Joyful Wrecks: Reflections on living with illness

Saint John's Newfoundland: here we come

As those of you know, who are regular readers of my blog, I have a crazy Mother. Crazy in a sweet, generous-spirited, loving kind of way. She has invited me and my sister (in honour of my sister's 60th) to a week's holiday in NFLD. In addition to this wonderful gift, my daughter has decided to join us for five days as well. Imagine: four women who are not only related but who are wild about each other, ranging in age from 37 to 89.

We will meet in one of the oldest and the most far eastern cities on this North American continent. A city renowned for colourful picture book houses, music, laughter, and friendly people. My Mother (in fact we all) will fit right in. This will be a remarkable holiday and one we will all revel in as we allow ourselves to experience the magic of NFLD and the fun of being together.To tell you the truth, I can barely believe it is happening.

And, believing or not, this Friday, following the grand opening of Wellspring's beautiful new home, I will board a plane in Calgary and disembark about eight hours later in the rarefied "breathing room" (make sure you read the description of what this means)called NFLD. Funnily, I have been attracted to the full page ads about NFLD, in the Globe and Mail, for the past several years. And now I am going.

If all goes according to plan I will post a photo or two from our B&B in St. John's. There is certainly more to tell. And one of my favourite parts of this trip will be on my return where I have a planned three hour lay-over in Halifax, Nova Scotia. Watch for the next posting on how I plan to spend that time. You will then think my Mother's not crazy, it is her eldest daughter.

People have told me to bring more clothes since it is cold in NFLD, in the month of June. Since I already live in the "land god gave to Cain"- it snowed here yesterday on the 7th of June...need I say more. I'm not anticipating any environmental surprises in Saint John's.

with lots of love, Trudy

It Is Done

June 1st. The last infusion. One poke by an angel of a nurse called April, and an hour and a bit later, I was walking home. Fourteen months of showing up every three weeks.  What to make of it all? I looked around today at the crowded waiting room and I saw the new-comers and recognized the regulars. Every age and shape. What I mostly sense, however, is courage and hope and kindness. Yes, bitterness and disappointment and anger also appear as the whole catastrophe of life is represented in this space within the Tom Baker Cancer Centre. Yet, it is a lively, light-filled environment where people devoted to their work are doing the best they can to help us all along. I will be forever grateful for the help they have given me.

Talk about the joys of the unexpected, can they compare with the joys of the expected, of finding everything delightfully and completely what you knew it was going to be? Elizabeth Bibesco,  Balloons

When I read that quote today, I smiled, look at the name of the book it is from - Balloons. And today I too experienced the "joys of the expected."It was a glorious day.  Sweet dreams. Trudy

PS This digital bouquet of red balloons from Sheila was delightfully unexpected.

Sunday Morning

On the last day of May I am thinking about many things but foremost in my mind is the sheer exuberance of summer. Calgary doesn't have spring. We go from winter to summer and it is an overnight transformation. I wish I could invite you to my yard to see the crabapple trees in bloom. They are heartstoppingly beautiful. Every shade and hue of rose, plum and pink. And the yellow finches. The one you see here, perched on a branch of the weeping birch outside the dining room window. Today, this must be the most beautiful place to live. And I bet everyplace on earth has those days.

Today is, also, the day before my last herceptin.

March 31st, 2008 was my first chemotherapy and tomorrow June 1st, 2009 is the last time I go to the chemo lab for an infusion. I can hardly believe all of those months have passed and to think of what a long stretch lay ahead (or so it seemed) when I started out. I have much to be thankful for.

And today I also think of the irony that I get to celebrate my last treatment and others I know, along with many I don't know, will be told there is no treatment available for them. "It is all relative, dear Watson..."

Endings and beginnings. They meld into each other. And yet we do need to celebrate the little victories that come with our particular set of cards. Life and death pronounce itself daily. Maybe tomorrow I will buy myself a red balloon and get one for M too. Why don't we all get a red balloon and  celebrate the reality that we are alive and breathing and life is good, in this moment.  With love and thanks, Trudy

 

Musings at the end of May

May is wedding month for many of our friends and family and it is also the month to honour Mothers. And being a Mother is a forever responsibility and gift. Once a Mother, always a Mother. Before the month of May is over, I wanted to let you read this poem I stumbled upon, by Ellen Bass. Gottfried finds it way too dramatic but I suspect that any Mother (maybe some fathers too) who has seen a child happily married can identify.

