SOLASTALGIA

 

Kelowna 1950's

Don Collier photo

I am homesick for a time

I thought would last forever:

golden days under the sun,

when the world and I were young.

Apple orchards and lake ripples,

flower scent upon the breeze -

life was innocent, and new,
days and nights of
joy and ease,

storybook clouds in skies of blue,

all our dreams still up ahead

just waiting to come true.

Hanging on my grandma's gate,

ice cream truck tinkling down the street:

a shiny dime was riches then.

(Oh, I Remember When!)

Most houses, then, were five rooms small;

we wasted not one thing at all -

no plastic carted off each week,

no birds with string

caught in their beaks.

Now birds are falling from the sky,

as I look up and wonder why

we changed so much that we forgot

the lovely life of days gone by,

when the world and I were young,

and all our songs lay up ahead

just waiting to be sung.

For my prompt at What's Going On - Solastalgia - feeling homesick for the past; existential distress caused by environmental change.

Now the miles and miles of apple orchards I rode my bike past then are condos. The "country" has retreated to the far outskirts, past all the expensive cliffside mansions. Innocence lost, we all carry the weight of what today's affluence and excess has cost.

MY HEART, A TIGER'S NEST

 

source

My heart yearns toward a monk's cell

perched on the edge of a mountain cliff,

halfway between here and heaven.

Yet here I am, in a grey little town

in the valley,

trying to fashion my unwieldy life

into something

that does not give offence.

My challenge, the cliff-walk

of understanding the distance

between where you are

and where I long to be.

My practice, the lighting of incense

and, sometimes, hearts,

with the weaving of words.

My sorrow, the mantra of my soul:

how to tame

the tiger's nest of

keening for all that was,

all that may never be again,

so it may bed down

in peace.

A poem from 2015, that I am reminded of because I am reading about a woman travelling to monasteries around the world in search of peace. This one is the Tiger's Nest Monastery in Bhutan. When I wrote this poem, I was still living in Port Alberni, missing both Tofino, my wolf dog and our lost wilderness.

KODIAC

He was white

with spooky light blue eyes

and big, wolfy ears.

He loved me
and I loved him.

He stood on his hind legs

peering in my window

to find me.

When our eyes met

he cavorted giddily,

like a silly boy,

insisting I come out

to pat those wolfy ears

and give him treats.

He was wildness,

contained,

restrained,

but with a large spirit

that longed to

run free through the forest

or along the sandy shore.

He would have,

if he were mine,

but he belonged to another,

who was not kind.

One more white wolf

to invade my heart

then disappear.
One more wolf
I loved
and could not save.

He joins the list of creatures
loved and lost
within my heart.
A Gallery of Tears
of those with whom
I wished I'd never part.

- for Kodiak

for Susan's prompt at What's Going On - Pets I Have Known

Kodiak lived for a time in my building with  a man who had a mental illness. He was very hard on Kodiak, which distressed me greatly. Thankfully the man was convinced to let Kodiak go. You never saw a dog so happy to be at the SPCA. The above photo was taken while he was there. When men came to see him, he growled and didn't want anything to do with them. But one day an older woman came, and he ran up to her wagging his tail. I think he thought it was me come to get him. She took him home where hopefully he finally had the life he deserved. It all broke my heart, and breaks it still.  

 

Through Awakened Eyes

Let me tell you something about happiness,
about wonder: those small moments
that take your breath away, scattered
so generously throughout the day:

cherry trees full of white blossoms,
and alive with tiny hummingbirds

planting seeds, and the excitement,
one morning, of finding little green seedlings
popping up on the windowsill - a miracle
every time, that food and flowers
can come from tiny seeds
poked into earth with hope and faith.

Happiness is seeing nature's beauty
all around, through awakened eyes.
You may not be thinking about anything,
just watching a cloud perch itself
on top of the rounded hills
across the harbour; your heart swells
to overflowing at the beauty:
happy, happy, happy
and
grateful, grateful, grateful.

It is kinship with the world, one being
among all the other beings.
It lives in the song of the waves,
an eagle's cry, the sight of a heron
perched on the topmost branch
of an old growth cedar,
and you wonder how the branch
holds her weight and how
her feet find purchase.

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

You know it will always
come back.

for Sumana's prompt at What's Going On: When Nature Takes Your Breath Away. It does that for me so many times a day. I am gifted by Mother Earth's astonishing beauty. It is my joy and my solace. And my heartbreak, that humans wage their insane wars on her landscape.

