Enough and Not Enough

[image from google]

Until you can be

thankful

for what is

"not enough",

you will not 

be able to

multiply it

into

what is

more than

Enough.

-- T.D. Jakes

It's Still a Beautiful World

Well, kids, it is a bit of a melancholy day here on Plested Road. This morning, looking back at those vital, busy, happy years of raising kids...........missing having little kids around to gift with Easter goodies........this afternoon, my sister and I went to Stamp Falls with the dogs. It was Pup's and my favorite spot to go together, when we got to missing the wilderness too much.

Today is gray and overcast, like so many days of this unending winter/early spring. We had four dogs with us, but I missed my boy. It just isn't the same without him.

Ms. Jasmine was ecstatic. She so loves her walkies. And I so need to make the effort to get us out to the trails, for her sake and for mine. But it is very hard to walk them, without Pup. It was always Pup and me, on those trails, and his absence is profound, wherever I go without him.

Hard to get bad little Blakey to stay still long enough to take a photo.......and the minute treats were proferred as an incentive, we had four dogs milling like cattle and I had to give up:)

But Lukey, Jasmine's brother, cooperated. He is the best-natured dog on the planet, a Buddha-dog, sweet as a big soft old teddy bear. Lukey has hip dysplacia and was bothered greatly with it on this walk, poor boy. I so worry about him. I remember having to curtail Pup's walks when he was in such pain, those last two years. Much as he wanted to go, he suffered too much for days afterward. I got a bit melancholy with it all, missing young kids, missing Pup, seeing Lukey faltering.

But I have to remind myself to LOOK at what I am SEEING, not focus on what is missing. Even with everything that is going on everywhere, it is still a beautiful world, and there are still wonderful people living on it. 

I am watching a documentary called Precious Life, about doctors in an Israeli hospital, fighting to save the life of a Palestinian baby, and that reminds me of what the real challenge is on this planet: to focus on those acts of compassion and humanity, and not just the horror of all that is happening here. For truly, no matter what is going on or how bad it seems, people are basically good and it is still a beautiful world.

Namaste.

Easter Through the Years

Easter morning was so special when I was a child. We had frilly new dresses to wear, white gloves to the wrist, shiny shoes, hats. My little sister's hat was a bonnet and she had long blonde ringlets, and a dress with a ruffled pinafore. My mom herded her along proudly, like a mother duck. My hat was a round tan felt sailor hat with streamers down the back.


We filed into the church solemnly. The congregation was seated amidst much rustling, all the little girls in their shiny shoes, with their shiny faces, the mothers' hats with netted veils over their faces, the young fathers crewcut and earnest in their Sunday suits.


I sang in the choir, the Kyrie Eleison ringing out, as the congregation pounded their chests: mea culpa, mea  culpa, mea maxima culpa. And then came the Magnificat, a joy to sing, as the incense wafted through the air.


When my kids were young, as in the photo above, we always had Easter egg hunts, adults hiding the eggs in easy to find places, trying to keep track, but always forgetting some hiding places in the flurry of the hunt. Some left down low, for the youngest to find. The kids would come bursting out of the door and race around the yard scooping candy. Jeff was so crazy about sugar, one year he did a forward slide on his belly after some chocolate, much like a baseball player sliding in to home base.


This morning, we had to be content with stuffies for the dogs, one of them a round fluffy chicken that quacks Old McDonald, driving them all into a frenzy. But there isnt a chocolate egg in the house. This year the Easter bunny brought some Chill light beer, for the sisters to enjoy on the deck in the late afternoon sun - we have waited so long this year for those leisurely hours on the deck.


Lori said "It doesnt feel like Easter. No Easter egg hunts, now your kids are grown." Sigh. 


Lots of memories though.

Mea Culpa to Mother Earth

Greenpeace photo

I started off trying to write a Kyrielle, each quatrain having a repeating line, for Kerry's prompt at Real Toads. But as I began writing, I needed more than eight syllables per line, so I expanded beyond it to see what would happen, and wound up abandoning the form, and striving for the intent. The form's name, Kyrielle, took me back to school days, singing the Kyrie Eleison at Mass. Especially on Easter Sunday.

