Traces

"Our imprints on nature are not only from the soles of our shoes." Two plastic items frequently found on the shoreline: spent shotgun shells and tampon applicators. One is all about death, the other about bringing to life.

Young Buddha Looking East

Head tilted back,

Chin pointing forward,

Young Buddha looks on thoughtfully;

His ideas emerging from his forehead

Like a dream of yesterday's clouds.

Beautiful Barnacle

The barnacle 

wore its exoskeleton

like an exquisite wedding dress,

peeking out with the coy smile of a new bride,

followed closely by Shelly, the smallest flower-girl ever.

This Pseudo-Haiku Has Two Verses

Eider duck and his wife

Race where the sea meets the sand;

He a sports car, she a sedan.

In matters of style

He wins the race,

But in questions of speed

She is holding her place.

Permeable Horizon Line

The sky is leaking 

onto the sand, and the clouds

have come down to rest.

The Photographer-Poet

The photographer-poet walked down the beach;
A young girl and an old woman at her side.
Behind her, one set of footprints stretched back to where she began.

The young one waded barefoot through the tide pools,
The poet was thankful for her sturdy waterproof sports sandals
And the grey-haired woman marvelled at the way her green boots from L.L. Bean
Had held up after all these years.

When they reached the rocks the young girl scrambled up,
Nimbly making her way over the difficult parts
While the photo-po picked her way carefully,
Thinking of dangers and consequences.
The old woman just stayed by the rocks,
Wishing away her osteoarthritis and remembering
How wonderful it felt to scamper across sun-warmed surfaces.

The poet-photographer and the young woman continued on,
There were no footprints to show how many passed on the rocks,
At least once their feet were dry.
At first some of the rocks were slippery with seaweed,
And the barnacles made it challenging for the girl’s bare feet
But she was young and tough and made it through with ease.
The poet took longer, her progress slower,
In part due to her knees, which didn’t work as well as they used to,
But also because she kept stopping.

She stopped for more than one reason,
Yes, there was the knee problem,
But she also stopped to watch for whales,
Minkes, in French “les petits rorquals.”
If she was patient and just watched long enough
She would see their shiny black backs
Break the surface of the water, especially on a calm day
When the sea was a “mer de l’huile” shining smooth and white in the sunlight.
On days like this the whales were easy to spot.
They would surface three times, short, short, and then long;
Whale Morse code meaning: I am moving through time;
Don’t destroy my ocean; what are all these plastic bags doing floating in my world?

The young girl looked back at the photographer who had stopped to capture
The close up miracle of a barnacle waving its feather tongue.
The girl did not slow down; she wanted to keep moving forward.

Sometimes the photographer-poet stopped to listen:
The waves sucking on the sand as the tide shifted;
The ocean breezes lifting the hair around her face;
A white-throated sparrow calling almost mournfully
In the Black Spruce on the cliffs above.

Sometimes it was the smells that slowed her down:
Can rocks have smells? Wet rocks, dry rocks in the sun.
The sand, chilled or warmed.
Seaweed, like this bright sea lettuce,
Its fresh leaves limp and wet, chlorophyll green.
The poet picked up the plant, separated a piece of leaf from the rest,
Rinsed off the sand in the brine and put it in her mouth.
Salty and strong, she squinted her eyes and chewed anyway,
Swallowing this ocean offering, imagining survival skills.
Remembering a day in Maine, a sea urchin cut open with a jack-knife
Orange roe offered up on the blade; the pungent taste.

The photographer poet is alone again.
She is standing on the highest point of rock between two bays.
She can look forward and back over the way she came up.
The sea stretches out endlessly in front of her, blue and moving.
She takes a picture.

ASAP

After the rain there were shiny droplets everywhere but this one looked odd. It was sap. I know for sure because I tasted it! :)

Furrows

The tide as farmer,
endlessly ploughing furrows
in the sand,
hopeless preparation
washed away
before planting
can begin.

