life, all my years I searched for home.  Out of 40 moves, I found it four times.




Day Twenty-Seven

The good news is not often on the morning news. But today it was. They told us of a senior with covid, fighting for his life in ICU, and how his family stood outside the window every day, making hearts with their hands, holding them up to the nurses at the window, who taped notes on the glass that said “We will tell him you love him. We will take care of him. We will hold his hand.” And when, today, the note said “He is at peace. We are so sorry”, still our hearts swelled, at their dedication, their kindness, their love on both sides of the glass. The generosity of front liners in a time when they are stretched to their limits.

The good news was not all on this morning’s news. On facebook are videos of First Nations gathering near the airfield in Kamloops, drumming and singing in honour of Captain Jenn  Casey, who lost her life when the Snowbird crashed there on Sunday. The good news is how people came from everywhere, un-prompted, to honour her, and how connections of the heart were made among those paying tribute and those who stood listening.

The news lists how many are dying. But the good news is so many are living, and we each can do something to move this world forward in a better way. The good news is we are alive, with spring all around us unfurling its wonders. The weeping willow leans over the creek in the morning sun where the wild geese are bathing. And a small dog looked shyly up at me through her eyelashes, so pleased, when I gave her a treat.

Before we go, this is what I want you to know: our time here meant something to me. In a time of pandemic, you offered me somewhere to put my thoughts, so my brain could rest easier under the weight that it carries. It lent energy to my words that had bogged down in discouragement. Sharing with you made my burden as a human on this earth feel shared, and thus lighter.

Before we go, I want to say thank you, to Laurie, and to each of you sharing your words and your selves, so we all know that we’re not alone.

The Real Work

It may be that when we no longer know what to do
we have come to our real work,
and that when we no longer know which way to go
we have come to our real journey.
The mind that is not baffled is not employed.
The impeded stream is the one that sings.

“The Real Work” by Wendell Berry, from Standing by Words. © 1983



I first read these words when my health had completely failed; I didn't know what was wrong and no doctor could tell me. I had been under terrible stress at work for a few years, and I was a Type A personality, who cared a great deal about my work and my responsibilities, in a workplace that had grown unhealthy. My blood pressure started going off the charts, I had fuzzy thinking. (After being the multi-tasker of all time, if the phone rang when I was sharpening a pencil, I didnt know what to do.) I began to make mistakes and find stressful the things I had excelled at. I would get dizzy, almost toppling over in my office. At home, I had a few falls. My legs when walking would turn to sand and collapse beneath me. I was exhausted beyond belief.

My boss was the first to suspect I had chronic fatigue. I didn't want to believe it. The insurance company declined a series of applications for disability, and began a dance of sending me to their doctors to refute the findings of my doctors. All exhausting, all stressful, when I was at my lowest ebb.

They kept sending me back, to totter and flail around my office some more. Then I finally got sent to an internal specialist who, my doctor told me, was a bit unconventional. By now, unconventional was just what I needed, as conventional medicine had misdiagnosed me as depressed, not depressed, "nothing wrong with me", and menopausal. (Oh, the sting!)

Inside the entry, on the bulletin board, was the poem from Wendell Berry. I no longer knew what to do or where to go. A new journey was beginning. I felt peace come over me, as I read these wise words.

The doctor asked me, "Why are you here?"

I said, "I want to know what's wrong with me." I told him about the depressed/not depressed diagnoses, and how I did not feel depressed, but went to a counsellor in case I was without knowing it, and how the counsellor said I wasn't depressed, just exhausted. The doctor smiled. I told him I loved my job but was not functioning.

It took him less than five minutes to test my pressure points and say "You definitely have chronic fatigue. And fibromyalgia."

The insurance company still sent me back to work "to prove" that I truly could not do it. I phoned the doctor and he said I had already proven that. He wrote them a blistering letter, listing all that he had found in my tests and history, which included Guillain -Barre syndrome in my past. This letter turned the tide for me.

They considered my case over several months, and I was eventually approved for long term disability. But they had fought me so long, with no income coming in, that I had to sell my trailer and move away from Tofino (where the rental situation has been terrible for the thirty years of my history with it, and is even worse now).

It was such a huge loss. Pup and I mourned. We mourned for years. We spent the intervening years being a Grandma in Port Alberni, thankfully most of them out in the country, surrounded by trees, and availing ourselves of the many trails and wild places.


