Wild Woman Goes to the Beach

Well, kids, I'm back from the beach, and it was wonderful. I had my camera beside me on the trip up, as every inch of that highway is beloved to me. I quickly realized that, in order to stop for every photo opp, I would have to pull over every fifty feet. So I  missed several shots I  would have loved to capture for you, mainly because my reflexes are slow, people were on my back bumper and I couldnt stop fast enough. Grrrrr.

All the way there, one passes rivers, creeks, waterfalls, lakes, rock cliffs running with water, forest, clouds, mountainslopes, craggy rocks and, sometimes wildlife (though not this time). I uttered "Wow!" aloud, more than once.  Here's a quick peek:

Then I turned a corner and there it was - Long Beach.  In years past, the swells showed clearly from the top of the hill, waves rolling in to shore, spectacular.  But the trees have gotten taller, and one just catches a glimpse now. It still thrills me, turning that corner. That vista will never get old.

Nor will anything else in Clayoquot Sound. Everywhere I looked, it was a FEAST for the eyeballs. Joy. Joy rising. I had joy on a daily basis for ten years when I lived there, midst such natural splendor. Every time I return : joy, everywhere my eyes fall. I fit there like a key into a keyhole. How did I ever misplace that key?

When I pulled into the driveway, Chris was waiting, and it wasnt very long before we crossed the street and stopped by Osprey's house to pick up three of her dogs for a beach walk. I adore Osprey's little cabin. Tibetan prayer flags flying everywhere. Buddha land!

Sigh. 

First glimpse of the beach was through the camera lens, of course, with a brief pause while Chris disentangled herself from the leashes and set the dogs free. Far in the back is Frank's Island, that I lived across from my first winter in Tofino. Pure magic!

There was quite a wind the first day, and the waves were pounding. The harbour in town was very choppy with whitecaps, and it made me nervous about going up to the float next day. We decided to wait on the marine forecast next morning.

Of course there needed to be a second beach walk before sunset. I so love the way the beach grass looks as the light is changing........

Then it was time to head home. Wild Woman, walking dreamily about in her near-sighted haze, asked, "Is that a man standing, waiting, up there, or is it a pole?"

"It's a pole."

"Oh. I thought it might be my dream man............" arching an eyebrow, smiling knowingly, "He's checking me out!" 

Cackles.

Tune in tomorrow for "I Didn't Drown, in Clayoquot Sound." Hee hee.

( I didn't, either. But I did fall, as opposed to climbing, into the boat.)

In the Realm of Hungry Ghosts

The color of addiction is gray.
It is the color of the lean and hungry ghosts,
stick men and women of the street,
who wander the gray pavement,
caught in desperation's beat.

Gray , the color of hungry ghosts
huddled in  gray doorways,
wandering  gray pavement,
day on suffering day,
feeding the gray pigeons 
who are better-fed than they.

Huddled in gray doorways,
counting hard-scrabble cash,
waiting for the high, 
then waiting for the crash. 
In their fight to ease the pain,
they begin to wait again.

Counting hard-scrabble cash,
for men and women of the streets,
the feeling of addiction is 
future-less and gray,
as they wait for the high, 
and then the crash,
the cycle of their suffering,
each and every day.

There is laughter here,
and heart,
and a walking with each other,
side by side,
right where you're at,
nothing to hide.
In these mean streets,
a shared humanity,
service that lasts,
more authentic than
uptown,
where people avert their eyes
from such distress
and hurry past.

But when it comes to hope,
the Lower East Side
is forever painted 
gray.


At Verse First today, over at Poets United, Kim has set us the prompt: colored, in all of its meanings: being colorful, seeing the world through rose-colored glasses, the world of associations with regard to being a person of color..........where one gets into the realm of racism, prejudice, stigma, and stereotyping.

Right now I am reading a book titled In the Realm of Hungry Ghosts by Dr. Gabor Mate.

Dr Mate  is a doctor for the struggling residents of Vancouver's Lower East Side. This is a man of enormous compassion and humanity, who is no stranger to suffering. He was a small child in Nazi-occupied Budapest, moving with his family to Vancouver during the Hungarian Revolution of 1956. He approaches his patients with humanity, and an understanding of addictions, including the many less visible addictions rampant in our society.

It occurred to me that there is a color attached to addictions.

