Grandma

At Real Toads, there is a Grandma theme going on, based on Maid Marian's (of runaway sentence fame) prompt to write something inspired by the music of the late, great Vic Chesnutt. If you click over to Toads, you'll find Vic's touching song to his grandma, along with some  moving tributes by other poets to their grandmothers. My grandma was my anchor and my lifesaver, when I was a child.


She was larger than life,
when I was four:
twinkling eyes, a sense of humor,
lots of cackles.
She and Big Boy, the cat, 
had a running game over
whether or not he'd make it 
out the screen door
before she let it fly.
He would calculate the distance warily:
the lovely scent of the outdoors,
the pressure on his bladder,
but Her, standing holding the door
open invitingly.
Would he make it through this time?
Was it worth it?
How badly did he really
need to pee?
She enjoyed this game 
a lot more than the cat did.


In the morning I'd wake to the slap
of water hitting the vines 
on the side of the house,
as grandma cooled things down 
against the heat of the day.
Her yard was always abloom:
sweet pea and mint, 
forsythia and mimosa,
and roses, twining the arched trellis
over the front gate,
where I'd hang, 
swinging back and forth, 
waiting for my parents 
to pick me up
after work. 


She'd lower the awnings
like sleepy eyelids
over the two front windows.


At naptime, she'd lie down beside me,
her warm comforting womanly body
lulling me off to sleep in safety.
No screams or crashes ever woke me
from sleep at grandma's house.


Her kitchen clock ticked 
loudly and peacefully
on the kitchen shelf.
I could hear it in the back room,
where we'd sit
listening to 
the crack and rumble
of the thunderstorms
Grandma loved in summer,
waiting for the metallic scent
just before the rains 
hit the parched earth.

We "watched the fairies" 
dancing in the fireplace
on quiet afternoons.

She was all I knew of stability, 
and that life could be normal, routine
and comfortably safe.


She could be stern
and I was more afraid of her displeasure
than I was of God's.
She said she had "magic glasses,"
that she could see me when I was at home,
and I believed.


She told me of a perfect little girl called Vivian,
who had wonderful manners
and never did one thing wrong.
All us grandkids hated Vivian.


She chortled with delight,
walking home from afternoon tea,
at how I'd said "Haaaaaah, Miss Hicks?"
when I didnt understand her question.


"Haaaaaaaah, Miss Hicks???" 
my grandma teased,
fairly chomping with pleasure,
while I blushed and bridled.


When my Grandma was old,
in extended care,
I repaid her for all the hours 
she gave to me
as a child.
I'm still here,"
she'd say disgustedly,
as I popped my head 
around the door.
"Too damned healthy!"


We'd sit under the trees,
or at the window 
watching the sunset.


I sat with her as she lay dying, 
that long week.
Bending over, I whispered into her ear,
"Thanks for all the love, Grandma"
and watched a tear
run silently down her cheek.


At the funeral, we played her favorite
"Galway Bay" at the end,
and my mom broke down.
On the bus going home,
I was thinking of Grandma 
and all the years,
when the  notes of Galway Bay 
tinkled through my brain,
from left to right, and away.
Instantly, I said, "Hi Grandma,
I love you,"
as the notes exited my brain,
for I knew that it was Grandma
passing through.

Love Song to Clayoquot Sound - a poem

Friends,the amazing and talented Shawnacy over at Real Toads, issued me a personal challenge (ack!) to write about the longing for, or absence, or finding  of Home . This is a topic I have lived intensely, so I gave it a shot. You can find the entire challenge, and my response, here,  but I am posting it on this site as well, for my non-Toad friends.

Here is some of Shawnacy's poetically-worded challenge: "It is a feeling of an almost objectless nostalgia so deep and abiding that we cannot express it save through a physical and psychic ache that is as much a sense of loss as it is a response to a call we can almost, but not-quite, hear. It is the swelling of our inmost soul at the moment the sun slips behind the horizon. It is the breath caught in our throat when we are struck at the right moment by a particular progression of guitar chords. These things resonate within us with a profound feeling of Home.

Your challenge: tell me of 'Home'"

Of course, this entire exercise made me wildly homesick.

     *****     *****     *****     *****

Oh, untrammelled coastal beaches
of Clayoquot Sound,
you sang a siren song to me
for years before I journeyed there,
long before I ever saw
the perfection of
your beauty.