Yesterday

 

Yesterday -
so full of dreams and longings
and the loved ones
who shine golden
in memory

Today -
it didn't turn out
at all the way
I planned

but turned into
a better dream
than I ever could have dreamed
on my own

On the wings
of whatever comes
on some unknown
Tomorrow,
a dream I hold up
to the Ancestors:
when that day comes,
may I sail gently
into morning
and blue sky

for Mary's prompt at What's Going On - Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow

Where Were You Yesterday?

 

I was:
watching in disbelief as a news anchor asked
the head of the US military, "Is bombing a civilization
into rubble Biblically permissable?"

She was seriously wondering.
I was waiting for the Red Queen to show up,
and a white rabbit checking his stopwatch.

To recover I:
sat in the yard watching two old cherry trees -
planted after the second World War-
alive with blossoms and hummingbirds,
some of them babies, as they ecstatically
and drunkenly zoomed from bloom to bloom.

pondered this schizophrenic existence
where I am sitting here in such beauty and peace
while across the globe people are
forming human chains to protect their bridges
and infrastructure. On the screen, 
children, with their bewildered faces,
who would die if the threatened bombs 
were to fall.

Thankfully, the madman stepped back
at the very last moment. But with mad people
in charge, one can't ever take an easy breath.

I try. "Today will be my peaceful day,"
the smiling monk instructed us to say.
Yes, I am peaceful.
But the world is not.
And it is not just.
Therein lies the problem.

I will watch the hummers again today,
white blossoms against the bluest of skies,
and count my breaths, one, two, three.

Two Completely Disparate Realities

 

There must be at least two dozen hummingbirds
- many tiny babies -

darting drunkenly from blossom to blossom

in my cherry tree; blue sky above, cloudless.

I hold this in half my heart, while the other half

holds the morning news: can the madman actually

be threatening nuclear war? Might this be

our last day on earth?

I make what might be my last cup of coffee.

I mute the news anchor, who is asking 

- incomprehensibly, wide-eyed, seriously questioning -

"Is bombing a country back to the stone age

Biblically permissible?" the response:

"trump and God are angry so this is happening."

We are so far down the rabbit hole,

we must be dreaming. You can't

make this stuff up.

I sit in the sun, watch the baby hummers
dart about. I can hear them peeping
like baby chicks.
Springtime this side of Paradise.
I am in no hurry to see
the other side.

May all beings be free from fear and sorrow.
May all beings still be here
tomorrow.

Thankfully trump backed off from disappearing a whole civilization overnight, as he had threatened. But the madness continues on and those surrounding him who stay silent are as guilty as he is - even more, since they presumably arent crazy.

THIS POEM

 

This poem will not bring the climate

back into balance, elect sane leaders,

stop incomprehensible and immoral wars,

or grant us peace.

It won't plump up our bank balance,

fix our broken appliances,

make our old friends, who have been

silent so long, send an email.

It won't make my hair

(or my children!) behave,

or make me less

socially awkward.

This poem takes a rainy morning,

a very bad headache, fatigue,

outrage at the daily news,

and turns it into counting blessings:

gratitude, for the rainforest,

its owls and eagles and herons,

wolves and stumbling bears;

gratitude for my cozy rooms

and fleecy blankets,

wolf pictures on every wall;

gratitude for the beauty of Mother Earth,

still birthing spring blossoms

and baby lambs, even though

her humans are treating her badly;

gratitude for happy dogs

lolloping along sandy beaches,

tongues out, grinning toothily:

no one does gratitude (and exuberance)

better than dogs.

This poem has taken a few minutes to write.

But all by itself, it has changed my mind

from sad resignation

to gratitude and hope.

Sometimes a poem can do that.

For my prompt at What's Going On: This poem.........

MEET ME IN KATHMANDU

 

What is the magic
that picks me up by the scruff of the neck
when I open the pages of a book?

Meet me in Kathmandu.
I will arrive leading an elephant
I have liberated from her chains.
Twenty-six years, she lay on the pavement,
without hope.
Her eyes now gleam:
with relief, with awakening trust, with
-amazingly – kindness.
Although I am human,
like the beings who chained her,
she is willing to believe that
I mean her no harm.
Elephants forgive.

On a rooftop, above a monastery,
at three a.m.,
nuns are practicing kung fu.
Even the birds are not awake.
It is four hours until morning tea.
Below, monks’ rumbling mantras
grumble sonorously.
All is peaceful, conscious, awakened.

I have arrived along the Saffron Road
in the pages of a book,
where I live with delight
as the slow hours pass.