The poem brought back a flood of memories of our daughter’s beautiful May wedding five years ago on Gabriola Island. A wedding filled with music, joy, love, laughter, family and friends. And the tears shed were those of happiness and gratitude for this amazing day and all of the wonderful people who were celebrating with us. And central to it all was the good fortune that Meghan and Graeme had found each other – the gift of kindred spirits.(I always forget when to use or not use apostrophes, so I beg forgiveness from the grammer police)

When I read this poem I realized that yes, I too, like the poet, had been so grateful on that special day that my daughter was alive, strong, healthy and gloriously happy. That she was here and it was her wedding day. It is not so, for everyone, and although I knew it then, it is with me everyday now. This precious, precious gift of life, with all of its tribulations, so easily taken for granted.

So allow me to extend a belated anniversary greeting to my daughter and her husband and a prayer of thanks to the universe for all of these precious moments, days and years we share together.  May we all live with awareness, how ever many days we have. With love, Trudy

After Our Daughter's Wedding by Ellen Bass

While the remnants of cake
and half-empty champagne glasses
lay on the lawn like sunbathers lingering
in the slanting light, we left the house guests
and drove to Antonelli's pond.

On a log by the bank I sat in my flowered dress and cried.
A lone fisherman drifted by, casting his ribbon of light.
"Do you feel like you've given her away?" you asked.
But no, it was that she made it
to here, that she didn't
drown in a well or die
of pneumonia or take the pills.
She wasn't crushed
under the mammoth wheels of a semi
on highway 17, wasn't found
lying in the alley
that night after rehearsal
when I got the time wrong.
It's animal. The egg
not eaten by a weasel. Turtles
crossing the beach, exposed
in the moonlight. And we
have so few to start with.
And that long gestation—
like carrying your soul out in front of you.
All those years of feeding
and watching. The vulnerable hollow
at the back of the neck. Never knowing
what could pick them off—a seagull
swooping down for a clam.
Our most basic imperative:
for them to survive.
And there's never been a moment
we could count on it.

"After Our Daughter's Wedding" by Ellen Bass from Mules of Love. © BOA Editions, 2002. 

Hurry Up - a poem by Kevin Griffith

TED KOOSER, former U.S. POET LAUREATE, 2004-2006, notes the following about this poem. American literature is rich with poems about the passage of time, and the inevitability of change, and how these affect us. Here is a poem by Kevin Griffith, who lives in Ohio, in which the years accelerate by their passing.

It resonated with me, only too clearly when I read this today.

Hurry

We stop at the dry cleaners and the grocery store
and the gas station and the green market and
Hurry up honey, I say, hurry,
as she runs along two or three steps behind me
her blue jacket unzipped and her socks rolled down.

Where do I want her to hurry to? To her grave?
To mine? Where one day she might stand all grown?
Today, when all the errands are finally done, I say to her,
Honey I'm sorry I keep saying Hurry--
you walk ahead of me. You be the mother.

And, Hurry up, she says, over her shoulder, looking
back at me, laughing. Hurry up now darling, she says,
hurry, hurry, taking the house keys from my hands.

Today's the Day

There are many fine things which you mean to do some day, under what you think will be more favorable circumstances. But the only time that is yours is the present."

Grenville Kleiser

And That’s Not ALL

 

There is no life without suffering.

"According to David Whyte, (whom I am currently reading, as if that is not obvious) this could also be translated as: there is an absolute universality to suffering; there is no way for any human being, no matter how successful, no matter how wealthy, no matter how blithe of heart, to arrange circumstances such that they will be exempt from the emotional and physical hurts common to all people who have ever lived. This is a given: a foundational reality."

 And that’s not all…

The tricky part of any suffering is that we often think that it shouldn’t happen to me. And then of course we have “piggy-back” suffering. Suffering on top of suffering. Unless, we come to the understanding that we too are not exempt, and can let go of the why’s. Why me? Why my loved one? Why now?

I have no idea whether there is deep meaning in suffering. I do know there is deep meaning in living, and suffering is included. And that’s not all. What is also included is laughter, love, accomplishment, joy, friendship, family in a variety of combinations, coincidences, learning new things, stories, memories, seeing the sunset, hearing not just the first bird song of the day but all of them,  spotting the first crocus or bud or blade of grass…resting, walking, eating, saying hello and good-bye, contributing, comforting…The meaning is in noticing it all, nothing excluded; giving and receiving; doing our bit (sometimes better than others but let’s not compare) Life is a precious gift, each and every moment.  And suffering, disappointment, and loss is included.

And  still let us have more of these living days.

"Everything is waiting for us," as DW might say.

 “I wish I knew the beauty

Of leaves falling

To whom are we beautiful

As we go? 

  By poet David Ignatow

Let's Not Wait

"Anyone who has suffered real loss, the loss of a child, a marriage, a well-loved home, has always had difficulty conveying the absolute sense of devestation to those who are at present more fortunate. As if standing on fishes, Rilke described it, as if the ground had a life of its own and were swimming away underneath him. Many of us who take the solidity of the world for granted have had glimpses of what it would be like to have that ground taken away, " writes David Whyte, in his newest book, The Three Marriages: Reimagining Work, Self and Relationship.

