Dear Kith

Contrary to considered truth I am still here.  The concern over my disappearance is long in truth and full of self-deception as I attempted to recluse myself.  I am aware again.  How do we indeed know if we are truly there, or not, unless we are truly aware?  I am of course aware but the reality is there is no clue within the playground.  The recreation grounds are in fact a mass of exploration forming thoughts, nay concepts, of the humanity I wish I were.

A dichotomy.

Love and friendships have been eluding me Kith.  As you are well aware I give of myself freely but very selectively.  My muse comes in, counsels me, and then abandons me to, well, me.  How can one realistically live a temporary existence?  I do want to hold but most assuredly want you all to live and love free.  Do I control too much?  Do I live the delusion of something far too powerful to understand?

Confusion reigns doesn’t it?  Tell me Kith, how is it you are able to put up with me when you do.  I love you for it.  And of course am confused when you depart.  Thank you for grounding me Kith.  Your patience with me presents me with reality.  My eyes are opened, reopened to all the wonder in this universe.  The small become amazing.  Childhood is nothing less than life itself.  And trust is this truly wondrous gift.

I am approaching the latter stages of set Kith.  The next will overwhelm me soon.  I want you to know dear Kith I draw inspiration from you all days.  Without you I am only an entity.  I hope to continue to share the journey with you Kith.  I would want it no other way.

With love, with respect, and truly,

n.

My Scarf

From across the ages

She has wrapped herself

Autumn to Spring

Around my neck

Keeping me warm

In the memory of her affection

And now another

She comes forth

To wrap in renewed tenderness

Prepared with hands

Caring and thoughtful

Granting me new memory

Renewed thanks

Of that never ending

Rime kissed hug

fleur

Canterbury Tales

(i)

The first frosty night of the season brings the sounds of this place into stark contrast with the quiet of summer.  I lay listening to the echoes across concrete and pipes as life works its way back into the tenants. 

Mrs. Vermette begins the routine, always with a cough announcing her slumber disturbed.  Her tabby claws clack across the floor as she moves to her bathroom.  Duty complete she will always leave the toilet running (quick go catch it I always think) while she feeds tabby, returning to jiggle the handle and take her shower.  Always quick, to the point, the rush of water announcing the completion of the prelude and on to the show.

Noah is next, his machine sputtering to life with a few beeps followed shortly a few farts and hisses, the Kuerig punctures the packet and forces steamy water through the coffee brew choice of his day.  He gargles.  He always gargles and then exercises his singing voice through a couple scales, an ode to the dropping diminishing moon.  There is a giggle, a girl has honored him by spending the night.  Noah pours two cups.

Down the hall another singer.  I know this woman only by voice.  I have stood outside her door, across and down from my laundry room, and listened to her powerful voice through pop and jazz tunes.  There is never an instrument.  Occasionally a single sustained mechanical note pulled from her Apple will give her a reference point.  She exercises her yoga to a quiet lulling music. I couldn't do this I think.  I would fall back to sleep with that meditative sound.

The divorcees are next, two on my floor and Jack one floor down.  We share a common routine.  Get up, stare at the sky for a few brief moments, marveling at the view, at the bright moon in the autumn dark morning sky.  We use the bathroom and check our computers.  I imagine they like me are hoping for snippets of connection back to our non-professional worlds to ground our day.  Family, friends, people we love to grant us the historical it-is-worth-it perspective to the work we each do.  We feel the loss yet revel in our singleness, our separation.

I will shower soon.  I can hear you, a yawn long needing release.  You talk about children and dogs and ask why many times over.  Your slumber, long necessary to your healing will soon come as the remainder of us begins to rise to routines.  What did you dream you ask?  I slept deeply yet I recall my dream.  It is my dreams, my elusive self, and I keep it to myself.

You fascinate me, your mettle an inspiration, you resolve in me a new spirit to carry forward.  I call a thanks to the dawning sky for your spirit and presence here with me as I rise.

Good morning.