Trapped inland, like a beached whale,
I never stopped yearning
for the sight and the sound
and the smell
of your wild shores.
The ache of longing never dimmed,
throbbing like a sore tooth
in the center of my being.
I felt the pull,
I heard your call
that could not be ignored.

Your ley lines
drew me to you
as surely as a murrulet
is drawn to its nest,
a migrant whale
to its feeding ground.

Then, one day, it was Time
to either make the leap
onto your unknown shores,
or set the dream aside.
And I knew I couldn’t live
without a dream.

When I rounded the corner
that first night
at Long Beach,
a huge red fiery orb was going down
behind the hills -
my first sunset.
My heart rose to meet it
like a lover,
just now waking
after far too long a sleep.

I pulled into my cabin on the beach,
stood on the deck and breathed it in:
waves galloping into shore
like white-maned horses,
sun slipping down beneath the sea
like a blessing
on everything beautiful.
In the curving bay,
a small whale surfaced,
to tell me that my lifelong dream
had at last come true.

In that moment, the questing,
seeking voice within
was stilled,
for, at long last,
after such a long journey,
I was Home.

My spirit lifted like a soaring bird
set free from its cage,
joyously riding your air currents,
windsurfing the sky.
I flew higher than
I’d ever flown
there, on your wild shores,
where my spirit
finally
came into its own.

My eyes drank in your beauty
everywhere:
so many misty, fog-shrouded mornings,
Meares Island wreathed in cloud,
tall spires poking through,
or its hillsides blushing rose
late afternoons,
like a matron
surprised at her toilette.

They gazed on
thousand-year-old cedar,
on eagle and  raven,
on herons picky-toeing their way
along the mudflats,
on seabirds wheeling free
over shining waters.


I carry the memory
of seaspray damp against my face,
the smell of seaweed and plankton,
the feel of the packed, wet sand
underfoot.
I remember
the roar of the waves
against the dunes out front,
the crackle of the wood stove,
wind and rain lashing
the winter cabin walls
at midnight,
and the mooing
of the foghorn
at Lennard's Light.

I remember mornings
after the storm had passed,
stepping out onto the beach
to see what wind and water
had drawn upon the shore.

Joy, unparalleled, was mine
those ten glorious,
never-to-be-repeated
years.

Is it worse to find and lose Home,
or never to have found it?


When I had to leave,
missing you came
to live inside me
like a second pulse.
Inland, once again,
one hour and another world away
from everything I love,
I am once more Making Do
with so much less
than all of my longing.


But losing is the other side of having,
sorrow the price we pay for joy
and worth the cost.


Now those years live
within my heart. They live,
like the siren song of the sea,
like the cry of the gull,
like the sound of my beloved waves,
forever advancing and retreating
in my heart.

Now the Sound inhabits me,
as once I inhabited the Sound.
Love for your wild beauty never stops
singing inside me.
I carry that song within me
like a gleaming treasure,
like a song of love
whose refrain reminds me
that none of this is ours to keep.
We are all, always,
only passing through.

Sometimes, at dusk, now,
I see faint color
behind the hills
which ring this gray little valley,
that lets me know I am missing
yet another spectacular sunset
at the beach.
On those nights,
my eyes turn toward
the west.
I yearn. I long.
I remember all those sunsets
that once were mine.


As the world turns
from burnished gold,
fading soft to sunset,
and the coloured remnants streak
across the evening sky,
I look to the mountaintops.
Behind them,
on the West Coast,
glorious sunsets are unfolding,
these richly coloured evenings.
On tiptoe,
I can almost
see them shining.

I had already written my Love Song to Clayoquot Sound in prose form some years ago. It was included in the anthology Writing the West Coast: In Love with Place, a topic dear to my heart.


The prose version can be found by clicking on the above link, for anyone interested in reading the story of the amazing midlife journey I took all through the ‘90’s, when I made a huge leap to the home of my spirit, Tofino, B.C. on the wild West Coast of Vancouver Island. You may enjoy the story of my ten years there, through the time of the Peace Camp and the blockades – the most alive, joyous and fulfilling years of my life. I stole some lines from that piece for this poem, because they came straight from my heart and could not be improved upon. I had not thought to write this as a poem before. So thank you, Shawnacy!

A Poem from Rumi

Who Says Words With My Mouth?