This week, the ground cracked and the earth shook, with news of a loved one, we would have preferred not to hear. Not everyone gets better; not every cancer can be beaten; some of us won't see next year. And the truth is, we kind of all take it for granted that it won't be one of us...this earth shattering thing that happens everyday. But it might.

So let's live and love. Let's honestly understand that life is truly precious. Let's get it once and for all, the impermanence...let's not wait to save our best and kindest words for the funerals. Let's shout them out now, while we still have voice left and those dear ones still have ears to hear.

Please accept my thanks for reading my scribbles and continually sending encouraging words. I am honestly blessed with you dear readers. And to you I send all my best wishes and bushels of love. Trudy

Happy Mother's Day: to the sweetest Mother of all.

I can hardly believe that an entire year has gone by since last Mother’s Day, but the calendar doesn’t lie. It is Mother’s Day once again and I am one of the lucky ones who still have my Mother alive and kicking. (not very poetic but true)

 Last evening when I was reflecting on life and mothering with my friend Meredith, I told her a story of having a birthday lunch with my Mother, a few years ago, when she turned 85. I asked Mother what she had learned about life after all these years. She said, and I quote, “Well, it has been so much better than I had ever imagined it would be.”

 Seldom disappointed is the modus operandi of my Mother. And this doesn’t imply “anything will do.” It is something more subtle and wise that she exudes about the human condition. For myself I have been reading books and studying texts from the sages while my Mother just goes about living fully in the moment, doing what she can to spread beauty, generosity and kindness wherever she finds herself.

 The truth is my Mother’s life has been no picnic. Has anybody’s?  Everyone’s life has its share of hardship, sorrow, disappointment and loss, some more than others. But I think what people spot in my Mother is the joy she conveys under all circumstances. Meredith concluded our conversation by saying, “your Mother has got the gratitude thing going, and that makes all the difference.”

 I found this lovely poem today that seemed exactly what I wanted to portray about my Mother. The only discrepancy is that her snowy hair is not in braids, nor does she own a silver hair clip. 

 

I Confess

 

I stalked her

in the grocery store: her crown

of snowy braids held in place by a great silver clip,

her erect bearing, radiating tenderness,

watching

the way she placed yogurt and avocados in her  basket,

beaming peace like the North Star.

I wanted to ask, “What aisle did you find

your serenity in, do you know

how to be married for fifty years or how to live alone,

excuse me for interrupting, but you seem to possess

some knowledge that makes the earth turn and burn on its axis—“

But we don’t request such things from strangers

nowadays. So I said, “I love your hair.”

 

By Alison Luterman

 

“What aisle did you find your serenity in?”  That is my Mother. She goes about the daily work of living with appreciation, curiosity and yes, Meredith is right, gratitude. How lucky for me to have got a Mother like that.

 But she does have her odd quirks. Take her financial advisor, as an example. Every time she wants to do something special with her secret envelope or wants to take my sister and I on a trip- a cruise to Alaska for my 60^th and a week this June in Newfoundland for my sister's 60^th the invitation or the cheque arrives from her “financial advisor” whose name just happens to be Mariah. (for the record, my Mother’s secret wish was that she had been named Mariah)

Mother includes a note saying something like “You know Mariah is my financial advisor. She is insisting on this trip or this cheque. (or whatever else it might be) You know how she is. There is no point in my arguing with her, so please do me the favour of accepting this and getting Mariah off my back.”  And then of course I laugh and I cry and I shake my head and I think, dear Lord, make me more like my Mother.

 So, on this day that honours Mother’s I can only express my undying love and gratitude to my dear sweet Mother.  And continuing in the lineage, my love and gratitude to Meghan and Nancy, the Mother’s of my three grandchildren. Being a Mother and a Grandmother has been the most precious gift of life, and without pause, I want to celebrate all the other amazing Mother's that I know and love (especially Sophie's Grandmother Barrie) and lastly but not least, Mother’s everywhere. With love, Trudy

One addition: I also want to send a special wish to the wonderful women  I know and love who are Mother's of the heart. I believe that you know who you are.

Second addition: I won't be with my Mother for Mother's Day but my sister Gabriole and my Mother's adopted daughter-of-the heart Sheila and Jim will be. I will be there in spirit.

PS Thanks to Carol Ingells for introducing me to the poet Alison Luterman

Ok, Trudy...enough.

Someone I Know

Someone I know and care for is going to have a difficult surgery on Monday. It is called the "whipple." You need to know what you are doing to be able to perform this surgery. The surgeon in charge, is our man. He has everything he needs  to do this job.

