Well, we’ve done it again. Moved that is. And this time we had “non-professional” help. A son, his childhood friend and his pastor. Wow! What a difference. I cannot express this strongly enough. This was our smoothest move ever. Professional movers could take a cue from how “professional” these three were. There were even smiles, jokes, and hugs at the end. Thanks, Dan, Jaime, and Kevin. I am in your debt.
And for once, we felt immediately that we had made the right move … for both of us.
But there is still unpacking to do. This apartment is perhaps the smallest space we have lived in since the “baby house” on Langarth in Wortley Village.
Granted, I cannot pass the blame for my too long absence on this particular move. Or, for that matter, the previous one … just 2 years and 3 months past! Nor can I explain it away by the fact that academics held my complete attention for 18 months or so over the past 3 years.
The real reason is ennui. A fancy word for being in a state of lethargy. The lead in to the move to Leamington was so full of hope; no place could live up to it. However, the southern most tip of Canada let us down. Well, not Hillman Marsh or Point Pelee. They were havens throughout the lockdowns and anxiety of Covid19’s ominous and omnipresent threat. But all the rest that we had hoped for just did not materialize. But during that last 3 months as we pondered moving to places near and far, we realized that our mood(s) lifted. We had “owned” the disappointments. We had succumbed to the belief that it was US and not the place.
It got so bad that I could not draw, paint, or … as you will guess write. Well, I did write a wee bit for church services and those times were bright spots as fleeting as the sun’s rays breaking through on a cloudy day. Fleeting and promising. Promises that never came to fruition.
I cannot promise that I will write every day. That would be a stretch.
I can promise that this blog will take a turn toward curiosity. So the cohesiveness may falter. And that is OK. It isn’t necessary to stay on a path when one has grown out of that. I hope you will come along for the ride and explore issues and ideas that ask “What if…?” And ask that question a lot.
Most of us, as Settlers, have forgotten our own and the land’s past. I purport that this is because our more recent ancestors forgot how to take the “long view” with their own relationship to the land and humanity. We can see evidence of this in the recovered prayers from the Celtic tradition (which is the only one with which I am personally familiar).
In the Celtic tradition it was said that we suffer from soul-forgetfulness. We have forgotten who we are and have fallen out of true relationship with the earth and with one another.
Sacred Earth, Sacred Soul Celtic Wisdom for Reawakening to What Our Souls Know and Healing the World. Written by: John Philip Newell, Harper1, July 2021.
In this respect we are like the above leaf, mere skeletons of what we were for three seasons of the year. Can we, as leaves do, awake from our sleeping and continue our purposeful task of nourishing that to which we are attached?
I think so. I pray so. And that is my purpose here in this blog and in my life. To be a bridge between two different mindsets and lifestyles. To help Settlers recognize how we came to this “place” which I will refer to as wilderness. I do not view wilderness in any pejorative way, but that seems to me a common perspective. It seems the way of seeing Turtle Island by newcomers in the 17th, 18th and sadly, even the 19th century.
I believe that we are called to recognize that all life on this planet and well beyond what our eyes have seen even with all our marvelous technology is a great web of life. My indigenous and my Celtic ancestors seemed to understand that even back in those centuries — and for millennia before. We are all in danger of a great forgetfulness and it is a perilous place this has taken us to. All of us means precisely that. ALL of us…
“One of the greatest teachers in the Celtic world, John Scotus Eriugena in ninth-century Ireland, also taught that Christ is our memory. We suffer from the “soul’s forgetfulness,” he says. Christ comes to reawaken us to our true nature. He is our epiphany. He comes to show us the face of God. He comes to show us also our true face, the true face of the human soul. This leads the Celtic tradition to celebrate the relationship between nature and grace. Instead of grace being viewed as opposed to our essential nature or as somehow saving us from ourselves,”
Christ of the Celts: The Healing of Creation. J. Philip Newell. Jossey-Bass. 2008
Whatever your faith, wherever you live, whatever you choose to believe this applies to you. We all have allowed this forgetfulness to overtake us. Now we must act. Today. Not in small brushstrokes, or pretty words. We must act and we must act cooperatively.
All the weather disasters of late beg us to turn from this view. All our sisters and brothers who have lost earthly possessions as well as the very land on which they stand beg us to pay attention.
Mary Oliver explains what I mean in her poem, Sometimes, verse 4.
Instructions for living a life:
Tell about it.
This is my purpose.
Please let me know if I am achieving my goal by commenting. Thanks.