All day I think about it, then at night I say it.
Where did I come from, and
what am I supposed to be doing?


I have no idea.


My soul is from elsewhere,
I'm sure of that,
and I intend to end up there.


This drunkenness began in some other tavern.
When I get back around to that place,
I'll be completely sober. Meanwhile,
I'm like a bird from another continent,
sitting in this aviary.


The day is coming when I fly off,
but who is it now in my ear
who hears my voice?
Who says words with my mouth?


Who looks out with my eyes?
What is the soul?
I cannot stop asking.


If I could taste one sip of an answer,
I could break out of this prison for drunks.
I didn't come here of my own accord,
and I can't leave that way.


Whoever brought me here will have to take me home.


This poetry, I never know what I'm going to say.
I don't plan it.
When I'm outside the saying of it,
I get very quiet and rarely speak at all.

-Rumi

HOME FROM THE CITY

photo from flickr.com/photos/Thom Quine

And a lovely city it is, if one must be in a city. I promise myself this, the next time I am there, I will have my new camera with me - the one I havent had time to buy yet! Since my last camera broke, I have missed taking pictures.......time to get another one and get back in the game.

I would have loved a picture of Jeff with his bald head. New hair, just a blonde fuzz of it, like when he was a baby, is growing back already. Very cute. Under his battered old leather hat, his eyes look out as blue and honest - and PRESENT - as they always have.

When I got to the hospital, he was already in his chair, hooked up to the chemo. I am always amazed at the oncology ward. One would expect it to be a depressing place, and certainly some of the people appear very ill and are in bed. But, generally, the ones who have graduated to the tilting back chairs are very chatty and positive. We exchange snippets of stories, symptoms, side effects, chat and laugh. The staff seem especially suited to where they are working. They must see a lot of very sad stories. Yet the main feeling in that ward is hope. Everyone is doing what they need to do to be well. There is great humanity in the people in that room, all helping each other through the hard stuff.

He is nearing the end of chemo and is tolerating it very well. He had a full body scan this past week.

"Dr. S. says everything is looking very good," he tells me. "I have the two chemos left in August. Then after that I will have one three-hour chemo every three months for two years." He sounds a bit daunted by that, but adds, "He says there will be very little in the way of side effects."

"Well, that's good," I say. "Two years hey? But three hours once every three months - you have come through this treatment so well, that is doable, right?"


"I guess so."

I am praying this will keep it at bay. They say the type of lymphoma Jeff has is not curable, but that it is highly treatable. They can keep him going for a couple of years - when the cancer comes back they will repeat the treatment.

However, for now we are focussing on this series ending, and life returning to normal, as normal as it gets for Jeff.

"I'm having some difficulty today," he tells me. "I have a lot of fear coming up."

"You do? What of?"

"I'm afraid of my mind," he says. I dont show it, but this amazes me. He has never said this to me before.

Jeff has been given a double whammy. He was stricken with schizophrenia when he was seventeen and has suffered with it now for twenty years. The last few years, he has gained a better awareness around how to handle the thoughts that torture him. But still, on a daily basis, he wrestles with the contents of his mind.

"I'm afraid of getting run over by a car, of all kinds of things........."

"A lot of people have that kind of fear," I reassure him. "But maybe not always to the same degree you do. Maybe part of your journey will be learning to make friends with your mind."

"That would be good," he says. "I'm afraid of losing control. But I actually do have a lot of control," he reminds himself.

"You do. Look how far you've come and all you've been through!"

He perks up. We walked down to the seawall at Ambleside twice this visit, yesterday afternoon and again this morning before I headed for an afternoon ferry. The minute we sat there, with the sound of the waves rolling in, the smell of the salt air, the sun on our faces, we both felt a blessed peace. I told him, "If I lived where you do, I'd be down here every day!" He is two blocks, if that, from the seawall. The water glitters before us, the sun streaking it with silver. The waves roll in and in and in, to the rocks almost at our feet, where we sit slightly above, on a wooden bench. Big ships lie at anchor out in the bay. Small sailboats bob about. Every now and then a seagull or two come keening past, their raucous cries making me smile. I love seabirds.

