Thursday Poem - This Thanksgiving

You don’t have to be grateful.
You could rail against
the injustice of it all and we
would certainly understand.
You could resent the hell out of
this year or your family or your health.
You could be livid about politics
or grieving climate change
or overwhelmed at the thought
of making toast, let alone gravy.

It’s OK. One way or another
the mist will wrap gently around the hills
and crows, sleek and unperturbed,
will manage their secret societies.
However you feel about
marshmallows on yams,
or eating alone, or the family table,
bees bunked tight in their hives
are humming each other lullabies.
Beetles under the leaves
are striding with such assurance
that I can only believe that
they have got this covered,
at least for now.

Lynn Ungar, from These Days

Sunday, Saying Yes to the World

The earth offers gift after gift—life and the living of it, light and the return of it, the growing things, the roaring things, fire and nightmares, falling water and the wisdom of friends, forgiveness. My god, the forgiveness, time, and the scouring tides. How does one accept gifts as great as these and hold them in the mind?

Failing to notice a gift dishonors it, and deflects the love of the giver. That's what's wrong with living a careless life, storing up sorrow, waking up regretful, walking unaware. But to turn the gift in your hand, to say, this is wonderful and beautiful, this is a great gift—this honors the gift and the giver of it. Maybe this is what [my friend] Hank has been trying to make me understand: Notice the gift. Be astonished at it. Be glad for it, care about it. Keep it in mind. This is the greatest gift a person can give in return.

Kathleen Dean Moore, Wild Comfort: The Solace of Nature

Sunday - Saying Yes to the World

The earth offers gift after gift—life and the living of it, light and the return of it, the growing things, the roaring things, fire and nightmares, falling water and the wisdom of friends, forgiveness. My god, the forgiveness, time, and the scouring tides. How does one accept gifts as great as these and hold them in the mind?

Failing to notice a gift dishonors it, and deflects the love of the giver. That's what's wrong with living a careless life, storing up sorrow, waking up regretful, walking unaware. But to turn the gift in your hand, to say, this is wonderful and beautiful, this is a great gift—this honors the gift and the giver of it. Maybe this is what [my friend] Hank has been trying to make me understand: Notice the gift. Be astonished at it. Be glad for it, care about it. Keep it in mind. This is the greatest gift a person can give in return.

Kathleen Dean Moore

Will you step into my parlor?

Female goldenrod spider (Misumena vatia)

Lovely things, these middling pages in August with their cooler mornings, their high, clear light and wispy gossamer clouds from here to there.

A few cicadas are singing in the garden as I write this, but there are not as many minstrels as there were a week ago, and the realization is bittersweet. Sometimes, Beau and I encounter living cicadas on our morning walks, and we move them carefully off sidewalks and roads to the safety of nearby grassy verges.

When we come across the mortal husks of cicadas who have expired, we gather them up gently and lay them to rest in a quiet corner of the garden. It is something we do every year, saying "thank you" as we tuck the dear little beings into the good dark earth with an old teaspoon.

August brings fogs and splendid morning dews, and a little after sunrise, the garden is lavishly strewn with dewdrops. From a distance, the blooms twinkle like constellations, and they make a fine leitmotif for these late summer days. At the moment, several antique roses are tenanted by canny goldenrod spiders who conceal themselves among the petals and pounce on unwary beetles, wasps and flies. The spider girls can have all the Japanese beetles they want.

Let There Be Red

June would not be June without a great big planter of red geraniums (cranesbills) blooming on the walk in front of the little blue house in the village. This year's offering is accompanied by vivid purple petunias, strawflowers in a bright reddish pink and a tall spiky thing in the middle.

The flowers are a long standing tradition, and every year, I think of their ancestors who graced our threshold in summers past and greeted everyone who came to the door. I remember their shape, their color, their texture, their green and rather peppery fragrance. They were perfect in every way, and I thank them.

Happy June, everyone!

Sunday - Saying Yes to the World

There will be no one like us when we are gone, but then there is no one like anyone else, ever. When people die, they cannot be replaced. They leave holes that cannot be filled, for it is the fate—the genetic and neural fate—of every human being to be a unique individual, to find his own path, to live his own life, to die his own death. I cannot pretend I am without fear. But my predominant feeling is one of gratitude. I have loved and been loved; I have been given much and I have given something in return; I have read and traveled and thought and written. I have had an intercourse with the world, the special intercourse of writers and readers. Above all, I have been a sentient being, a thinking animal, on this beautiful planet, and that in itself has been an enormous privilege and adventure.
Oliver Sacks, Gratitude

Sunday - Saying Yes to the World

The moral covenant of reciprocity calls us to honor our responsibilities for all we have been given, for all that we have taken. It's our turn now, long overdue. Let us hold a giveaway for Mother Earth, spread our blankets out for her and pile them high with gifts of our own making. Imagine the books, the paintings, the poems, the clever machines, the compassionate acts, the transcendent ideas, the perfect tools. The fierce defense of all that has been given. Gifts of mind, hands, heart, voice, and vision all offered up on behalf of the earth. Whatever our gift, we are called to give it and to dance for the renewal of the world. In return for the privilege of breath.