Sharp Shadows

Sharp shadows in the late afternoon.

Ripples

Two kinds of ripples.

Sandbar

This smooth bar of sand is so beautiful it leaves me speechless.

Sun-Dog

I used a black filter so it is easier to see the sun-dog, the shiny ring of ice crystals!

Look Closely

Morning sunlight through a feather resting on colourful grains of sand.

New Moon

Moonrise, with moon-path and planet in the pre-dawn.

Budding Hope

Winter seems to have gone on a little too long this year. May is nearing its end and still there is snow in the shadowy parts of the forest. Weather was sharper, windier, wilder than in the past. The trees look lifeless. I long to see their pale flags fluttering in the summer breeze. I watch the crows claiming dominion over the stand of poplars behind the cottage and I can see the solid shape of the mountains running beyond the road. Soon those rocky heights will be hidden behind a screen of green. I look closely at the scrubby trees by the path to the beach, and feel a budding sense of hope; spring is here.

Little Urchin

little sea urchin
imitates hummingbird's nest
spiny place to rest

The Case of The Faded Shell

Shell case among shells
Sun bleached red almost turquoise
Striking a contrast

Barnacles

petrified chorus
of baby bird's mouths singing
silently of sand

Windswept

sudden visceral
understanding of the word
windswept swept o'er me

Fish Hook

Shiny little fish

I mistook

You for a

Shiny metal hook.

Glimpses

We go through
our lives
our days
our minutes
and sometimes
we see glimpses of clarity:
what is important
why we do
what we do;
lost amid
the rush
of everything
these
little glimpses
help us
lead
better lives.

Crystallized Thoughts

I took this photo on Friday evening when I arrived at the cottage and headed straight to the beach for a walk, even before I unlocked the door to put the groceries in the fridge. It was cold enough out anyway, the air itself was a sort of fridge, and I had to use my Hok skis to get from the car to the cottage as our long curving driveway lined by leafless Poplars still had two feet of snow even though we are well into May. Plus I needed the skis to get to the beach, and they were already on my feet, so I thought, let’s go. The sky was grey and I knew it would be even "greyer" for the next two days; heavy rain and strong winds were forecast. But, quite frankly, I was glad; this was the perfect weekend to work on some projects that required dedicated time and space. 48 hours with no television, very little Internet since I was using the 3G on my phone, a tiny bit of radio during meals, and only the dog for conversation. I kept a fire going in the wood-stove to cut the humidity and take off the chill, and the crackling pine logs provided a cozy close-up sound for the background of the rain on the metal roof, roaring waves and whistling wind. I hunkered down for a weekend of thinking.

June is conference season for college teachers. I am attending two in Montreal at the beginning of next month, SALTISE and the AQPC. I love immersing myself in gatherings of hundreds of people who are passionate about pedagogy. I get to learn from my colleagues about their research and experiences, and I also like having the opportunity to share what I have discovered with others. This year I am scheduled to present three different times. You might wonder why someone would want to give workshops. It isn’t lucrative; I get half price on one conference because I am presenting, and the other two shorter presentations I am doing simply for the joy of it. And it takes a lot of time -hours, maybe days if I add up all of the thinking, planning, preparing of slides and texts, and then practicing. All for a few minutes; the three presentations range from 7 minutes, to 15 minutes, to 75 minutes. The longest one I have a partner to work with, but even that means synchronizing schedules and collaborating. So where is the gain in all this “pain”? The big payoff in presenting your ideas to colleagues is in the crystallization of your thoughts on a specific topic. 

We hear of writer’s retreats and I can understand why the combined aspects of isolation and proximity to nature can help people focus and be more productive. I feel lucky to have this cottage on the beach to escape to. To have a place where I can be alone with my thoughts and give them time to crystalize.