Afar

For tonight I will howl
The moon will be full
My voice it will carry
Across these lands
And these waters
Know I am with you
Here in this heart
Hear my voice to you
For tonight I will howl

IndiBlue

The Shearwater flit and float along shores edge
Seeking food in the moons blue light
White sands filtered to new hue
Lovers hidden between the beached boats
Sail to new places exploring new lands
The fishermen exhort food from the bounty
For sport and sustenance and camaraderie
I walk these sands in indigo light
Trees and homes and sky and sea
Meld to hues of the same
These blues mix with yours
I wish you turn to this freedom
As Shearwater flit and float in carefree abandon

Ben

This day was a no good one.  The men and women of this world were destined to push my buttons.  I woke up irritated and stayed that way much of it.  It started with the highway trip.  A normally mundane affair that should have taken at worst an hour was extended by forty minutes by construction.  How dare they?  Did they not know I had an appointment to keep?  Nobody bothered to advise me of these delays.  Somebody was going to hear of this, the gall.

And those highway men and women who control the traveler’s world with their red STOP reversed with yellow SLOW signs.  Who do they think they are being all cheery and wonderful day with me.  I am presently frustrated and also irritated because you and your kind neglected to advise me, your travelling public, you were going to hold me up and make me late this day.  And how dare you deign to just walk over and talk to me, trapping me in my car, strapped to this road, boxed in by you, your gravel trucks, you signs, and corn fields.

Sod off and leave me alone.  I am frustrated and irritated.

And while you do so tell those trucks and all that heavy equipment to stop raising dust.  I just had my car detailed.  Geez.

Late, irritated, frustrated, tired, and dusty.  This is not a good day.  I arrive at my appointment and the man I am meeting with is all so cliché rurally cheerful and it all so feels trite.  But I am on a mission and he is my means to my end.  But he is proud of his work and he insists on telling me of every feature, of all the love he has poured into his craft, and I am just annoyed wanting to be left alone so I can personally assess his wares for myself free to ask questions should I consent to ask them.

And I leave this store after being late, and still irritated, frustrated, tired, dusty, and annoyed.

I have travelled all this way and I have never been here with time on my hands and really one shouldn’t get on a highway feeling irritated, frustrated, tired, and annoyed.  I wander this town.  A museum beckons me, an interesting way to pass some time and learn of this place.  But of course some volunteer who so loves this place has donned an ethnic  costume worn by farmers when this land was first settled and said costume has not been washed since it was first sewed back in 1850 and he insists on sticking close to me every step of my time in the museum imploring me to touch this and that and regaling me with his knowledge all the while spreading his olfactory assaulting scent to my nose and clothes.  I stop his dissertation by condescendingly pointing out errors requiring correction in his display of music and instruments and he dutifully sets about correcting the exhibit. 

I pull my condescending, irritated, frustrated, tired, dusty, annoyed, stinky self to a display of school books written in the language of my childhood.  As I leaf through the story books, puzzling out the words, and teasing out the story, my malodorous friend returns rendering me incapable of thought and causes me to flee the museum marginally wiser but exasperated and bothered.

My mid day shall be taken at a turn of the century lunch counter lovingly placed in an antique store.  As the cook-proprietor prepares my simple fare I wander the store touching the history and marvel at the lives of people who touched and loved these objects before me.  I know these things, I have seen these things, and I appreciate their simplicity and beauty.  Of course overly cheerful well studied daughter of the cook- proprietor must take me a simpleton as she insists on pursuing me with the tenacity of a plaid panted, white shoed, white belted, hair slicked, used car salesman endeavoring to keep me informed of each piece I touch and attempting to regale me of the unique singular history of the wares.  My stomach knots and I settle into an antique restaurant booth waiting for my simple sandwich in an exasperated funk.

The tuna salad made with home made mayonnaise on home baked bread washed by a Coke fills the void in my belly and I carry on.

It is time for my stomach knotted, funk driven, condescending, irritated, frustrated, tired, dusty, annoyed, stinky, exasperated, bothered self to leave this town and I exit stage east.  I drive fast down the highway enjoying tunes from my radio and the cool air whipping through my open windows.