Since the Truth and Reconciliation (Canada) Commission’s 94 Calls to Action people across this wide nation presently called Canada have struggled to find ways to humble themselves and meet their indigenous kin on the place Rumi, in his poem, “A Great Wagon” describes as “a field” which is “beyond wrongdoing and rightdoing” where “even the phrase each other doesn’t make sense…”
This is not easy work. Indeed, it can be highly emotionally charged where defenses come up, sometimes accompanied by harsh words.
So, I am trying to find words that are gentler and kinder which say what needs to be said.
Because so much needs to be said.
Apologies must be made.
Not because each of us as individuals have done wrongs – though perhaps we have –
Apologies are necessary because harm was done from which most of us have benefitted in so many invisible ways. Ways that are woven into the mundane fabric of our lives which makes it hard to tease out the wrongs from the rest of the fibres.
Here is an attempt at a Greeting to the Land (which in modern parlance has become a “Land Acknowledgement”) for an online book study on “Braving the Wilderness…” by Brené Brown that I am facilitating.
I feel these verbal salutations of gratitude are essential whenever the people living in Canada, or more aptly, Turtle Island, gather. Gratitude is an important piece of being human which we are in peril of forgetting.
So here it is…
We gather in this place, all of us, on precious land.
We gather in places where we live and work and play and pray.
This is a time of waiting in the darkness. The cold, darkness reminds us that we are a storytelling people, like the many people before us all over this precious planet. And this is the time to gather around the fire and tell the stories that remind us why we are here. Who we are and whose we are.
If we go back 5,000 years, we know we all have ancestors … what do we know of them? How did they re-member their roots? How did they honour the land on which they gathered? What did their language sound like?
They told stories.
We not likely would understand their words. Certainly they were not Christian as we are. But they surely understand their place in the bigger picture – just as the people who lived and worked and played and worshipped on this land where we now stand did.
Mostly, these folk cooperated and lived in peace – perhaps because of necessity. Perhaps because they knew that they were kin. Perhaps because they saw in the features and the creatures around them cohabiting on the land were put there by a Creator. A Creator who put them here on purpose and who loved and cared for them just as they loved and cared for their own children.
And so we are grateful to our brothers and sisters who happened to be born in this place; who trace their roots for millennia to this very land and whose ancestors stewarded these lands, we have inherited, with such care that it was pristine and a welcome balm to our ancestors when they arrived here, homesick, lonely and afraid. Our ancestors who were welcomed and nurtured on this land as kin by our brothers and sisters who called this land home for generation upon generation.
Though we do not know their names, nor could we pronounce them if they were here to tell us, we re-member that we are all relations, all kin, and it is our “god given” responsibility and privilege to welcome the “stranger”, the one who is different, and to steward and care for the gift from Creator which is this land on which we humbly stand.
My early childhood years were spent in a boarding house with people older than my grandmother, except for my mother. It was a wonderful start to life.
These people had lived through the First World War, the Roaring Twenties, the Great Depression, the Second World War, so history was part of everyday conversation. And oh, how I loved their stories!
They were, however, a pragmatic bunch – practical to the core. I followed the “owner” around lapping up her no-nonsense approach to life. Good thing, because my temperament veers toward the “dreamer of possibilities” more so that her grounded and down-to-earth attitude and praxis. I called her (and still do – though her physical presence is long gone) Aunt Lexie.
There was a rhythm to our days and our weeks and the seasons of the year. Monday was laundry day. She stripped the beds, put the bottom sheet into the laundry basket and replaced it with the top sheet and put a fresh sheet on the top. With our modern conveniences that sounds silly, but it was easier on both the laundress, the sheets, and the environment and far more practical than our modern approach in every aspect. Though, I must admit, it requires the use of only flat sheets.
My mother had spent her teen years growing up in that boarding house and all her life she “ironed” as if she were using a flat smoothing iron. Thump, slide slide, thump slide slid.
She baked on Tuesdays. And I was right at her side with an oversize apron tied under my armpits and a stool to stand on. I had my own little wooden rolling pin with red handles. I had a smaller “tart tin” for my own little tarts. I would cut out the circles of dough with a cookie cutter older than Aunt Lexie and carefully place each circle in the cups of the tin. Gently pushing each circle in the centre to make it fold into the shape of that cup. Then I would take a small spoon of jam we had made last Fall and drop it into the centre of each circle. That jam was a lesson in itself. That there was a continuum to life that flowed through each day. That every thing we did mattered.