The man having the surgery has the right stuff too. He has a wierd sense of humour; he is confident in his team; he's healthy, except ironically, for this rare cancer; he believes the procedure will work; he's got many in his life who love him and a special few who really count on him so he has many reasons to live.

But you know me. I like to turn over every stone. So let's dig out those "god boxes" again and put in a name. Well, an initial will do. How about M. I believe we need all the help we can get in this situation. Some kind thoughts, a prayer or two, best wishes, good energy, a red balloon, call it what you will. I believe it counts.

I thank you. With love, Trudy

M. loves Joan Baez and Bob Dylan. This is for him.

Now Is the Time

          
 Now is the Time
"Do you live as though you have all the time in the world? Having all the time in the world is an illusion. You never know what might happen—an accident, an illness, or a disaster. If you only had moments to live, would you change your priorities? What would you do? Where would you go? How would you interact with your family, friends, loved ones—even strangers? But truly: Why are you not doing these things now?"      –Arnie Kozak, from Wild Chickens and Petty Tyrants (Wisdom)

Of course I get the sentiment and the truth expressed in this  quote and I have always thought about this when it comes to my interactions with others.On the other hand, there are several reasons why I'm not inviting everyone I love to come tomorrow and we will find a beautiful place in the mountains, maybe by a river to spend a week-end together, eat delicious food and drink red wine and I will pay on my visa and my insurance will pay the visa.I might do this if I knew for sure my time was short. What a mistake if I guessed wrong. The truth is, life is short, ask my Mother who is 89. We just don't know how short. So in the meantime there is more than me to think about and bills need to be paid and cost conserving measures need to be in place and obligations taken care of. This isn't bad, it is life.

I understand the spirit and yet it seems to be part of our human nature that we see ourselves as "built to last." That is why we are shocked when someone under the age of 90  well, maybe 80, dies.

But maybe the author is just talking about going swimming, taking a walk, meditating, eating a delicious meal, writing that thank-you,expressing love, retiring because it is time, living on less, writing our story, taking up dancing. 

This morning I'm thinking about priorities and how everything can change in a flash and ultimately that we are here to lend a hand and receive a hand. And how priorites change with the additional information: he has  inoperable cancer; she was hit by a car; she lost the baby; he took his life when the business failed...she just got the best job; the twins graduated; she won a scholarship; she just got the acceptance letter; the cough isn't asthma. Or maybe simple things like I've got pink eye and I need to see my husband in the hospital or my son needs to be picked up early from school, can you do it? A million little choices each and everyday with none of them ever looked at, as the last thing we will do.

Now that's something to think about. Maybe it is less about "what would I be doing if" and more about how would I do this thing now if I knew it was the last thing I would ever do.

Whew! I guess I will go have a shower and walk to work. I would very much like to do that whether I have more or less moments today.

Have a wonderful week-end. Lots of love, Trudy

Healing and Curing

 

Healing does not mean curing, although the two words are often used interchangeably, While it may not be possible for us to cure ourselves or to find someone who can, it is always possible for us to heal ourselves. Healing implies the possibility for us to relate differently to illness, disability, even death, as we learn to see with eyes of wholeness. Healing is coming to terms with things as they are.

–Jon Kabat-Zinn, from Letting Everything Become Your Teacher

Sending greetings. Trudy

The Moment by Billy Collins

It has become familiar to us now to hear the refrain about living in the moment. I enjoyed this poem of Billy Collins as he playfully struggles with "which moment." Poets teach us to take ourselves lightly. Enjoy your moments today.

The Moment

It was a day in June, all lawn and sky,

the kind that gives you no choice

but to unbutton your shirt

and sit outside in a rough wooden chair.

 

And if a glass of ice tea and an anthology

of seventeenth-century devotional poetry

with a dark blue cover are available,

then the picture can hardly be improved.

 

I remember a fly kept landing on my wrist,

and two black butterflies

with white and red wing-dots

bobbed around my head in the bright air.

 

I could feel the day offering itself to me,

and I wanted nothing more

than to be in the moment –but which moment?

Not that one, or that one, or that one,

 

or any of those that were scuttling by

seemed perfectly right for me.

Plus, I was too knotted up with questions

about the past and his tall, evasive sister, the future.

 

What churchyard held the bones of George Herbert?

Why did John Donne’s wife die so young?

And more pressingly,

what could we serve the vegetarian twins

 

we had invited for dinner that evening

not knowing then that they travel with their own grapes?

And who was the driver of that pickup

flying down the road toward the single railroad track?

 

And so the priceless moments of the day

were squandered one by one –

or more likely several thousand at a time –

with quandary and pointless interrogation.