Eventually, my soul learned to sing again, in the last place on earth I would have chosen to live. That was the task the universe had set me. That of the impeded stream; the real journey of the soul: to be happy when what you most love has been lost.

UNCERTAINTY SOUP* (Laurie Wagner's phrase)

I used to spout lofty phrases: "the only thing that is certain is change", for example. I thought learning to let go was the lesson, and that I was doing well with it. Until covid. I never dreamed I would have to let go of so much - of everything. I could never have fathomed a time when walking down the street was risky, when the unthinking ease of shopping for groceries would be a dilemma.

Now uncertainty is everywhere, from the moment I open my eyes. I do an inventory: still here, that's good. I go to the basement of the building to put a load of laundry in, not daring to touch the railing on the stairs, bumping light switches with my elbow, washing hands on return to my apartment. Dare I turn on the news? Let's get the tea ready first. Fortified, I click the remote. What new horror has happened since yesterday? For, every day, there is a new horror.

In the midst of a seething, spreading, killer pandemic, there are marches for an end to racism, protesting police killing the people they are meant to serve, in honour of the most recent deaths, more shootings happening even as we march for the fallen.

The orange man, his face looking most unhappy, keeps talking talking talking, "sound and fury signifying nothing", as the world turns and burns.

I need wine to watch the evening news, and it takes extra sweetener in my coffee to face the morning, but on we go.

I have had plenty of practice learning to stand steady in the storm. I feel the old tired tree of my being supporting me. But she is weary. So tired. While we are waiting for the transformation of consciousness, it looks like the world is falling apart. Will the virus ever end? Will the marching peoples' voices ever be heard? Will life ever make sense? Will someone come to lead us back to civility and decency and make America kind again?

This morning my stellar jays arrive on my balcony. For them, life is simple; the finding of food, the feathering of nests, the soaring of skies. But it is uncertain, too, in times when food cannot be found, when the heavens open and pummel them on their dripping branches, when their eggs or babies are eaten by predators.

For today, the only day I have: a fortifying cup of tea, the news, perhaps, if the Muse is kind, a poem. Then a walk into town, for this is what the living do: we carry on.


UNCERTAINTY SOUP*
June 23, 2020

I used to spout lofty phrases: "the only thing that is certain is change", for example. I thought learning to let go was the lesson, and that I was doing well with it. Until covid. I never dreamed I would have to let go of so much - of everything. I could never have fathomed a time when walking down the street was risky, when the unthinking ease of shopping for groceries would be a dilemma.

Now uncertainty is everywhere, from the moment I open my eyes. I do an inventory: still here, that's good. I go to the basement of the building to put a load of laundry in, not daring to touch the railing on the stairs, bumping light switches with my elbow, washing hands on return to my apartment. Dare I turn on the news? Let's get the tea ready first. Fortified, I click the remote. What new horror has happened since yesterday? For, every day, there is a new horror.

In the midst of a seething, spreading, killer pandemic, there are marches for an end to racism, protesting police killing the people they are meant to serve, in honour of the most recent deaths, more shootings happening even as we march for the fallen.

The orange man, his face looking most unhappy, keeps talking talking talking, "sound and fury signifying nothing", as the world turns and burns.

I need wine to watch the evening news, and it takes extra sweetener in my coffee to face the morning, but on we go.

I have had plenty of practice learning to stand steady in the storm. I feel the old tired tree of my being supporting me. But she is weary. So tired. While we are waiting for the transformation of consciousness, it looks like the world is falling apart. Will the virus ever end? Will the marching peoples' voices ever be heard? Will life ever make sense? Will someone come to lead us back to civility and decency and make America kind again?

This morning my stellar jays arrive on my balcony. For them, life is simple; the finding of food, the feathering of nests, the soaring of skies. But it is uncertain, too, in times when food cannot be found, when the heavens open and pummel them on their dripping branches, when their eggs or babies are eaten by predators.
For today, the only day I have: a fortifying cup of tea, the news, perhaps, if the Muse is kind, a poem. Then a walk into town, for this is what the living do: we carry on.


*Uncertainty soup is a title I borrowed from Laurie Wagner of Wild Writing. Apt for these times.