At the monastery,
the youngest nun is six years old.
Her parents brought her to the nuns
to gain good karma,
and also because
there is no money to feed
so many children.

She is nervous, watching the other nuns
to see what she is supposed to be doing.
In her bed at night,
I wonder if she remembers home,
cries silent tears,
feels unmoored,
unmothered.

I turn the page,
and now, so soon, it will be eventide
in the purple mountains,
smoke rising from the chimneys
and the cooking fires,
as amber light falls on stone walls,
and pilgrims make their weary way
homeward.

I must make my own way home.

Meet me in Kathmandu.
We will speak of the magic
of books that lift us up and away,
taking us on magic carpets
to the land of our dreams.


I wrote this poem some years ago when I was reading The Saffron Road, A Journey With Buddha’s Daughters, by Christine Toomey, who travelled the globe to tell the stories of Buddhist nuns. The book took me right into its pages, as books always do. My heart journeys to Tibet, to Nepal, to Africa....to so many places through the pages of wonderful books. This book  a beautiful glimpse of a mysterious way of life. 

I thought of it this morning at the library. I had to find this poem to remember the title of the book. I am going to read it again, as I often do with books I especially love. (So many books! So little time!)

The nuns doing kung fu reminded me of one of the sweetest things I have ever seen - a one hundred year old nun, here in Tofino, doing Qi Gong up at the Community Hall with the seniors' program. (I adore Qi Gong. This summer, I will be doing it weekly at the beach on Friday mornings. Yay!)

Three Months Until my 80th Birthday

 

The ferryman is paddling my way,
but has not yet rounded the bend.
So far, I can't hear the singing,
the dip of the oars.

Not time yet.

Remember those years
when energy was inexhaustible?
When you could walk miles
along the shore, then miles back,
that big black wolf
grinning at your side?

I hobble now,
but my heart still lifts on eagle's wings,
my eyes blessing the water, the trees,
the sky, the harbour,
the blossoming cherry trees
full of baby hummingbirds
in my front yard.

Grateful.
Grateful.
I never take anything for granted,
each peaceful day a gift, a blessing,
each smile, each kind word,
moving today gently into tomorrow.

Still here.
Still so glad to be here.

Bring me a blue sky,
a heron perched on a treetop.
Spring rain.
It will be enough.

The ferryman may be on his way.
But it's not time yet.
Not yet.

Inspired by "Two Months Before My 65th Birthday" by David James. And by a story my grandma told me about her friend, who had a near death experience and came back. She found herself crossing a desert, with a river ahead. She could hear people paddling a boat, the oars dipping and lifting, the people singing. They were coming to get her. But then she came back. It wasn't her time yet. Not yet.

TRUTH

Truth.
How much can we handle?
How do we find what's true
when the world is upside down
and filtered to us through
a madman's lens?

Haven't we been here before?
We fought fascism and authoritarianism
in World War II
and never dreamed
it could happen
in North America,
"the land of the free".

Truth:
the oligarchs are siphoning
riches into their bank accounts
as fast as they can.
Truth:
Congress is not doing its job,
fearful of a demented leader.
Truth:
The madman started
what could turn into World War III
on a whim, with no plan
how to stop it,
even as he sets his sights on
the next "excursion"/distraction.
About the impact of his actions 
on all living beings
on the planet:
"I don't care," he said.
Truth.
The only true words he has ever spoken.

Truth:
The power is in the people,
yet the polling booths
are under attack
by voter suppression.
Prepare for your next vote
with everything you have.
Democracy is on the line.

Truth:
I am way too tired,
after a lifetime
of human rights movements,
to be worrying this much
in my last years.

Truth:
we can't stop resisting.
Our grandchildren and great-grandchildren
and all other beings
deserve a future.

for Susan's timely prompt: Truth - something we aren't seeing a lot of on the evening news, thanks to right wing billionaires taking over the airwaves. MSNOW is still there though, and telling the truth as loudly as they can. 

Song for the World's Children

source

Song for the world's children:
in Iran, in Ukraine, in Gaza,
in so many desperate, terrified
and hungry places, 
a song that is

sorrowing, sorrowing,
a song that has no end.

Big-eyed children

with every rib showing,
hiding in the rubble,
sitting on their grandmothers' laps,
those grandmas with weary eyes,
who have seen this all their lives,
and it still makes no sense.

How can hearts harden enough

to continue warring

when they see the children:

innocent, starving,
being killed by bombs?

A normal human would

stop the endless fighting,

put down the guns,

get right to work,

boiling the water,

gathering food, clearing the road

so the aid trucks can pass.