 

All I wanted was to be a pea of being

at rest inside the pod of time,

but that was not going to happen today,

I had to admit to myself

 

as I closed the blue book on the face

of Thomas Traherne and returned to the house

where I lit a flame under a pot

full of water where some eggs were afloat,

 

and while they were cooking,

stared into a little oval mirror by the sink

just to see if that crazy glass

                                         had anything particular to say to me today.

 

Earth Day is Everyday

In honour of "earth day" I found this little poem/blessing by Pat Cane. It seemed perfect for the day.

We join with the earth
and with each other,
to bring new life to the land,
to recreate the human community,
to provide justice and peace,
to remember our children,
to remember who we are...
We join together
as many and diverse expressions
of one loving mystery,
for the healing of the Earth
and the renewal of all Life.

Walking to work today. Choosing this day to begin again.

HAIR (this was way too much fun to do)

Make photo slide shows at www.OneTrueMedia.com

A poem for Sue and by Sue

This poem, written by Sue, touched me deeply when I received it last year around this time. Besides the special gift of sharing her words, she gave me permission to share it when I chose, with others. I know that in a time of distress it opened my heart and gave me strength. I offer it, humbly, as a gift to pass on to you. May you too be strengthened by these words.

With appreciation and love, Trudy

The aching heart breaks open in a fountain of tears

that fall like hot rain

cracking the outer shell and turning hard clay beneath

into flowing mud.

 

Put on your age-old beads of karma

polished and worn with each year of life.

Attend to the bright diamond of clarity

hard won.

 

Plant a new seed.

Grow a tree

that offers shade from the harsh sun

and gives light to the dark night.

 

Take care of the soft heart-body.

This is the boat that will carry you

across dark waters.

 

Take care of this moment.

All is well.

 

 

Getting Use To a New Life

So Far, So Good

"We often react as if life is attacking us. “I’m not going to be able to stand this,” we fret as life pushes us beyond our snug little ego comfort zone.

But we have no evidence of not being able to handle anything life brings us.

How do we know that? We’ve handled everything so far."

–Cheri Huber, from When You’re Falling, Dive (Keep It Simple Books)

Dr. Alistair Cunningham writes that as you start to feel healthy again after cancer, you are at a very dangerous time. His reasoning is that you begin to think that you are back to normal and you can pick up where you left off. Where in fact you are just beginning the road to recovery, post treatment, which requires a different mindset again.

 When I read the word of Cheri Huber from Tricycle this morning, I knew that this had been written as a reminder for me. Not that I was feeling I couldn't handle my life, but rather it is the challenge of getting use to a life different from the one I had known. That's it really. My body/mind is no longer the one I had grown accustomed to these past 60 years. I don't even look the same.

And yet I have the same tendencies, which now get me into trouble because I don't yet have the same capacity to do what I once did. The trouble is mostly with myself, as like Alice, "I sometimes scold myself so severely as to bring tears to my eyes." 

Learning to be uncomfortable with myself, while continually adjusting the rudder, and still moving forward is my learning curve. Learning to integrate work/home/others/self is now my own personal research project. I talk a good line but it is much more difficult to apply. And yet I am convinced there is a way. It is bound to take time and imagination and a willingness to take risks and discover when they don't work to try something else. 

We all have so many opinions about absolutely everything and I am discovering that my opinions aren't serving me well anymore. What picks me up, when I get down, isn't my opinion of what should be but rather an acknowledgement of what is. And then it is more apt to be the question's that can lead on to an experiment... rather than searching for hypothetical answers. I don't need to try and figure out if there is any benefit in going swimming one day a week, instead of three to five times, since I am not going at all these days.  All I need to do is go swimming one day and see for myself. What might happen if I were to do that? I don't need to fret about why my mind needs more quiet time to think, process and execute ideas but I can choose to work on a day when noone else is around and see for myself how beneficial this is. I can stop the tape that says "but you should be able to..." and acknowlege that things have changed. One thing at a time works best now. Slow time. I can learn to be reasonable.

Life is amazing! And Cheri Huber is right. We have lots of evidence that we can handle what comes up. I suppose the difference boils down to handling it with grace, imagination and kindness or handling it with resignation, indifference, or self-pity. The latter way is much more painful. I suspect that paying attention to what is and making ongoing continual and gentle adjustments is part of the difference.  Hmm...sounds like someone I know...yes, my Mother.

Wishing you all a lovely Sunday. Trudy  

Easter on Gabriola Island

 

Lately I have been feeling a little up-rooted. Homesick for the west coast. So tomorrow, Good Friday we are taking a 1060 KM roadtrip to Gabriola Island.We leave here at 5:30 AM and if all goes according to plan, we will be on the 7:00 PM ferry from Vancouver to Vancouver Island. (we do have a reservation) From there if we are lucky, we will board another ferry around 9:00 or 10:00 for a twenty minute ride to Gabriola, our old home.