We were making tarts with the jam that we had made in the autumn of the year. So each season had its task, but each season was connected in some way.
Mr. Cook, Aunt Lexie and Aunt Marion, even Prentice and my mum would eat those tarts I made with relish and compliments. And I knew that I was part of a little community that was part of a larger community that threaded through time. That I had a part to play in caring for that community and all its members. That I had value and worth.
As memory serves, the tarts I made were so overworked that you could use them as hockey pucks. Yet, I was proud to share my baking as an act of caring and nurturing these people I loved.
After supper and doing the dishes, I would curl up on Aunt Lexie’s lap and we would read her old childhood books. I cannot smell pastry on my own aprons without a small, sweet rush of memory of those times – though seven decades have passed.
Stories of families with girls named after flowers. The poetry of Emily Dickinson, Longfellow and Wordsworth. How she reminded me that Hiawatha was one of my ancestors. Sometimes even a snippet of modernity with A. A. Milne. And I still love that poetry – though hundreds of others’ poetry now lines my bookshelves.
We strongly influence those in our care, especially children. We especially impact character and sensibilities formation in those first six years and I believe I am proof of that pudding.
That said, I think that we influence others by what we do far more than through what we say.
Still, what I have is only words, drawings, and stories to, in some small way, influence you, my reader. To soothe your soul and lift your spirit as we traverse this new way of being in the world, together.
Wednesdays and Saturdays Aunt Lexie and I “marketed”. Sometimes we drove to the countryside in her Model-T and bought fresh produce by the bushels. Those Thursdays we “put food by” (an old fashioned way to say preserved) rather than baked because baking required other than flour, water, yeast, salt — we needed fruit, to make jam, to put into those tarts.
And as I was reading a Facebook post by Rev. Steven Charleston, on Friday, August 14th, I was buoyed and heartened to hearken back to times before even those of us who would be considered oldsters were born. Bolstered by ancestors’ stories and habits. Perhaps we have read their stories or heard of their habits and practices. Rev. Charleston used a model he called “spiritual canning” for a way to look at what we need going forward.
It is a good analogy since we are coming into the time when putting food by would be happening. Maybe you even know someone who is doing just that. I do. I have a friend who lives “up the Bruce” and has a bit of land. She grows much of her own produce and puts it by – she cans, dehydrates, freezes the harvest. It is hard work. But it is also deliciously hard because while you sweat doing it, the food you put by, will fill your belly, and warm your heart in the cold winter. It is like putting some sunshine “by” for a drearier day – a more challenging time.
I offer this analogy in an image I have drawn based on this idea I inherited – just like I inherited my rolling pin – which was the big one Aunt Lexie used when we baked a together.
I have many more spiritual canning / “putting spiritual food by” ideas to write about. If you have any requests, please make a comment, I’ll try to include your choices for “spiritual food” by.
Those memories keep me warm during wintery days and times more challenging than I would prefer.
I hope they inspire you to dip back into an ancestor’s history, those lessons you’ve learned by heart, or inherited by rote, to get you through the bumpy times that will come. And they will come.
Come what may, we will get through this, using the spiritual ingredients we put by.
This is the month to watch The Pleiades, especially from the 10th to the 14th in my little corner of this big, blue marble, spinning, spinning in its place.
So, yesterday, we napped mightily and snuck out to Hillman Marsh around 2ish to set up “camp”. No sooner was I out of the car, but zing! As I lifted my head to put on my bug shirt, a huge shooting star flew over and shouted, “Welcome. We’ve been waiting for you to show up.”
We were treated to a lovely show.
Surprisingly, I actually found the Pleiades star cluster (also known as the Seven Sisters) in the sky and soaked up their bright luminescence.
For southern Ontario the sky was pretty dark – even with a half moon. And we lost count of the shooting stars. A guesstimation would be well over three dozen, some brighter, longer lasting, more colourful than others. But all were welcome sights that soothed my worries and calmed any sense of misperceived hardship. Even today, I am processing the wonder of such a mystery laid before me. How blessed I am…
And I was reminded of an old snippet of a poem.
Twilight Hours: A Legacy of Verse, “The Old Astronomer to his pupil.”
My question to you is, what about the summer sky makes your heart sing?
(If you click on the link you can see a video from NASA that explains the hows and whys of the full moon.)
It would be great to get outside under her glow. (whether you can see her or not, she is there.)