                                   ***                            ***                             ***

Off to the Beach

gotofino.com

Kids, I'm off to Tofino this morning for a couple of days of beach-walking, cackles and joy with my friend Chris. It has been raining so I am taking my rain gear and boots, but it is supposed to get sunny. Either way is good. I love the beach in any weather. I especially love the winter storms as the waves go wild. I like my beaches wild.

I will take photos and regale you on my return Friday afternoon. Have good days, kids!

WindSong

South Beach - gotofino.com

Through the grove

of ancient cedar

sings a melody

that calls to me,

as to a mermaid

from the depths

onto her rock,

above-ground

and looking all around

at the new world

she has found,

as to a mother wolf

called back and back again

to the river full of salmon

for her young,

as to the inner beacon

that leads, unerringly, a murrulet

from sea to forest,

home to its far-flung nest.

coastalbc.com

Grandfather Opa

waits patiently

through the decades,

as I have waited,

counting every ticking moment

between that vital time

through the quiet years of service

ever since.

On the wind,

is that him whispering:

"you have waited

long enough" ?

Clayoquot Sound~geog.uvic.ca

Salt-tears ride the wind,

formed of ocean-spray

and my longing.

How many tears must a heart cry

before it can

go home?

In the wind,

a familiar melody.

In the sky

streaked with sunset,

a beckoning.

Along the ocean's shore,

a promise:

you can go

Home again.

Another Spring

Sproat Lake forest 

At Real Toads today, the mini challenge is to take a quote from Wordsworth and write a poem. I chose “Come forth into the light of things, Let Nature be your teacher.” 

We emerge from winter,

bleary-eyed as winter bears,
as famished as raccoons,
ready to chatter our joy like bluejays
to welcome the sunlight in.

We watch the buds, 
miraculously formed, just ready to open,
with the wonder of children
pondering the unfathomable
Mystery.

Shedding the weight of winter,
expanding under the spaciousness

of warmth and sky,

away from our stuffy winter rooms,
we perch ourselves on logs,
on chairs, on porches,
lazy and content,
as calm as pumpkins,
to savor the emergence
of yet another spring.

Talmud Angel

[ In looking for something to post for Poets United's Poetry Pantry, this poem, back in the archives of 2010, spoke to me this morning. Do check out the Pantry - there are always many rich offerings, of a Sunday morning!]

How do you
keep hope alive
in times when
the March wind blows
and hoarfrost forms
around the edges
of your heart?
Times when
the winter wolf
stalks your footsteps
and you doubt the sun
will ever warm
your cheeks again?

Those are the days
when my eyes
seek the first light
of morning,
receiving each day
as a new beginning
with the possibility
of new perceptions;
days when I remember
there is a
larger landscape
than the one we see;
when I know,
if I look out through
my small window,
I may only see gray clouds
over the city.
Yet if I enlarge
that window
and my vision,
I can see the whole sky,
a patch of blue
just breaking
on the horizon.

In those times
when all around me
seems to be
chaotic and dissembling,
I have come
to understand
the universe is
simply rearranging,
through times of transition,
and on the other side
there may be
something wonderful
waiting that
I can't yet see.

I remember
that every cell and seed
in the universe
has one purpose:
to grow.

Even when living
feels too hard,
I still believe in life.
It is the underlying principle
of the universe.
In the midst of war,
political imprisonment, torture
and the worst that humankind
can do to one another,
a human’s instinct
is solely to survive,
to live long enough
to arrive at
a better day.

When your soul is
sorrowing and defeated,
and resists putting
one tired foot
in front of the other,
what I see is
the hugeness
of your spirit
that survived
the trenches
of childhood,
and the heartbreak
of lost love,
to get to this place
where you feel
you are
coming up
empty.

With all of my belief,
in you, in life
and in tomorrow,
(I who have walked
through similar
barren wastelands),
until you can
believe, again,
yourself,
let me be the
Talmud angel
who bends over the
solitary blade of grass
that is your life,
and whispers to it:
“Grow! Grow!”

Flying Free

That worn, heavy body in the bed,
with tubes connected to  hidden orifices,
must be moved,
by two brisk staff members,
every two hours,
from one side to another,
must be cleaned and tended
as its processes forge steadily on,
must be powdered, 
so as not to offend.

Eyes closed, she sleeps,
deeply in coma.
She is all body now,
all process,
as slowly the systems close down,
the breathing slows.

Soon, there will be
a final breath,
then a profound silence.

Stand back
and open a window,
for that is when her spirit
will fly free.

posted for Kim's Verse First at Poets United, where the prompt is: the Body.