Wild and crazy, you ask? Probably. But what fun. We will be driving into spring the entire trip once we reach Revelstoke about 4 1/2 hour drive west of Calgary.And then we will see the green. So many variations of green and as we come to Vancouver and the Island, flowers and blossoms and family and friends and oh so much beauty. Sure, it may be raining but my parched skin needs the moisture so I welcome what I previously tired of.

We will have two days on Gabriola, a half day and an evening in Vancouver with my son Rob, Allison and her parents and drive home on Tuesday. Not everyone would do this. Gottfried is game.

While we are there, we get to celebrate my Mother's 89th Birthday. How wonderful is that. So I may twitter now and then but no posting until we return.

Please have a wonderful beautiful Easter week-end. Bye for now and baskets full of love.  Trudy

A Bouquet For Patsy

What a delightful surprise to read Patricia Ludwick's last comment and discover that she is the poet from yesterday's post. A Canadian poet no less, inspired by a line from Hopkins: "There lives the dearest freshness deep down things..."

As you know I had wanted to post one of Patsy's poems and now I have, without permission but with her blessing after the fact. The bouquet for Patsy is a photo of the current flowers on my dining room table. They were a gift from Gottfried and we have no idea what they are called, but they are beautiful too.

And so, another day begins and may yours be filled with warmth and light. Love, Trudy

Spring

Oh my goodness. Today and yesterday the sun was working in Calgary. The entire city was running and walking on paths; climbing outdoor stairs; smiling; waiting patiently in line-ups and at stop signs; eating ice-cream and basking in the pure delight of the warmth. Nothing could wipe the smiles away today. It appeared that we were all luxuriating in this precious day, including the birds who have been singing their hearts out all day long.

Patsy sent me a poem today by Gerard Manley Hopkins  (actually, just found out that Patsy penned these words) that speaks to this joy. I hadn't read it before but it will go in my book of favourites.

Gardening

The very air swept clean and bright,
each leaf holding its trembling drop of precious rain,
a thousand thousand daisies opening their hearts
to the blessed sun, trees wild in the wind
scattering their blossoms in profusion , the surge
of green in every lifting blade of grass, translucent
in the light of this amazing day —

put down your tools,
kneel and raise your hands in celebration
of this amazing Earth, who labours
to bring us forth again, newborn,
delivered from another winter,
radiant with life.

Enjoy these moments. This photo is of a Calgarian jogging in spring, courtesy of I stock.

 

A Poem from Patsy

Spring is the hopeful season. Two of my Gabriolan friends have given me what I needed for this post. The photo is from Karen's garden last year and Patsy, who is a poet herself, sent me a bouquet of poems.  Perhaps one day she will permit me to give you the gift of one of her own finely crafted verses.  I chose this from her selection. A poem of spring from my  "poet" friend, Ryokan, who lived and died long before I was born. I do believe if we had met we would have liked each other.

I hope you aren't missing any little crocuses or snowdrops or daffodils. Keep your eyes peeled.

As always, Trudy

First days of spring -- the sky
is bright blue, the sun huge and warm.
Everything's turning green.
Carrying my monk's bowl, I walk to the village
to beg for my daily meal.
The children spot me at the temple gate
and happily crowd around,
dragging at my arms till I stop.
I put my bowl on a white rock,
hang my bag on a branch.
First we braid grasses and play tug-of-war,
then we take turns singing and keeping a kick-ball in the air:
I kick the ball and they sing, they kick and I sing.
Time is forgotten, the hours fly.
People passing by point at me and laugh:
"Why are you acting like such a fool?"
I nod my head and don't answer.
I could say something, but why?
Do you want to know what's in my heart?
From the beginning of time: just this! just this!

                               Ryokan (Japanese monk, 1758 - 1831)

Bird On A Branch

Photo purchased from Istock

My spring is just this:
A single bamboo shoot,
A willow branch.

by Kobayashi Issa (1763 - 1827)

Canadian Poet Tom Wayman (I love his work and I LOVE this poem)

  

Did I Miss Anything

Question frequently asked by  students after missing a class

Nothing. When we realized you weren't here
we sat with our hands folded on our desks
in silence, for the full two hours

        Everything. I gave an exam worth
        40 per cent of the grade for this term
        and assigned some reading due today
        on which I'm about to hand out a quiz
        worth 50 per cent

Nothing. None of the content of this course
has value or meaning
Take as many days off as you like:
any activities we undertake as a class
I assure you will not matter either to you or me
and are without purpose

        Everything. A few minutes after we began last time
        a shaft of light descended and an angel
        or other heavenly being appeared
        and revealed to us what each woman or man must do
        to attain divine wisdom in this life and
        the hereafter
        This is the last time the class will meet
        before we disperse to bring this good news to all people
                on earth

Nothing. When you are not present
how could something significant occur?

