Fragility/Strength

The light called me to the beach this morning.

I went, knowing there were few days left till winter.

Knowing the best of the fall colours were past.

Perfection wasn't what I wanted.


What was I looking for?

The wind. The light. The gulls and the spray.

A small group gathered to say goodbye to one they loved. They huddled close against the wind, below the bluff. A gull above. Gliding.

We gather against the wind, all of us here, we cling to one another.

The mourners burned incense. They scattered flowers and fruit at the border of two worlds. Waves accepted the offerings, carried what was given to a place we cannot follow.

The gulls and the light and the fading colour.

Gusts animate the sand. Alive, shifting. Blowing away from me.

And the gulls. I've been blind to their beauty. Look, look.

What could be commonplace here? They turn to face the wind. Dig in.

Have you seen sunlight illuminate their bones?

Have you seen sunlight splinter the water's surface into infinite shards? Alive alive.

Geese push into formation.

The gull flies.

About a Bird

The bird is behind the crabapple, to the right of the spruce.

The spruce is sparse of needles and grows crookedly.

Not enough light,

not enough space.

*******

This summer a nest fell from the maple. 

A wonder.

I brought it inside to admire. 

I put it in under a dome of glass.

It became a dead thing

in a museum.

I did that.

I found the bird after lunch, also dead.

*****

The light in autumn is false.

It comes at a slant and casts long shadows that weren’t there in summer.

It makes mirrors of windows.

Birds fly into windows.

These are facts I tell myself.

*****

I dig the hole in the back garden,

behind the crabapple, to the right of the spruce, 

near another bird I buried long ago,

and a baby rabbit found by the back gate in the spring.

*****

The nest is small.

A strip of birch bark spirals down from its tangle of grey twigs.

When I bring it outside, the breeze takes up the strand like a prayer flag.

I lift the bird.

I want to hurry

but I make myself slow.

I feel the still breast.

No frightened, fluttering heart.

I feel the soft yet solid body.

Its oval shape fills my cupped palm. 

I feel its mass.

I look for wounds,

such as a cat might make.

Or a window. 

No blood. One leg awkwardly bent.

What does it mean?

I rest the body into the nest.

The bird would not have lain so.

It would have sat up, tiny legs tucked under its white tummy.

I place the nest into a brown bag.

I need to use the bag.

A temporary buffer between the elements.
Between earth and sky.
Between what flew through today’s cloudless dawn and what lies below.

Between wings that parted the wind and the gravity of a grave.

Do you see?

I put the bag into the hole. I do not pause.

I shovel on the displaced dirt.

The whole is covered.

I put the shovel away.

I walk into the house.

I wash my hands.

Where Stories Come From

No podcast this week. Instead some ponderings about where stories originate.

*****

When I read about other writer’s childhoods, and about how many took refuge in books, the written word, I have such mixed emotions. Jealousy, shame, hunger, loneliness, envy, sadness. Hard, pointy, sharp feelings.

There weren’t many books in my house when I was a child. There were some; two shelves, to be precise, on a small black bookcase at the end of the hallway, between my parents bedroom and the one my sisters and I shared. Most of the bottom shelf was taken up by a set of thin, illustrated encyclopedias that I could never bring myself to read, but I spent many hours studying the pictures of ancient civilizations.

The sentences in most books seemed to be in a language that my anxious mind could not decode. I could read words, but I couldn’t settle into sentences, couldn’t rest in or even access the thoughts and ideas behind stories. Things inside me were churning, but I didn’t know that then. The churning was my normal, so I never named it churning—it just was what I was.

And so when I retreated, found refuge, which I often did, it was not to books; it was to my imagination. I’d fashion tent houses from a thin bedspread flung across the porch and front steps, clipping the blanket to the black wrought-iron railings with clothespins. One particular old cotton bedspread, the kind with little upraised tufts that I’ve since learned is called chenille, was the best. When the sun shone through it, the world underneath blushed warm, glowing peach.

In winter, stuck indoors, I’d wrap big bath towels around my head. Sometimes the towel was long, blonde hair, like Rapunzel (I did have one book of fairy tales, retold in a friendly way “for modern children”); other times the loopy terrycloth was a high steeple Medieval headdress, which I’d seen in a picture and was captivated by. I’d dance in the living room, carefully balancing the heavy towel so it wouldn’t unravel as I waltzed with an imaginary Disney-style prince in front of the TV where figure skaters leapt and spun and sent blue and white flashes onto the walls of my royal ballroom. Outside the big picture window, snowflakes gathered on the blue spruce and dusk fell.

I did not read for pleasure until a few Nancy Drews, Dorothy Parkers and finally Anne of Green Gables came my way. The latter captivated me. Changed me. But the reading habit did not stick. Occasionally, I’d wander the aisles of the local library, which was a long drive from my house, but the French-speaking librarians were unhelpful, even unfriendly (those were the Rene Levesque days in Quebec) and I was overwhelmed by the choices. I had no clue what to touch and what not to touch. It was scary.

