Be warmed by the fires of love.
Be rocks drearily coaxed into slow, radiant heat;
bask baking bare to the breeze. Be the middle of the circle. the centre of family.
the baby born into the arms of grandmother and grandfather.
Be the beat of feet and soft bed of palms turned up to the sky.
Be the whispered moment. Be the background voices and the sound of mom. ear to warm chest,
like the ear to a shell. it is the ocean calling.
Be seen in the dancing shadows. Be the delighted shrieking children.
Be the hunters drinking mead.
Be the warm mug of coffee, cigarette in finger,
hands wrapped ’round glazing clay; looking down
into a bowl of stars.
To be connected with the land is to find a home within the wilderness. If we always think of our surrounding ecology (for those fortunate enough to live where there is still wilderness beyond their walls, or for those who live without walls) as something to be at battle with, we will never be at peace. Yes, that’s a truism, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t true. Ever since reading Trauma Farm, I’ve been more aware of my connection with everything. To live peacefully with the land is to accept that the Land is something we are a part of. To know our place is to know that it is our choice to settle in that location, but it is the natural ecology which will outlast our lives and choices. Like a kitten that finds the inside of your elbow as a place to sleep, we can find a place to live and thrive within our wilderness. Whether it’s the physical landscape of the country or the philosophical natural chaos from which we get our diamonds or sustenance, accepting our wilderness is key to our survival.
But that all changed this week. I got sick with an intestinal virus that was terribly immobilizing. I was home. I was in pain. I was always within walking distance of the toilet. And for some reason, I never once touched the computer. This was my perfect opportunity to get my fix of blogs, internet, and everything I can’t keep up with and have a real life. I didn’t work. I didn’t study. I didn’t leave the house except for doctor visits and a blood test.
The one time I’d really love to do what I do best (procrastinate), I don’t. Instead, I watch TV.
yesterday was the day after my parent’s anniversary
in the kitchen, my mom said “there’s coffee”
as she poured a cup for my dad and herself,
and i kissed her and said “happy sunday.”
“yes it is” she said and
handed me my cup
I can usually find three things every day that I’m thankful for. Not thankful like “I just caught the bus” or “Thank God she didn’t sit next to me” (although those are legitimate things to be thankful for), but the kind of things that really make me appreciate myself. I live in Vancouver, and as I’m sure you know, it is very rainy in the autumn. Many people complain about the rain, but that is the price we pay for having wonderful, tall trees and green pastures. (The same people also complain about the sun in the summer.) Rain means I get to wear my boots and carry an umbrella. It means I get wet. If you’re the average person then you might not understand (I know everybody says the average person doesn’t exist, but I’m sensible enough to know I shouldn’t believe what everybody says), but it really is a lot of fun to dodge car splashes from massive puddles on the way to the bus stop. It reminds me that I’m alive and I get use these things called my “legs” and “my senses.”
Life gets busy fast, and time slips by on a schedule of its own, so it’s important to remember the things that you live for.
Today, I’m thankful for three things that never go out of fashion: tea, chocolate, and books.
There is something about a heron, unlike anything else. It’s as big as an eagle, but it flies as low as a goose. When you are walking through the woods and you come across a stream or a lake, you may miss the heron entirely – it knows how to be completely still. It’s strong; every beat from its wings is of power, so too its stance. It so simply is. If you’ve ever been by a heron nest, you know how big the nests can be by how loud the baby herons are. For some reason, they are so loud, but their parents are so quiet. I think that says something about the love of a parent or grandparent or uncle or cousin or niece…love is an action and a silence. It is a fireworks display or a house built of gold. It is unique and universal and special. It is flying low from the peace of the water to the noisy, bustling nest of twigs and branches.