        Everything. Contained in this classroom
        is a microcosm of human existence
        assembled for you to query and examine and ponder
        This is not the only place such an opportunity has been
                gathered

        but it was one place

        And you weren't here.

Originally from: The Astonishing Weight of the Dead.
Vancouver: Polestar, 1994.

I think this poem is brilliant and by chance and by design (I did go looking) I found these two photos of Mr. Wayman, which book-end his poem, "Have I Missed Anything?"  It struck me that the ageing process is an equally apt subject for this question. When I look at these two dear faces I suspect that he didn't miss much.  With love, Trudy

Poetry Month

And so this is poetry month. I won’t have one for everyday but I will do my best to have a few each week. I thought I would launch the month with my poet friend Mary Oliver (although we actually haven’t met yet) "Some Questions You Might Ask" seemed to be a good place to start. Please send me your favourite poems so I can add them a day at a time. With love, Trudy

 

Some Questions You Might Ask

Is the soul solid, like iron?
Or is it tender and breakable, like
the wings of a moth in the beak of an owl?
Who has it, and who doesn't?
I keep looking around me.
The face of the moose is as sad
as the face of Jesus.
The swan opens her white wings slowly.
In the fall, the black bear carries leaves into the darkness.
One question leads to another.
Does it have a shape? Like an iceberg?
Like the eye of a hummingbird?
Does it have one lung, like the snake and the scallop?
Why should I have it, and not the anteater
who loves her children?
Why should I have it, and not the camel?
Come to think of it, what about maple trees?
What about the blue iris?
What about all the little stones, sitting alone in the moonlight?
What about roses, and lemons, and their shining leaves?
What about the grass?

 

By Mary Oliver from House of Light

 

Who Are You?

 

Who Are You?

"In one his movies, the comedian W.C. Fields walks into a bank and up to the teller's window. The teller asks, "Can you identify yourself?" Fields says, "Of course. Do you have a mirror?" When presented with one, Fields immediately states, "Yup, that's me!"

It's meant as a joke, but it carries a ring of truth. Who among us can say they really know themselves, without illusions, beyond the face in the mirror, their name-rank-and-serial-number role in the world, their personas, defense mechanisms, and self-deceptions? Do we distinguish between when we are being authentic and inauthentic? Do we know what we really feel about things, what our true values and priorities are, what lies below the surface of consciousness, and what makes us tick?"
- Lama Surya Das, from The Big Questions  (thanks to Tricycle Magazine's word for the day.)

PS you can see that besides my interest in existential questions, I am also longing for warm weather.

Sophie and her Opa at Play

 

“The practice of gratitude requires that you slow down long enough to notice what is right in front of your nose. If you are speeding through the day, chances are you are overlooking the blessings that are all around you. No matter what our circumstances, we can slow down enough to notice and give thanks to our breath going in and out, the food we are about to eat, the book we are reading, the kindness of the stranger we bumped into. “ M. J. Ryan

JOY

So, this little person is the main reason you haven't heard from me of late. I have had such a joyful and full time with this precious three year old and her Mother and her Great Grandmother. Even though the snow is still on the ground Sophie brought a warming trend into our home and hearth.

I still don't have a way to consistently do the important things like my blog, keeping in touch with dear ones,swimming and ... plus work. I am very appreciative of the emails I have received inquiring about my well-being or letting me know that you miss my blog posts. I honestly can say that it crosses my mind that you may be growing tired of my little reflections on this and that even though I love doing it and I will continue. (so I am surprised when you write and say "I miss you.") I don't have a new rhythm yet and I am hoping to find that and to lessen the current sporadic nature of my scribblings.

I leave you with a new favourite quote that I received from Dr. Sherri Magee, author of Picking Up the Pieces. Sherri facilitated a meaningful and useful day long workshop at Wellspring last Sunday, for staff, volunteers and facilitators, which I personally found particularly helpful. One of her many delightful quotes was  an African proverb: "When the music changes, so must the dance." So it is a gentle reminder for us all to keep our ears tuned to the music, so we can continually adjust our footsteps.

Have a lovely week-end and you will hear from me more often for awhile. Warm fuzzy hugs to all, Trudy

"Creativity is a habit and the best creativity is the result of good work habits." — Twyla Tharp

As Twyla Tharp, one of America's greatest choreographers, puts it: "Being Creative is not a once-in-a-while sort of thing. Being creative is an everyday thing, a job with its own routines. That's why writers, for example, like to establish a routine for themselves. The most productive ones get started early in the morning when the phones aren't ringing and their minds are rested and not yet polluted by other people's words. They might set a goal--1,500 words or stay at their desk until noon--but the real secret is that they do it everyday. They do not waver. After a while it becomes a habit.