Robin Wall Kimmerer, Braiding Sweetgrass: Indigenous Wisdom,
Scientific Knowledge, and the Teachings of Plants

Thursday Poem - Thanksgiving

I have been trying to read
the script cut in these hills—
a language carved in the shimmer of stubble
and the solid lines of soil, spoken
in the thud of apples falling
and the rasp of corn stalks finally bare.
The pheasants shout it with a rusty creak
as they gather in the fallen grain,
the blackbirds sing it
over their shoulders in parting,
and gold leaf illuminates the manuscript
where it is written in the trees.
Transcribed onto my human tongue
I believe it might sound like a lullaby,
or the simplest grace at table.
Across the gathering stillness
simply this: “For all that we have received,
dear God, make us truly grateful.”

Lynn Ungar from Blessing the Bread 

Happy Thanksgiving!

Thanksgiving

This is Thanksgiving Day in Canada, and preparations for a festive dinner are already underway.

There is a free range turkey ready to go in the oven, cranberry sauce made with berries from a local bog and maple syrup, stuffing made with our own bread, a potato souffle, gravy, salad and all the trimmings. a fresh raspberry pie for dessert with homemade gelato. Will there be leftovers? Probably not....

If you live above the 49th parallel, Happy Thanksgiving. If not, come celebrate with us anyway - there is plenty of room around the old oak dining table, and there are lots of (mismatched but comfortable) chairs.

Thursday Poem - Daily

These shriveled seeds we plant,
corn kernel, dried bean,
poke into loosened soil,
cover over with measured fingertips

These T-shirts we fold into
perfect white squares

These tortillas we slice and fry to crisp strips
This rich egg scrambled in a gray clay bowl

This bed whose covers I straighten
smoothing edges till blue quilt fits brown blanket
and nothing hangs out

This envelope I address
so the name balances like a cloud
in the center of sky

This page I type and retype
This table I dust till the scarred wood shines
This bundle of clothes I wash and hang and wash again
like flags we share, a country so close
no one needs to name it

The days are nouns:  touch them
The hands are churches that worship the world

Naomi Shihab Nye
from The Words Under the Words)

Thursday Poem - Thanksgiving

I have been trying to read
the script cut in these hills-
a language carved in the shimmer of stubble
and the solid lines of soil, spoken
in the thud of apples falling
and the rasp of corn stalks finally bare.
The pheasants shout it with a rusty creak
as they gather in the fallen grain,
the blackbirds sing it
over their shoulders in parting,
and gold leaf illuminates the manuscript
where it is written in the trees.
Transcribed onto my human tongue
I believe it might sound like a lullaby,
or the simplest grace at table.
Across the gathering stillness
simply this: “For all that we have received,
dear God, make us truly grateful.”

Lynn Ungar (from Blessing the Bread)

Thursday Poem - Praise Song

Praise the light of late November,
the thin sunlight that goes deep in the bones.
Praise the crows chattering in the oak trees;
though they are clothed in night, they do not
despair. Praise what little there's left:
the small boats of milkweed pods, husks, hulls,
shells, the architecture of trees. Praise the meadow
of dried weeds: yarrow, goldenrod, chicory,
the remains of summer. Praise the blue sky
that hasn't cracked. Praise the sun slipping down
behind the beechnuts, praise the quilt of leaves
that covers the grass: Scarlet Oak, Sweet Gum,
Sugar Maple. Though darkness gathers, praise our crazy
fallen world; it's all we have, and it's never enough.

Barbara Crooker

Happy (Canadian) Thanksgiving

This morning's  tattered scarecrow lady is much like the Raggedy Anne doll I once had, and I love seeing her planted under a tree in a neighbor's garden at this time of the year.  She conveys seasonal sentiments perfectly with her round eyes, crooked stitched smile, corn husk hair and hands, red corduroy overalls and flowered shirt, and crowning it all, a fine squashy burlap hat.