The trip was tiring for me, especially yesterday. I had been tired before I set out, so by the time I travelled from here to the city, then bussed across the city to the hospital, walked the several blocks from the bus stop, went back home with Jeff in the afternoon, walked down to the seawall, then travelled out to New Westminster by skytrain to where I would spend the night, I was exhausted. I began to feel strength fading at Jeff's and told him I was going to have to start making my way. When I got off the skytrain, I felt a surge of weakness come over me, like I could barely move my legs. By sheer will power, slowly, I put one foot in front of the other and climbed the six blocks uphill to where I would spend the night. But after a good sleep, I was recovered enough in the morning to carry on.

This morning, early, as I sky trained across the city, my thoughts were busy. Sky Train reminds me of the book by that name writen by Canyon Sam about what has happened to Lhasa in Tibet since China took it over. They have built a train right into its heart and now what was a holy place is a huge Chinese marketplace.


However, the skytrain in Vancouver is one of my delights when I am there. That and the seabus trip across to the North Shore. I looked at all of the towering buildings. Each window hiding/revealing a life or lives being lived within. So many stories. I gazed at the faces on the skytrain. So many STORIES! Each one likely as impossible to believe as mine. We raced across the east side of the city, where I once was young and so unhappy. Across the west side, where I would walk and dream my dreams of a freer future (which came true!) To the seabus. As we pulled away from the dock, to cross the channel to the North Shore, I saw, on the top of a tall building, a row of brave, dancing little pine trees lining the periphery of the rooftop. I felt as happy with my fifteen minute seabus ride as any wealthy tourist on the huge cruise ship docked beside the White Sails!

Jeff and I had a good visit this morning. He was feeling a lot better today and hadnt had any side effects at all from the chemo. Remarkable! I cant get to the city in August, but promised him a visit here in September to make up for it. I have made it once each month for three months. But in August it wont be possible for me to get away. However we fasten our eyes to September. The weeks fly fast!


I had the ultimate ferry for the trip back to Vancouver Island........seven decks tall. On the upper deck there are smaller closed lounges, with chairs all facing out to sea for quiet watching. The restaurant on the top deck had floor to ceiling windows for our viewing pleasure. There was a lecture by a naturalist on one of the outer decks. Wow. Tourist season has B.C. Ferries rolling into high gear. Best ferry I was ever on. It is called Coastal Rennaissance. If you get a chance, book your trip on that one! My mini-Cruise:)


Off the ferry, driving up-Island, past Cameron Lake, through Cathedral Grove, our old-growth forest full of sleepy giants, over the Hump, and out Beaver Creek. Home, with happy dogs running to the fence to welcome me, fresh blueberries and greens and a GLORIOUS bouquet from the farmer's market left here for me by my sister...........and my neighbor just brought me a piece of fresh salmon. It is good to be home.

Here is Jeff, in his jester's hat, before his hair fell out.........




And here is my humble little home, with its big sprawling yard. You cant see them in this photo, but my prayer flags are flying above the iris bed. I am always so grateful, after being in the city, to have all of this green space around me. I am soooooo lucky!


Out back is more wild space, that runs down to a creek, which has a resident bear, who fishes it for salmon in season. He ambles up and down at night when he gets hungry, hoping someone has left their garbage out. We dont tell the wildlife people. We like him! He doesnt bother us. One night in winter when it was sleeting out and truly miserable, I heard him howling and crying down at the end of the road. He must have been cold and hungry and very unhappy. Poor bear! I so wanted to take him down a blanket!

See my covered porch? That is where my porch swing lives, where I sit sipping tea and watching hummingbirds come to the feeders. I recommend a porch swing, it does wonders for inner peace:)


For those of you who havent already read it, here is a poem I wrote on my previous visit to Jeff in the city. It will tell you who he is, in his own words, better than anything I could write:

"I feel like an angel,
burning up from the inside,"
my son tells me.
We're in the oncology ward.
Chemo is
drip
drip
dripping
into his arm.
His hair is wisps now,
across his bald head,
like when he was a baby.
His eyes are still
as blue and true.
"I view reality with perfect clarity,
but I've become aware of another dimension.
When I look into a flower,
I see the whole universe.
I can hear the earth
groaning in ecstasy
and, in my body,
I can feel, with my heart of compassion,
myself groaning along with it.
It's a good thing," he smiles.
The chemo
drips
drips
drips
into his arm.
My son is an angel,
burning up from the inside.

And now I am going to make a cup of lemon ginger tea. Life is good and it is good to be home!