THIS POEM WON'T.......
June 29, 2020

In this time of the pandemic,
when so many are dying
and so many more are in denial,
rollicking on crowded beaches,
maskless, fearless, (until
the first symptoms appear)

In this time of the pandemic,
with a president spouting untruths
and vitriol, in a world gone mad
with ache and rage

I don't have to look far
to see the haloes, floating,
unseen, above the heads
of the nurses, the doctors,
the cleaning staff of our local hospital,
walking smilingly into sickrooms,
and helping.

They are as afraid of the virus as I,
maybe more afraid, for they have seen
all that covid can do, worked long
into the night to save a life
slipping away,
returned in the morning
to fight for one more day.

Unseen haloes hover above the heads
of the clerks at the CoOp, bagging our food;
shine above First Nations guardians,
turning away traffic at the gates
of their communities,
to keep their people safe.

One day we'll say "Remember
how it was during the pandemic,
when we all sheltered in place,
wore masks, stepped aside
to let each other pass,
when we followed the rules
to keep each other safe?"
It is a time of unnoticed heroics,
of courage, of hands held out,
of protecting the old
and the children.
It is a time when the bravest
walk into the fire,
to do what needs to be done,
while everyone else walks away.

We are watching the crazed world implode.
My heart overflows with
combined grief and beauty:
grief at the injustice, at all the dying,
the hatred and division, the racial slurs,
of so much that is so wrong;
yet also with hope, as people march in the streets
demanding change whose time has come.
How beautiful they are
with their Black Lives Matter and
Indigenous Lives Matter placards.
How strong, as they face the rows
of militarized police, row on row,
standing firm with brave eyes,
haloes tilted rakishly above
the unexpected foot soldiers
of peace.

Meanwhile, in this crossroads of
left versus right, justice versus might,
there is the beauty
of blue-green water with white-tipped waves
rolling endlessly into shore;
of happy, smiling dogs,
who know no pandemic,
who know nothing but love and joy,
their innocence, in the beauty
and the terror of this world,
bringing me to tears.

Inspired by The Pandemic Halo by Jime Moore, and Wild Writing with Laurie Wagner

GRIEF AND BEAUTY DURING THE PANDEMIC
July 6, 2020

In this time of the pandemic,
when so many are dying
and so many more are in denial,
rollicking on crowded beaches,
maskless, fearless, (until
the first symptoms appear)

In this time of the pandemic,
with a president spouting untruths
and vitriol, in a world gone mad
with ache and rage

I don't have to look far
to see the haloes, floating,
unseen, above the heads
of the nurses, the doctors,
the cleaning staff of our local hospital,
walking smilingly into sickrooms,
and helping.

They are as afraid of the virus as I,
maybe more afraid, for they have seen
all that covid can do, worked long
into the night to save a life
slipping away,
returned in the morning
to fight for one more day.

Unseen haloes hover above the heads
of the clerks at the CoOp, bagging our food;
shine above First Nations guardians,
turning away traffic at the gates
of their communities,
to keep their people safe.

One day we'll say "Remember
how it was during the pandemic,
when we all sheltered in place,
wore masks, stepped aside
to let each other pass,
when we followed the rules
to keep each other safe?"
It is a time of unnoticed heroics,
of courage, of hands held out,
of protecting the old
and the children.
It is a time when the bravest
walk into the fire,
to do what needs to be done,
while everyone else walks away.

We are watching the crazed world implode.
My heart overflows with
combined grief and beauty:
grief at the injustice, at all the dying,
the hatred and division, the racial slurs,
of so much that is so wrong;
yet also with hope, as people march in the streets
demanding change whose time has come.
How beautiful they are
with their Black Lives Matter and
Indigenous Lives Matter placards.
How strong, as they face the rows
of militarized police, row on row,
standing firm with brave eyes,
haloes tilted rakishly above
the unexpected foot soldiers
of peace.

Meanwhile, in this crossroads of
left versus right, justice versus might,
there is the beauty
of blue-green water with white-tipped waves
rolling endlessly into shore;
of happy, smiling dogs,
who know no pandemic,
who know nothing but love and joy,
their innocence, in the beauty
and the terror of this world,
bringing me to tears.

Inspired by The Pandemic Halo by Jime Moore

STANDING ON THE EDGE OF THE EDGE OF THE APOCALYPSE

Standing on the edge of
the edge of
the apocalypse,
I set my vision as far as the horizon,
pondering all that lies between
now and the farthest day
I can imagine.