And there I see it.  A pile of blonde fur set in the middle of the highway.  Of course it is positioned in a way I am going to have to slow down and now, added to all my other woes, I am just plain pissed-off.  As I pass by the assumed dead animal, now obviously a dog, I see it move.  I pull to the edge of the road.

And there he is.  A massive blond head, the beautiful fur and colour of a golden retriever, huge paws, a monster wagging tale, and the most beautiful brown eyes so full of gratitude that I would just stop to say hi.  As I come toward him he attempts to stand.  His front leg is obviously shattered.  He has no collar so I lift him (he is very heavy), carry him to my car, and place upon a large pillow on the front seat.  And we drive together, his head in my hand, back to the town of my day’s angst, to find assistance.

The town has a dog pound and they inspect the unlucky fellow for ear tags and tattoos.  None, he is a genuine bona fide stray.  The pound agrees to keep him.  And I ask if they will fix his leg.  They inform me no, they will hold him for 5 days, and if he is not claimed he will be euthanized.  They also hold little hope he will be claimed because he is a puppy.  This fact surprises me.  Evidently my retriever find is in fact a cross breed, is only 5 months old, weighs 70 pounds, and will grow to about 120.

My heart is broken as I try to sort out a way of taking this lad home to the city with me.  The pound folk tell me of a rescue centre down the highway and with a quick phone call describing the situation they agree to take the boy, no issues, no problems. 

Ben, as they named him, took immediately to the menagerie of stray dogs and one nervous cat located on the farm, and they immediately bonded to him.  He showed love and friendship and compassion to me that day.

Ben melted my hardened heart.  Gone was my stomach knotted, funk driven, condescending, irritated, frustrated, tired, dusty, annoyed, stinky, exasperated, bothered self.  Reborn was a man full of compassion, feeling of love, craving of friendship, wishing Ben were coming home with him.

Ben changed me that day, in just a few short hours.  The wonder of an animal, this dog grounded my mood and drew me in to the way humanity is supposed to work.  My apologies to all I was in contact that day.  My thanks to my friend, Ben.

"I am arriving at that circle where one works on oneself as a gift to other people so that one doesn't create more suffering. I help people as I work on myself and I work on myself to help people."

~ Ram Dass

with thanks and appreciation to friend Darlene.

Advice from a friend...

Love…


1)   …and care for yourself first and foremost as you will need yourself first and foremost to care for you and all others.


2)   …your partner best next and expect that they will love you second only to themselves.  The love and support of your partner can be like no other and together you will conquer the world with support and compassion and understanding.


3)   …your family third.  They will love you best when they see you love yourself first and they see the example of a partner who will love and support you and whom you will love and support. 

People need each other.  A partner is a gift like no other to each other.  A partner is hard work but so worth the effort.

Vennt

Look out there.  Do you see it?  That is my circle!

Please respect it.  My circle is my experience. 

It contains my truth and my lies and my lies that have become my truth.

It is all the things I have seen and all the people I have known.

My circle is full of stuff all good, all bad, and everything in between.

It is simple and complex.  It is full of colour and music and poetry and stories.

It is love.  It has hate and hatred.  It is agony.  It is empathy and compassion.

It is friendships on all levels, it is full of things and people I like.

It is my love, it is me in love.  It is sex and it is frustration.

My circle is me.

My circle is my truth.

I look out there and I see you and I see your circle.

And I see his circle and her circle and I see the circles of everyone.

All of these circles, mine and yours, and his, and hers and theirs,

They are changing in size and dimension and thickness and colour.

My circle is my favorite colour and that colour changes, as does all circles.

And those circles cross. 

They lap over each other changing hues as your experience melds with mine.

And my experience meshes with yours.

And our experience measures each other’s from the experience contained in our own circles.

And often times you are right and often times you are wrong about me and me about you and about him and about her and about them.

And we act upon that experience and think it our new truth and we hurt or we are hurt and we confuse and we walk.

We venn with each other, we vet from our circle, we vent at each other.

And we trust or we don’t that decision is mine and is yours. 