The Wink

The last thing my father did before he slipped into the coma that would lead to his death a month later was wink at my mother. They were at their cottage on the lake, it was morning, and he didn’t feel too well, a headache –in reality bleeding on the brain—so he was going to lie down for a bit. He caught her eye across the room and he winked at her. They had guests, old friends from long ago, a neighbour couple from back in the day; friends who had been there to help them get through the death of my brother so long ago. Now they would be there to help my mother through another sorrow.

The wink spoke volumes. The wink said, “I love you. I am fine. I will be right back. It’s okay. Take care of yourself. Enjoy the sunshine.” The wink was a long-standing pattern of communication between them. Always from my father to my mother. Never the other direction; I am guessing that my mother, like me, never mastered the art of the wink, could never carry it off with the naturel complicity and genuine affection it demands. I look like I have something in my eye when I attempt a wink.

The wink was their way of communicating in a crowd, across a room, without words.

My father was a quiet man, but he believed in the power of communication. He belonged to the Toastmasters Club, and made clear to all his children the importance of effective communication. Think about what you want to say. Write down a few notes. Be prepared. Being nervous about speaking in front of a group is unnecessary. The key aspect is the people you are talking to, let go of your focus on yourself and think about what they need to hear.

My father even managed a metaphorical post-mortem wink. He scrawled a few point-form notes using a black Sharpie pen on the outside of a manila file folder. The folder was labeled “In Case of Death” and we came across it in his desk drawer a day after he died while looking for the inevitable paperwork death brings on. He had written these lines a few years before his death, perhaps after his first brush with melanoma, or maybe after the death of someone he knew.  My uncle made plaques with these words so we could all carry them forward with us. When I read them I feel like my father is winking at me.

Yesterday my son came to get me in my office at the college where I teach and he is a student. He noticed the plaque. “That’s really nice!” he said, so I told him the story of the file folder. I hope the wink can get passed on to another generation. Today would be my father’s 92^nd birthday. He has been gone for a quarter century. I can still see him wink. Here are his words:

-cry a little, but please, not long

-celebrate the good times, which were many and often

-be thankful for all the love that kept us going in the bad times.

-family ties are very special and precious
-people, not things, are what matter

Routine or Ritual

I have been thinking about the difference between a routine and a ritual since yesterday morning. We all have routines, especially morning routines and fitness routines. Unfortunately, “routine” can have negative connotations; routines can feel like drudgery. I have several morning routines that I love, and I was thinking that they seem to have a ritualistic aspect. For example, I make myself a cup of Golden Milk, or turmeric tea, most mornings. I add ten ingredients, and it could feel like a chore, but it doesn’t: grinding spices and peeling fresh ginger, including a dollop of coconut oil, waiting until the spices have steeped for twenty minutes and have been strained to mix in the honey, heating the almond milk to not quite boiling. All of this takes attention and time, but instead of feeling long and boring it feels almost ceremonial. 

My morning routine preparing Golden Milk made me start thinking about the Japanese Tea Ceremony. I don’t know much about it, but it seems that the repeated gestures provide an opportunity to slow down and engage in mindfulness. Instead of rotating the teacup three times I am cranking the pepper grinder seven times. Each gesture is part of a pattern. While the spices steep I do my yoga, another routine/ritual. When the tea is ready I sit in a big chair with my feet on the footstool and hold the heavy blue cup in two hands, letting its warmth become part of me. I watch the sun rising through Black Spruce in the forest at the back of my yard. 

Later in the day, as I wander on my Hok Skis in that same forest, I have an epiphany: the difference between routine and ritual is mindfulness. Being in the moment of making the tea, not just rushing to get it done to drink it. The same is true for my fitness routines, the yoga in the morning and my walk or ski later on in the day. 

The forest is a white and black portrait; I am floating on two metres of snow. I stop and listen to the tangible silence. A crow flies above the path and caws; I can hear his wings beating against the gray air. 

Cold Heart

Stone hearted,
icy muscle,
pumping frozen feelings
through
lacy vessels
traced red and fine.

Hard-hearted,
yet fragile;
your heart would melt,
if only
you could get warm
again.