What holds me up?
Love of and belief in Mother Earth,
old growth trees, wild waves,
every dog I see and all the
furred and winged creatures
who share this world
with me.

What you cannot see changes you.

Small invisible droplets
have changed the world.

There is a sky behind the sky.
Set your sights far.
The earth goes down for miles;
we walk on layers of the past
and the ashes of our ancestors.

Listen for their voices on the wind.

They will tell you
all you need to know
about survival through hard
and questionable times.
They will tell you
the only thing for certain
is change itself.

We once thought change was a problem.

And now we know:
we either change or die.


THIS IS WHAT LIFE DOES

This is what life does. It brings you out of the desert, where you had felt displaced for so long, your spirit falling silent, and plunks you down beside the sea. Joyous, invigorated, enlivened, pinching yourself in disbelief and gratitude, you repeat the mantra daily: “I’m here! I did it! I made my dream come true!”


This is what life does: it brings illness, no employment, so you have to sell your little trailer and move away from the source of all that joy. It demands that you learn to be happy in the last place on earth you ever wanted to live. So, over time, you do. And, only then, it allows you to return to the sea.


What a reunion! Smiling starfish, giggly anemone waving their little arms, happy grinning dogs lolloping along the beach, sea-song, sunrises and sunsets beautiful enough to break your heart.


You are old now, so you hobble, not lope, along the beach, cane tapping. But you are still grinning, like someone reuniting with that one lover you never stopped loving, and it is even better for having missed them for so long.


This is what life does: it dares you to dream an impossible dream and, if you trust, and believe, and refuse to give it up, it helps you to make it possible. Sometimes not just once, but twice.


HAPPINESS IS....

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 onto your balcony 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,
but 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 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 always will
come back.


DOGS WITH HALOES
July 20, 2020

The haloes, during this time
of covid,  are multiplying,
but so is the darkness.
This morning, on the news,
I watched a young man lift,
then slam, his dog down hard
on the pavement, twice.
The police came to
the dog's rescue,
and did he cower, having been
so cruelly treated just minutes before?
No, he wagged his tail,
because that is how
hopeful and forgiving
dogs are. I sobbed and sobbed.

It is like the evil emperor poked
the festering underbelly
that had been in hiding,
and gave it permission to spread.
The pus seeped out and is infecting
everything near and far,
like the virus itself.

Humans can't handle this much darkness.
I know I can't.
"Grief and holiness are all we know,"
the poet said.
This morning, what holiness there is
lives in an abused dog's wagging tail.
As for humanity, my heart aches
at how the people
in this world seem to have
collectively
gone mad.

Wild Writing with Laurie Wagner
Inspired by The Pandemic Halo by Jim Moore






BECOMING STILL
July 21, 2020

Maybe I need to stop reacting to all
the cruelty and injustice in the world,
and centre down into life inside
these four walls, sliding door open to
the pretty blooms on my balcony,
turning towards the sun,
the chattering jays who let me know
when they need the sunflower seeds
topped up in the feeder.

"Become still," the poet said,
"then reach out with your heart."

Life is beautiful, in my village;
people are conscious and caring, respectful and grateful.
We are surrounded by nature's wild beauty;
we  know we are blessed.
In the bigger world, crowds rage
against oppression and a growing fascism.
In the bigger world, there are pandemics,
both physical and spiritual.
The way we were is gone;
the way we are is untenable.
But, still, brave souls are marching,
demanding a more just world.

I watch, from my couch,
exhausted by my 74 years of living,
the worst the last three and a half,
when my idealism, my persistent optimism,
my belief in the transformation of consciousness
slowly sank under black venomous rhetoric,
that spread like the virus,
creating two polarized communities
with an abyss floating between them.

Who will come with large enough vision
to build the bridge that will allow us to meet?
When will the rainbow warriors arrive?

Wild Writing with Laurie Wagner
inspired by Pandemic by Lynn Ungar

BIRDS
July 21, 2020

               A poem should always have birds in it,
the poet said. And
A person wants to stand in a happy place
in a poem.


My poems are often full of birds.
But they are having a hard time out-shouting
the black-hearted rhetoric spewing
from my tv screen,
that makes my heart sink
and forget how to sing.