What's more important

than feeding the children?

Not ideologies, politics,

borders or power.

An ancient soul peers through

those surrendering eyes;

it waits a thousand years

for the world to grow wise.

First, feed the children.

Mop up their tears.

Then ask why we've been fighting

for all of these years?

for Sumana's prompt at What's Going On - Children

A Monk Standing in the Rain

 

After walking 2300 miles for peace,

through heat, storm and blizzard, illness,

injury, and lacerated feet, the monks returned

home to the temple. Bikkhu Pannakara

bowed to the ground before his teacher.

Blossoms were scattered at their feet.
A humble monk, come home,
saying "I hope I made you proud."

May all beings be at peace.

As he spoke, under shelter, about his journey,

rain began to fall.

He said, "I cannot bear to see you standing

in the rain, so I will join you there."

He continued his teaching.

He said, "If you do not leave me,

I will not leave you. That is my vow."

May all beings be at peace.

What does this have to do with anger?
you ask.
Everything.

He crossed a country seething with anger,

hatred, racism, injustice, and terror:
its people fearful, outraged, despairing.
Everywhere, he spoke about

peace, kindness, compassion,
helping us to quiet our minds,
to be present and mindful,
to be kind in our speech.

May all beings be at peace.

I have lived among angry people

much of my life. They taught me

how not to be angry. Because peace

is what I needed most,
and anger is not the way
to get there.

So these monks walking across America

during the worst year I can remember,

igniting hearts along the way

and around the world,
brought me hope I sorely needed,
the body memory of how much kinder
life can be.

May all beings be at peace.

The opposite of anger?

A humble monk, footsore

and exhausted, home again,

standing in the rain

with his followers,

showing us all

another way to be.

The Walk for Peace by nineteen monks crossing America for peace touched so many hearts,  hungry for their message of peace, kindness and compassion. I followed them online and follow them still. They were the best thing to happen, for me,  this year. They walked for us, for the world, and all its beings. 

t.rump's first term was hard on my mental health. When he was re-elected, I knew I had to detach myself, while remaining informed, in order to protect my well-being. That is even harder this time around.

This poem is the opposite of anger, but is what came to me as I contemplated anger, which we have too much of, in a world that longs for peace.

for Mary's prompt at What's Going On : Anger.

Mother Sky / Small Bird

A twiggy nest,
a serene brown bird ~

singing!

***

Small bird,

with your sweetness

you are

the bodhisattva

of my morning.

Songstress,

you awaken me

to the plight of all beings.

***

You,

who own only feathers,

are far happier

than we.

Teach us your song.

***

for De's prompt at dVerse: a 44 word Bird quadrille

SEEING LIKE THE BUFFALO

Credit: Tom Murphy (source) 

The buffalo know to face a storm head-on,

to not turn away and risk the snow covering them,

but facing first, causing a division, the snow

parting and blowing past.

The buffalo came thundering at Standing Rock,

to defend the warriors trying to save the river.

Buffalo have deep earth wisdom and, it seems,

a strong sense of justice,

as do all wild things who are suffering the fate

of the voiceless, uncared for by those chasing 

oil and weath at the expense of every living thing -

including, in time, themselves.

Sigh.

That I see these things with clear eyes

does not help. Taking the existential view

does not let me unsee a hundred and fifty

little girls, what's left of them buried

as the rockets fall, buildings crumble,

and the insanity of war begins again,

thanks to one deluded demented old man

awake at two in the morning 

(where were his minders?)

deciding he could because he can.

Like the buffalo, I am looking at it head on.

Long before the world
recovers from its madness,

I'll be gone.

TEN YEARS LATER

Ten years and more later,

walking without you,

there is a familiar loneliness, that

has always been mine, ten years of being alone

at the edge of aloneness, a peaceful stillness,

a solitude that understands there will never

again be you and me, the complete companionship

of two wild hearts.

At the river's edge, the dappled sunlight

plays across the water; the great trees

lean down. We walked here, so often,

together, your brown eyes gleaming,

nose to the ground, smelling all

the wild smells, tail and ears up,

alert for scurryings in the bush.

Ten years ago, I dreamed of you.

Your absence was a presence in my life.

You looked uncared for and sad.

You were missing me,

as I was missing you.

I am always missing you.

I carry you within, a big black wolf,

in my wild wolf-woman heart.

On nights when the moon is full,

we both give a long, low, silent howl.

Inspired by David Whyte's Ten Years Later. The italicized lines are his.

for my prompt at What's Going On : Ten Years Later. It has been more than ten years now. But when I look back, that big, black wolf is always who I see, running along the forest trails with me.