This is no different for any creative individual whether it's a painter finding his way to the easel or a medical researcher returning to the laboratory. The routine is as much a part of the creative process as the lightning bolt of inspiration (perhaps more). And it is available to everyone. If creativity is a habit, then the best creativity is a result of good work habits. They are the nuts and bolts of dreaming."

PS:  the heart is a design of Vancouver glass artist Robert Held. This was a gift from a summer guest, many years ago on Gabriola Island. We still treasure it.  As always, Trudy

We give thanks for our friends

We give thanks for our friends.

Our dear friends.

We anger each other.

We fail each other.

We share this sad earth, this tender life, this precious time.

Such richness. Such wildness.

Together we are blown about.

Together we are dragged along.

All this delight.

All this suffering.

All this forgiving life.

We hold it together.

Amen
From The Prayer Tree by Michael Leunig

I published this poem on my blog last year in May and the truth is I haven't seen a little prayer/poem capture a certain aspect of my own experience  better than this. I simply love the way he reveals the heart break and the heart mending of our many relationships. Thanks so much to Michael Leunig. His words remind me of the human condition and give me peace.

And always, with gratitude and love to my family and friends, Trudy

Everything is Waiting for You: by David Whyte

 

Everything is Waiting for You

   Your great mistake is to act the drama
   as if you were alone. As if life
   were a progressive and cunning crime
   with no witness to the tiny hidden
   transgressions. To feel abandoned is to deny
   the intimacy of your surroundings. Surely,
   even you, at times, have felt the grand array;
   the swelling presence, and the chorus, crowding
   out your solo voice. You must note
   the way the soap dish enables you,
   or the window latch grants you freedom.
   Alertness is the hidden discipline of familiarity.
   The stairs are your mentor of things
   to come, the doors have always been there
   to frighten you and invite you,
   and the tiny speaker in the phone
   is your dream-ladder to divinity.

   Put down the weight of your aloneness and ease into
   the conversation. The kettle is singing
   even as it pours you a drink, the cooking pots
   have left their arrogant aloofness and
   seen the good in you at last. All the birds
   and creatures of the world are unutterably
   themselves. Everything is waiting for you.

   by  -- David Whyte

I woke up early thinking about spring and stumbled on this poem in my collection. I had forgotten about it. Now that I re-read it I remember why it is there. And "everything is waiting for us" even spring.

Enjoy this day. As always, Trudy

     

In Praise of the Alphabet: For Patti Digh and Frederick Buechner

I have always loved the alphabet as far back as I can remember. Twenty six letters that can create a world of difference. When I discovered this butterfly alphabet many years ago in National Geographic's children magazine I ordered copies for my children and extra copies to give away. I still have one hanging in my library and I marvel at nature's designs and the keen eye of Kjell Sandved and Barbara Bedette, who first spotted the F and went looking for the rest, on the wings of butterflies.

Two of my favourite writers also pay tribute to the alphabet, Patti Digh and Frederick Buechner who wrote: Wishful Thinking: A Theological ABC. Besides making it clear that they love the alphabet they have a beautiful way of arranging and re-arranging the letters to help make the world a better place.Today Patti is running a little contest on her blog about the alphabet and it made me think of this poster. Hope you find it as wondrous as I do.

THE BUTTERFLY ALPHABET

"Packed away in a corner of the attic in the Smithsonian Institution National Museum of Natural History was an old Havana cigar box full of exotic butterflies and moths, one with a sparkling silvery letter “F” awaiting its future rendezvous with destiny.

That day came in the spring of 1960 when a young visitor Kjell (“shell”) Sandved, arrived at the Smithsonian to conduct research for an encyclopedia on animal behavior. The director of the museum provided Kjell with an office, and introduced him to his neighbor, Barbara Bedette, who became his collaborator, best friend, and finally the love of his life.

THE DISCOVERY
One day, balancing high on a ladder surrounded by drawers and boxes full of butterflies and moths, Kjell discovered the old cigar box. And there it was: the sparkling letter “F” woven into the tapestry of the wing. “We looked at this miniature design under the microscope,” Barbara recalled, “and marveled at the beauty of this letter. It reminded us of how ancient scribes lovingly embellished colorful letters in Bibles and illuminated manuscripts with human and animal forms.” Not even a calligrapher could have improved on the beauty of nature’s own “F,” Barbara wondered, “If Nature can create one such perfect letter, there must be others flying around out there. Let’s go out and find more.”

The day they found the letter was the day their lives were changed. Optimists, they decided to travel worldwide to find all the letters from the wings of butterflies and moths. "

To read more please go to The Story of the Butterfly Alphabet