Have a wonderful Thanksgiving if you are Canadian. If not, find something to celebrate anyway, perhaps get outside for a while. These autumn days are too vibrant and riotously colored for words, and they are far too brief.

Thursday Poem - Messenger

My work is loving the world.
Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird —
equal seekers of sweetness.
Here the quickening yeast; there the blue plums.
Here the clam deep in the speckled sand.

Are my boots old? Is my coat torn?
Am I no longer young, and still not half-perfect? Let me
keep my mind on what matters,
which is my work,

which is mostly standing still and learning to be
astonished.
The phoebe, the delphinium.
The sheep in the pasture, and the pasture.
Which is mostly rejoicing, since all ingredients are here,

which is gratitude, to be given a mind and a heart
and these body-clothes,
a mouth with which to give shouts of joy
to the moth and the wren, to the sleepy dug-up clam,
telling them all, over and over, how it is
that we live forever.

Mary Oliver from Thirst

Friday Ramble - For the Winter Solstice

After a time of decay comes the turning point. The powerful light that has been banished returns. There is movement, but it is not brought about by force.  The idea of RETURN is based on the course of nature. The movement is cyclic, and the course completes itself. Therefore it is not necessary to hasten anything artificially. Everything comes of itself at the appointed time. This is the meaning of heaven and earth.

24. Fu / Return (The Turning Point), from the I Ching or Book of Changes
 
Next Tuesday is the eve of Yule, one of the four truly pivotal points in the calendar year, and the I Ching describes this brief interval in the Great Round more eloquently than I ever could. The winter solstice is one of only two times in the calendar year (along with the summer solstice) when the sun seems to stand still for a brief interval - that is what "solstice" means, that the sun is standing still. This week's word has been around in one form or another since the beginning times, and it comes to us from the Latin noun sōlstitium, itself a blend of the noun sōl [sun] and the verb sistere [to stand still].

December days are short and dark and sometimes icy cold, dense clouds from here to there most of the time.  The earth below our feet sleeps easy under a blanket of snow and glossy ice. For all that, there is a feeling of movement in the landscape, a clear sense that vibrant (and welcome) change is on its way.  Sunlight is a scarce quantity here in winter, and we look forward to having a few more minutes of sunlight every single blessed day after Wednesday - until next June when sunlight hours will begin to wane once more. The first few months of the year will be frigid going, but hallelujah, there will be sunlight now and again.

As I build a fire in the old fireplace downstairs, I find myself thinking of the ancestors and their early seasonal rites, how they too must have watched winter skies, fed the fires burning on their hearths for warmth, lit candles to drive the dark away and rejoiced in this poignant turning when the light returns.

Solstice customs here are quiet and of some years standing: a trek into the woods (brief this time around for health reasons) and a walk along the trail with grain, apples and cedar for the deer, suet and seed for the birds.  On the way home, we deliver fruitcake (my great grandmother's recipe) and Yule gifts to friends in the highlands, then return to the little blue house in the village for oranges, clementines and winter apples, for candlelight, firelight and mugs of tea. We will look out as as darkness falls and give thanks for the returning light.

Thursday Poem - Thanksgiving

I have been trying to read
the script cut in these hills—
a language carved in the shimmer of stubble
and the solid lines of soil, spoken
in the thud of apples falling
and the rasp of corn stalks finally bare.

The pheasants shout it with a rusty creak
as they gather in the fallen grain,
the blackbirds sing it
over their shoulders in parting,
and gold leaf illuminates the manuscript
where it is written in the trees.

Transcribed onto my human tongue
I believe it might sound like a lullaby,
or the simplest grace at table.
Across the gathering stillness
simply this: "For all that we have received,
dear God, make us truly grateful."

Lynn Ungar (from Blessing the Bread)

Happy Thanksgiving!

Giving Thanks

Many thanks for the kind words and healing thoughts posted here during the last few weeks, for the cards and letters, all the lovely thoughts that popped here and into my inbox as I wrestled with cancer, underwent surgery and lurched painfully about afterwards in a complete and utter fog.

There is still a fair bit of pain, and I am not too steady on my pins at the moment, but I am tottering slowly back toward health and energy and am looking forward to being back out in the Lanark woods in a few weeks. Carrying a camera will have to wait for a while.

Any morning that starts out with freshly brewed espresso and frothed milk (three cheers for the De'Longhi Perfecta), an arty coffee stencil and a bamboo brush  to finish things off is just grand, and drawing a heart in my mugga is a way of saying "thank you" to all of you.  You are treasured, more than you know.