The Old Ones are falling

to the sound of the saw.

Mea culpa, Mama, mea culpa.

Your watersheds are polluted,

mountainsides laid waste.

Mea culpa, Mama, mea culpa.

The lungs of our planet

are burning up.

The tundra crumbles

and the icebergs melt.

The ocean is dying,

its creatures diseased

and we are responsible

for all of these.

Mea culpa, Mama, mea culpa.

Wild creatures wander,

hungry and displaced.

Their habitat is encroached,

their hillsides  defaced.

The environment

is devastated, all laid waste.

Mea culpa, Mama.

Humankind is disgraced.

A Rubaiyat of the Wild

At dVerse, the talented Semaphore has set poets a challenge to write a Rubaiyat quatrain series, a set of four line quatrains with rhyme scheme AABA. Robert Frost altered his Rubaiyat, Stopping By the Woods on a Snowy Evening, with the last quatrain having an AAAA rhyme scheme. I thought I might try it.


I long have wandered by the river wild,
for I have loved it since I was a child.
Always its song has called, entreating me,
always the forest  beckoned and  beguiled.


It called me from the forest path I took,
and drew me forth along the ravening brook.
The dancing ripples lulled me with their babble,
and happily the township I forsook.


My heart lives best along the forest floor,
within the sound of water. In its roar
my heart comes more alive than ever before
and I will leave it never, nevermore.


Now I will always nature's lover be
drawn to where she is most wild and free.
May my eyes always her tender beauty see.
May she always be waiting there for me.


Hmmmmm.......not great, but an attempt, at least.

A Broken Heart Still Beats-Warning: Disturbing to Animal Lovers

Shay, go no further. And anyone else whose heart will break at the sight of the photos below. Mine did. My wolf-pup was born on Meares Island, inbred with the wolves who live there. Given the increasing logging, mining, development and general disruption of and encroachment on habitat, even in this area which is a designated biosphere "protection" area (not!), all wildlife are showing signs of displacement and reduction of habitat, and of evident scrawnyness, hunger and, in some cases imminent starvation. 


I am hearing more and more stories of wildlife behaving unnaturally, losing fear of humans (though in truth they should be more afraid of us than ever), and of their unusual forays into domestic areas in search of food. They cannot know that they are not welcome. They are desperately hungry, and hunger makes one set aside one's caution.


On my facebook page today my friend Chris posted Tofino resident Ocean Giesbrecht's photos of two wolves - obviously skinny and hungry - shot and dumped into a Tofino dumpster. Rumours around Tuff City are that the wolves were shot on Meares Island. Perhaps in response to recent wolf activity in Tofino. Ocean's post acknowledges it is heartbreaking when occasionally a domestic dog is killed by a wolf. But wolves need to live too and we are the reason they're displaced from habitat and are coming into town hungry.


Conservation officers stated they "dont care to investigate the carcass." (Why not?)


Apparently, also, and I heard this for the first time today, it is legal for humans to hunt wolves between September 10 to June 15th. (Why?) Pretty much open season on a species that has its place and should have its right to survive in the food chain. It's not like humans need to hunt them for food.


These photos are hurtful to look upon. Two beautiful wild creatures shot and tossed into a dumpster. But my belief is, if the animals can endure this hell humans have created for them, I can bear witness. In the hopes of raising awareness, if nothing else. 


Maybe we need to write our legislated officials that we dont believe in the hunting of bears and wolves.


These beautiful creatures, if the rumours are true,  were living on a wilderness island populated by only a few hundred humans. And even there, they were not safe. I put these photos here, with credit to Ocean Giesbrecht of Tofino, to honor the untimely passing of their lives, and to say that I care. 

Look how skinny he was.

Run free, wolf brother, wolf sister. In a forest free of humankind.

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.