THIS POEM

 

This poem will not bring the climate
back into balance, elect sane leaders,
stop incomprehensible and immoral wars,
or grant us peace.

It won't plump up our bank balance,
fix our broken appliances,
make our old friends, who have been
silent so long, send an email.

It won't make my hair
(or my children!) behave,
and I have always been
socially awkward.

This poem takes a rainy morning,
a very bad headache, fatigue,
outrage at the daily news,
and turns it into counting blessings:

gratitude, for the rainforest,
its owls and eagles and herons,
wolves and stumbling bears;
gratitude for my cozy rooms 
and fleecy blankets,
wolf pictures on every wall;

gratitude for the beauty of Mother Earth,
still blooming spring blossoms
and baby lambs, even though
her humans are treating her badly;
gratitude for happy dogs
lolloping along sandy beaches,
tongues out, grinning toothily:
no one does gratitude (and exuberance)
better than dogs.

This poem has taken a few minutes to write.
But all by itself, it has changed my mind
from sad resignation
to gratitude and hope.

Sometimes a poem can do that.

Not Someone Else's Daydream

 

Conventional husbands of the sixties quaked

when their wives discovered Ms magazine

and The Feminine Mystique.

We looked in the mirror and discovered

our eyes had grown determined.

Our wings flapped and fluttered

against confines

until we bent the bars

with the force of our will,

popped the cage door open,

and burst through.

There is as much pain in birthing self

as birthing others.

Much bleeding, and much healing.

Some thoughts in desperate midnights

of giving up,

but we stuck around in hopes

it would get better.

And, for a time, it did,
beyond our wildest dreams.

The jackals had come

to feast upon our bones,

but a wily raven warned us,

so we spirited them away.

Within the forest deep,

we put ourselves back together

with owl songs and wing feathers,

and learned a language

of our own making.

Then we re-entered our lives

as ourselves,

no longer

someone else's daydream.

For Susan's prompt at What's Going On: Women and History (Herstory?) 

Scratch a Baby Boomer and find a feminist, lol. In the early 70's, womens' consciousnesses were rising all over the place. It was a heady time. My chauvinist soon-to-be-ex was appalled at the developments. We are a formidable force, once provoked. Some orange-cheeked "leaders" would do well not to underestimate us. The regime in the States is trying to block women from voting by not recognising their married names. Good grief.

In Transition

 

First, I transitioned from active motherhood

to grandmotherhood, all those years

of shepherding growing children

along the forest trails, a gift to last them

all their lives: nature and books,

a lasting legacy.

Next, I transitioned to elderhood,

my favourite colour changing

from purple to earth's mossy hues,

rewilding myself into a world of green,
my love affair with nature
and a wild black wolf
the best of all my years.

I cultivated the sprig of poetry

that had waited patiently

all those busy years, for me to have time,

felt the rush of dammed-up words

springing free at last.

I feel myself in transition,
now, once more,

from this world I love so much,

suspended here, in thankfulness,

just before what comes next.

Now the words are all of gratitude:

for the life I've had, a wilder journey

than I ever could have dreamed,

for the beauty of the earth,

which makes my heart ache
with both thankfulness and grief,
for all the many gifts, the help
I was given along the way

and for that endless sky, containing secrets

I have yet to understand.
Leave the window open,
when it's time,
so my spirit can find its path
out into the cosmos
and away.

BLACKBIRD

For years I wandered aimlessly

up and down,

past all the pretty cottages

in the town

where happy people lived.

Oh, how I dreamed,

when I was on the outside

looking in,

that one day I would live,

like them, within.

I found a blackbird heart.

We loved each other true.

But, unused to being cherished,

knew not what to do

with all the feelings we kept

locked inside

through all the fear we tried

so hard to hide.

"And now you're inside

looking out", he said,

and it was true -

the cornerstone of my free spirit,

trapped and full of rue.
He could not say

the words to make me stay.

So I took my broken heart

and walked away.

for Mary's prompt at What's Going On: The Unspoken

In the early 80's, I met the man who was The One. But we had five teenagers between us, who made it difficult to be together, as they were unhappy with the changes we caused in their lives. Because the kids were unhappy, and because he could not make the commitment I needed to feel secure in the relationship, and didn't know how to ask for it, I left. Within the next year or two, the older kids were gone anyway. I regret I didn't have the courage to stay. Yet it wasn't long until I flew up over the mountains and landed by the sea, so that was the soul journey that was meant to be.