Remember this friend.  I do not let you into my circle easily but do trust you when there, please trust me with you.

Flowers sent to me...

... from my best friend.

This Solitary Plate

Mark prepares for two, actually for more truth be told because he always wants to make sure there is plenty.  And of course leftovers are good.  His is a simple meal.  Beans and carrots amply buttered cooked wrapped in foil upon the barbeque.  A complimentary package of new potatoes, spices, and onions keeps company with the beans and carrots.  Cooked at a high temperature in their own juices a delicious summer fare.  Well marbled two simple steaks thick and juicy marinade in ginger and garlic till soft and receptive to searing heat.  All cooked and prepared with love, for two.  Mark stares at the plates, two meals, one person.  "We are missing bread sticks."  Soupir.  He misses her.

an invitation

i have a gift for you, accept it if you will

a place of full protection, a haven’s sanctuary

i can help you to recover, to shield you temporary

please join me in this place, rest healing for your grace

i have a nest for you, of mortar, wood, and straw

a soft and sheltered bed, for your broken fractured shell

re-calcify yourself, build protections hard and strong

stock yolk for sustenance, whites for recovery in your womb

i will place myself around you, keep you safe and warm

provide you food and shelter, protect you from the harm

you recover you inside, learn within your womb

rebuild your trust and confidence from distrustful tomb

break forth when you are ready, a chrysalis made free

developed unbound by pain, spirits butterfly foresee

go forward in this world, pray tell me of your art

share with me your dreams, recover liberated heart 

Woman in Egg
Artist: Nistal Prem de Boer

These Peas

Arranged, a pattern of geese in formation, together they remain amongst the sauces and meat and squash and pasta.  These we will not sacrifice to our sustenance.  These will remain sweet and green to compose naturally to provide for future generations of insects and plants and food and animal.  These peas, this sacrifice, these peas, for future. 

June 11th MoonSet

I have a great friend who shares the moon with me.  This moon set was especially beautiful.

Coffee

This heart it soars when you are present, and is sore when you are not.  The remnants of your presence surround this existence.  Memory of your voice as it sings; songs of black birds and women artists loved and revered.  Stars fondly recalled their stories growth, reverence and the beautiful.  We stare share the lawn of leaves from heights and discovery.  Shared place, blankets warm of conversation of friends, potato salad, strawberry pie. 

And coffee.

Never emptied, held warm and close.  Strength in its brackish, mine clear yours sweetened with cream and cane.  Remnants left of memory we share.  Tears and heart, your aura I feel.  

Crest

My friend blessed me with a gift this early morning.  What is the view from your house the quiet excited thoughtful voice implores.  Oh, I’ve woken you, sorry, go back to sleep.  NO wait, look.  Tell me what you see…

Waves of orange and grey slip by my windows undulating across the sky, lights from a descending craft fading in flickers on its homeward journey.  The orange, an elemental glow from amber streetlights on Armstrong’s Point.  Grey, the thick cloud of flurried snow as a heavy wind blusters and blows.

It is May Day isn’t it?  What madness is this?  It is not.  This is nature’s maypole dance, a swirling crescendo of beautiful girls dancing across the sky, colours of nature in the deep night sky.  Mixtures of rain and snow, the foundations of spring life, swirl dancing to the ground below settling on trees and rooftops and cars and streets…

…and riverbanks.  The new fallen snow expands the ever widening river, this itself a tributary to the larger shed river.  The wind is churning the waters that have been hastening their descent all day as they rise to the Red.  The Red itself rising faster has been backing its waters into the Assiniboine, the two expanding waters meeting and mixing in a churning eddy at the end of Cornish Street.

Waters rise, meet, and churn, rain and snowfall, wind gusts and blows, blusters of grey and orange, release to a clean white cover.  A perfect choreography this May Day, the natural earth rhythm working to crescendo, a rivers crest rising to peak to trumpet herald a new season, a new reason, of fertile hope.

This I share with my friend, grateful for this late night call, blessed to be able to share my view, thankful voice we part to silent wonder of this earth given art.