How can we stand in a happy place
in the poem of our lives
while stormtroopers are beating
and firing upon peaceful citizens,
and veterans and mothers?
While people are abusing animals
and hating each other?
Where the world is in survival mode
and has forgotten how to be kind?

I can tell you that, down by the shore,
herons are picky-toe-ing peacefully
along the mudflats.
I can point out the eagle, surveying
his kingdom from the top of a scrag.
I can show you my balcony
full of chattering jays
and swift little hummers,
all living in blessed ignorance
of the weight we humans are carrying.

Bless them.
When we look up for a moment
to track their heartlifting passage
across the sky,
we remember what it once was
to dream.

inspired by "Singapore" by Mary Oliver. The italicized lines are hers.



                      WHAT BELONGS TO US

                       Not the rented rooms
                       where I live my present life,
                       not even the rented breaths,
                       never knowing when the last one will come,

                       not the four chicks sent out into the world,
                       their inner clocks set to Forward,
                       no looking back to see me
                       waving on the shore

                       not the dogs I loved and lost,
                       their smiles and hearts and devotion
                       missed every day of my life since

                       not even these words,
                       coming from I know not where.
                       I set them down on the page,
                       to capture them,
                       but pages can be burnt,
                       or lost, or discarded
                       by those who come after me.

                       What is ours? In the end,
                       only the love we have given
                       and shared, the memories
                       we have made, the stories
                       others will tell about us
                       after we are gone.


                      Wild Writing with Laurie Wagner, from a poem by Marie Howe


LOVE IN THE RUINS

[title from the poem of the same title by Jim Moore]

I remember when tables had tablecloths,
fancy ones kept folded in a drawer,
used only for special occasions,
one plain and serviceable
for every day.

I remember my Grandma's small living room,
with card tables set up for the ladies'
afternoons of bridge: tea in Baleek cups,
small, damp sandwiches. The women
wore hats and white gloves to the wrist.

I remember when ironing was a weekly chore,
when washing was hung out on the line
Monday before 8 a.m.,
and women compared the whiteness
and looked droll over the neighbour
who got her washing out late.
(I don't remember ever seeing
underwear on my Grandma's clothesline.
Underwear was unmentionable back then,
along with so much else.)

I remember when love lived
at my grandparents' house,
and the aunts and uncles were all
beautiful and glamourous,
coming out the door of
the little wartime cottage
in those days of apple orchards,
fresh-smelling mornings,
and sweet lake breezes.

I remember when love itself was in ruins,
my heart like a battered little boat,
trying to make its way to safety
across perilous seas.

I remember when love was a black wolf,
who had a toothy grin and made me laugh.
He is still love, ten years dead,
missed every day.

Right here, right now, covid is spiking again,
a thousand deaths in one day in the USA,
where masks have become a political issue,
instead of a means of
keeping each other safe.

Right here, right now,
on my tv screen,
goons in camoflauge,
sent by the President,
are yanking mothers off the street,
taking them away in unmarked cars.
Yes, I mean America; not a foreign country.

Right here, right now, our long-ago dreams
of peace and justice have long since died.
We're living in the ruins of our best hopes,
looking for leaders in a world gone mad.
We're hoping we'll survive.



ITS DEADLY DANCE

How can I remember this,
the in-between days of
sheltering-in-place, and emerging
into a world still alive with covid?

I keep my living small
and close to home, connect
through internet to stay germ-free,
walk wide arcs around passing strangers,
wear my mask into stores.

Only one person in my bubble.
There is fear in the thought of adding
three more soon, even though
all are family. How diligent
are others being, when I have been
so careful for so long?

The virus needs us to hide inside.
The economy requires us
to open our circles enough
to keep businesses alive.

They tell us life will be like this
for at least a year.
The young chafe at the restrictions.
Because I am old, and tired
and afraid, I learn to live happily
with keyboard, phone and book
and  television.

"Every pain could be an opening,"
the poet says. I think
every moment might yet be the one
where the virus attaches
and begins its deadly dance.
























































1 comment:

  1. Hi Sherry, I had to really search to find these poems after you mentioned that they were on a different page now. I see you have put them all in one place, but it is hard to comment on individual poems then...and I know I had commented on some of them. Sigh.

    ReplyDelete

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