There were no bookstores anywhere that I knew of and no money for books if there had been.

So I came very late to books and that is okay, I think, though it has made for a particularly long and difficult journey to this place I am now, where words are finally a refuge of sorts. All along, I have slowly gathered the tools to understand and to express—or strive to, it’s always striving to understand and express—the complexity of human existence, human emotion. Words are my tools to mine that long childhood and beyond it, too.

Beyond it, I say, because what has surprised me in all of this is that when I write, story threads to which I do not remember being exposed emerge from within—the darker myths and fairy tales, the ancient feminine, the magic, the archetypes. They arrive unbidden, which encourages and truly fascinates me. It leads me to trust the unseen, believe that the stories are there, shared among us all, in a Jungian way, in a collective unconscious that is not contained in any one story or book or body. Stories that connect us, frizzing sparks of electrons speeding along a wire suspended. Words that are more than language, but an ancient rumbling of stars in darkness, light from a long way off that’s also within. 

Perhaps you feel it, too? A feeling that starts a little lower than your anatomical heart, rising from that place, rolling through your chest and catching in your throat, then bubbling up in words that you didn’t know you knew.

Imagine that. I do.

Compassion

Co-suffering, that’s what compassion means. Was that what I felt when, this weekend, I held in my hands a mourning dove and tried, with husband and son, to save it?

The bird had become entangled in our badminton net, which we’d taken down but not put away. The black net stood limp, almost invisible, hanging from a pole at the rear of the garden where birds flutter back and forth among the trees.

My son came running in to say a bird was caught in the net. My heart jumped. I cursed aloud. I so easily jump to anger, at myself, at the boys. Looking for someone to blame.

My husband reached the little bird first. I hesitated. I stood in the kitchen and deliberated. Could I care for this bird? Could I take this on? Would it hurt me too much? What if he died in front of me? Like my dog, who was hit by a car running to greet me when I was in grade two? I thought all this and then ran outside.

Scissors - I think it was my husband’s idea. I yelled to my son to get them. The sound of his heavy steps as he hurried down the deck stairs with the scissors frightened the bird. It panicked and tried to fly away but fell quickly to the ground.

Then my hands were on the bird quickly; no more thinking, just acting. The dove was soft and warm, and at my touch it grew still.

The net had twined itself around wings and legs so quickly and intricately that we could not loosen it. I started cutting away carefully, trying to loosen its strings. My husband was working too, delicately pulling at the net. I snipped and snipped, holding my breath, holding the bird.

And it held onto me. One tiny claw wrapped itself around my thumb. “He's holding me,” I said. My son watched. I looked into the bird’s eye and it looked at me. The moment lasted. And there we were. In it together. Compassion. Co-suffering.

My husband took the scissors since I could not cut strings and hold the bird and have it hold onto me all at the same time. He cut, but no matter how much we cut, the strings around its body did not loosen.

I gently lifted a wing, hoping we could see where the twine was hidden. Nothing. It disappeared amid soft grey feathers.

The bird was fully cupped in my hand now. It defecated on me. Poor frightened thing. But it was so brave, all the time holding onto my finger, like a newborn, looking at me as though for reassurance. “You are so brave, little bird,” I said.

Snip. Snip. We kept working. The bird was separated from the net, but parts of the string stubbornly twined around parts unseen.

I tried to lift its leg again; my husband said that had seemed to help.

I loosened my hand, the one the bird held onto, to try to manouvre its foot. That movement, my breaking the bond, changed everything. It flapped its wings frantically and I could not restrain it, fearing it would hurt itself in the struggle to escape. I let go. For better or worse. What would happen? Any control I might have had over the entire situation and the bird itself was, quite literally, out of my hands.

The dove flew up. It could fly. It flew to the chokecherry tree at the far end of the yard, alighted there for a moment, gathered its wits, and took off into the canopy of trees. It was gone.

We were shaken. We promised to put the net away as soon as we finished playing badminton. Every time. It wasn’t enough to put it aside. The thing was a death trap, especially when it was loose and limp near the wilder part of the garden at the back trees.

I sent love to the little creature right away, in the way that I do, which could be called prayer. I am hoping that because it could fly, and because there were no strings near its head or neck, that the rest of the net will fall away, that we had cut enough of the net that it will drop off as the bird flies and flies.

I hear a mourning dove right now, outside my office window, its distinctive coo-coo-coo coming to me from the maple or the lilac. I noticed it as soon as I started typing. I hope it is our little friend, and that it knows we never meant to harm it. I hope it is happy, healthy and free.

I will never forget its eye on me, and its claw grasping my thumb. I know better now my responsibility to my fellow creatures and my power to harm or help. I know now I must rush out and be couragous, hold compassion in my heart, and love. It does hurt. But it is right.