In English we could translate Seskéha to “Fresh Try Hard”
This speaks so deeply to me because I am in another phase of “fresh” trying hard changes. Transitions are difficult for me, always have been. Partially because I am diagnosed as ADD, partially because there have been too many that weren’t happy or helpful.
But when I get out under the sky and absorb the vibrations of the Divine all the difficulties shrink down to a manageable perspective.
Alex Myles calls this moon, Clearing Moon and says it brings “intense, purifying and healing moonbeams which deeply activates energy, bringing dramatic shifts, renewed trust, sacred and fated soul connections and accelerates major change.”
Fresh Try Hard moon speaks to this to me.
It’s not so much a transition into which I have to fit or resist.
But an invitation to receive. To renew trust. To welcome sacred and fated soul connections, even major changes.
It is a freshness and it may be “hard”, but it is part of growth. Stretching and growing can make us even more beautiful, complex, and like this Indian Lotus found at Water Works Park here in St. Thomas glorious. Glorious as Grandmother Moon.
I leave you with a lovely image of an Indian Lotus … because sometimes a picture is worth a thousand words.
Image credit: Jeff Suchak, who often shares some spectacular images here https://www.facebook.com/jeff.suchak
The garden is a riot of colour and deliciousness. Food for tummies and eyes. The Lotus pond at Waterworks Park here in St. Thomas is blooming and full of music. The deep bass of the bullfrog, the splash of turtle and muskrat, the chirrup of crickets, the flutter and whrrrr of Cedar Waxwing wings as they whoosh past our ears as we stand slightly hidden in the small trees beside the pond. Everything is so alive and lush.
And it seemed a time ripe for writing with a few like-minded souls. I had dreamed of this since arriving here, missing my writers’ group in Owen Sound. Hello all!
And Thursday, it happened.
We met and had a light potluck lunch to kick off this new and auspicious launch.
Then we picked up our pens (after ooohing and aaahing over Jane’s brilliant quill like pen…) and began the lectio poetica or listening, really deeply listening, then reflecting, then writing.
It was invigorating and energizing and as reassuring as those long, luxurious hugs a really good friend gives after a long absence.
To mark this kick-off, I made some small journals (pamphlet stitched accordian style). Everyone chose the one that spoke most enticingly to them and we continued on…
We adorned the corners so that it is easier to turn the page and shared and laughed and lauded in appreciation each of our contributions. Such a brilliant start. There are others who want to join us and one will next week.
Life is good. Writing makes it better. Poetry makes it sweet, even in the rough patches. And little handmade journals make it just that much more special.
Today, as I was procrastinating from actually writing the proposal, this
wee piece of wisdom (you can click on the link) by Stephanie Renaud appeared in my Facebook feed. Usually, I don’t read everybody’s blogs or posts or even shares because, well, life is full enough for me right now. But this one compelled me to read it.
I am every so glad that I did.
I don’t want to give away what it is about because I want you to discover for yourself, as I did. That is very much a part of the fun of discovery.
I have been playing hide-and-seek with myself since April when my dreams seemed to go up in smoke. A dark, acrid smoke that cut off my breathing for a bit.
Somehow love found a way back for me. The love of a good man who walks beside me every day. The love of a Spiritual Advisor who helped me to sort all the messages into useless and harmful and even better nourishing.
The love of getting my fingernails into the good earth and watching new things push forth from the leaf litter into hopeful green sprouts.
The love of seeing pollinators happily
return to my garden.
The love of picking up pen and drawing images and words.
And finally the love of walking in the woods.
But another thing I hide is my talent. I allow the words and actions (or intimidating rebuffs) to speak who I am. We all do sometimes. I have a knack for it.
But today, I am taking back my life. I am writing that proposal. I am filling out the “business” forms.
I am carving words on my arm. Well, not literally, carving words; but I am pondering a semi-colon tattoo. There was no three’s a charm from this latest cruel snub.
Someone tried to douse my dreams, perhaps not intentionally, but it was an overt gesture of denigration, so…
I struggled. Felt a little wobbly for a bit. Well, I felt a lot wobbly.
I don’t even know what caused me to watch the talk, but again, sometimes the Universe just drops some little gem in your lap.
I’ve been exposed to his line of thought before.
Thought I had it memorized.
Thought I had it down solid.
But, the little blip that was April had caused me to forget.
Happy to say I no longer have that amnesia.
I have purpose. I have talent. I have a gift to share. I will share it.
The reason I will share it is that I know I am not alone in this. And I know I have another knack — the ability to help bring balance into Creation by helping people to remake their worlds with words and paper.