 Photos are the rear garden on a foggy, rainy day.

Summer and Fantastical Fictional Settings

Where have I been? Not here, that’s for sure. July and August without a post—shame on me! Blame summer.

Summer is too full of strawberries and cicadas, swimming and sunrises. Sitting at the computer simply doesn’t appeal. Summer is like adolescence, there’s no time to think and reflect; it’s a time for activity—for moving, running and dancing as fast as you possibly can.

This summer has been a summer of sunrises. The cottage we rented was ideally positioned to take in dawn in all its glory. I snapped pictures that I hope to use in watercolour practices as I try to learn technique.

 














The time at the cottage was the highlight of my summer. I hope I never forget it. It reminded me of what I love most about Ontario—water, trees, rock, sky. Softly rounded ancient shorelines. It reminded me of what feeds my soul.

We spent about four hours a day playing in the water!

We had time to share dinners with people we love.

I'd like to wake up by a quiet lake everyday, but for now I will study this sacred landscape in art and words. For now I will let its mysteries unfold internally and hopefully find expression in art.

Meanwhile I managed to find time to finish my first ever watercolour painting.

My crows. Not your typical watercolour, is it?

I could keep working on this piece but I must move on. There are a million things I would do differently. I am frustrated, as usual, by my lack of experience with technique and with my lack of skill/talent with composition. But despite all that, I'm proud of my daring. I’m proud I just did it, despite such ignorance. I'm proud, too, of the idea behind this piece. It is strange and personal and feels like a piece of my soul.

I've written before about how I don't like to appropriate First Nations' culture, yet, it seems to rise up in my subconscious and conscious alike. What can I do? It's powerful imagery, shared perhaps in a Jungian way through our collective unconscious. And as strange as this sounds, birds—crows, in particular—have been speaking to my soul since spring. I also had a very strange, archetypal dream about crows, which I'd forgotten about until cleaning up my desktop and finding a detailed note on the dream. It has inspired another crow painting that I hope to attempt this fall.

As far as this one is concerned, I feel it is, perhaps, my first real piece of art. The idea coalesced at a deep level, and now it is external, made real. I feel no need to give words to its meaning, to explain it in any way. It is enough that it exists. 

I know what the work means to me and that is enough. As for its meaning to others, I feel that if it appeals, if it speaks to someone else on a personal level, that's great, and if it doesn't, that's okay, too.

This is a breakthrough for me. Art for art's sake. And so, humble though my crow painting is, naive as it is, by Jove, I believe it is art!

I know this little guy enjoyed it. As soon as I took it outside to photograph, this beautiful creature alighted upon it, investigating thoroughly. I was honoured. And I don't believe he defecated on it or anything like that, so I guess that's a good sign.

The next exciting bit of creative news is that I have refined my idea of setting for the “little story” that I've been working on (or not working on!). Since I started the story, I've been equivocating on the fictional world that I needed to shape for my characters to live in and move through. Would it be modeled on the idealized English countryside that haunts my imagination thanks to the literature I love? I thought so, but elements of my own country kept creeping in. 

Then a visit to the Ontario towns of Fergus and Elora settled the issue. 

Elora is a sweet little town that, thanks to its preponderance of early 19th century stone architecture, reminds me a wee bit of St. Andrews in Scotland. Elora is younger, smaller and boasts no North Sea coastline (sigh), but its impressive gorge, where the Grand River rushes past 22-metre-high limestone cliffs, adds unexpected drama. 

Victoria Park in the centre of town offered a vantage point for a tired 11-year-old and his mom to quickly take in the exciting setting without actually hiking, which I would have loved to do had I been alone. 

The park was a surprise. You must walk through a lovely grove of cedars to get to the lookouts. As we entered, my son said, "I'm trying to feel them," and he put his hands out into the air in front of him. I was so happy because I once showed him how to do that and told him that sometimes I can feel the energy of trees. He didn't believe me then, but it stuck with him and he has remained open to the possibility, which is all I ask. 

Immediately upon entering their quiet space I was reminded that Ontario is a powerful setting that I know and it is as worthy of starring in fantastical fiction as is any copse or moor or rocky Welsh mountain. 

So this summer, I have recommitted to Ontario and feel more confident in setting my fictional world physically in rural Ontario (tweaked to include some massive mountains), but in a time that never existed. 

The truth is, I need to include the plants I know and love, like these cheeky cedars that insist on coupling in broad daylight and in public, too!

This landscape is witchy, sensual, soft, sad, romantic, mysterious, dramatic. Perfect for a work such as I'm trying to create.

I long to live closer to nature in a place much less paved than Toronto, but if I can't physically live a wilder life right now, if the city must be my home, then I shall let the wild live in my imagination and I will come to know it better through my art.