Thursday 9 November 2023

Temple of Memory

 


Words, when carefully attended to, can cause important shifts in perspective. Often when grieving we feel overwhelmed by our memories, with the implication that the memories hold us in our grief. But — 

"Without memory we would be unable to be healed from past painful events.”

Sr. Phil O’Shea

In the meditation she led today, she quoted from John O’Donohue in his book, Anam Cara, on the idea of the “temple of memory.” We might reflect on the temple of memory, and further, of “no yesterday, no tomorrow, only now.”

I am well familiar with the idea of being in the present moment, rather than sacrificing our lived life to dwelling in memory or fixating on what might yet be. But I struggled a little to know how I would be in the moment while also reflecting in the temple of memory. After a few moments, the light came on.

Rather than grief spilling over every moment of life, uncontained and unanswerable, I can preserve, honour, and enter the temple of memory and visit wholly with my absent loved one there. A place of containment, a place of release, a place to love. At this stage in my grief over my brother Victor, that may be exactly what I need.

In our last (dismay!) session, last week, my bereavement counsellor said that it was okay to take a break from grief. A novel concept, with some appeal. My fear is of shutting down again, where the underground grief does damage rather than being attended to and offered healing. But the idea of a temple where I can visit Vic or simply enter to grieve, rather than being twisted by grief in every place and any moment, appeals to me. To tend my grief, to honour Vic’s memory, but to also take breaks. It sounds very good.

All you can depend on now is that

Sorrow will remain faithful to itself.

More than you, it knows its way

And will find the right time

To pull and pull the rope of grief

Until that coiled hill of tears

Has reduced to its last drop.

 

Gradually, you will learn acquaintance

With the invisible form of your departed…

 

 from “For Grief” by John O’Donohue

I don't actually believe that grief “heals,” that there is a last drop, a time where grief no longer is. I believe in making peace with grief, so we don’t reject it and suffer as a result. Because grief is love. And love, I want to keep.

Thinking of all of you, with your sorrows and your losses. Grateful that we all have loved.


“Loss” — sculpture by Jane Mortimer. Faceless but expressive human sitting with arms around knees and head down. Grey-blue against darker blue trees.  Malone House, Malone Road, Belfast, Northern Ireland. Photo by K. Mitch Hodge on Unsplash

Saturday 26 August 2023

A Segment from *The Cure at Troy* by Seamus Heaney

 


Human beings suffer,
they torture one another,
they get hurt and get hard.
No poem or play or song
can fully right a wrong
inflicted or endured.

The innocent in gaols
beat on their bars together.
A hunger-striker’s father
stands in the graveyard dumb.
The police widow in veils
faints at the funeral home.

History says, Don’t hope
on this side of the grave,
But then, once in a lifetime
the longed for tidal wave
of justice can rise up,
and hope and history rhyme.

So hope for a great sea-change
on the far side of revenge.
Believe that a further shore
is reachable from here.
Believe in miracles
and cures and healing wells.

Call miracle self-healing:
The utter self-revealing
double-take of feeling.
If there’s fire on the mountain
Or lightning and storm
And a god speaks from the sky

That means someone is hearing
the outcry and the birth-cry
of new life at its term.
It means once in a lifetime
That justice can rise up
And hope and history rhyme.

Seamus Heaney
from "The Cure at Troy"



Image: Spreading Creek Wildfire Rips Through Banff National Park, Huffington Post Canada.

Sunday 30 July 2023

School Day for Chickadee

I was in my garden today, the little one just beyond my patio, when a pair of chickadees arrived at the feeder. It's just a simple thing, a shallow frame made of wood with a screen bottom, suspended from a garden hook by wires. Inside the feeder I have a couple of jam jar lids filled with shelled and broken sunflower seeds, a tiny bowl of peanuts, and another tiny bowl of suet balls.

There was a brief fracas when they first arrived at the feeder and one flew a metre and a bit away while the other (at a guess, I would say, it's parent) fed. When the first one had had its fill it flew back into the maples and chickadee number two ventured over. First to the top of the feeder stand. Then over to the fence. Then back, closer, landing on top of the suet block cage. And repeat. Finally, when the coast seemed truly clear, it made a bold hop to the feeder with the sunflower seeds.


It landed, as I have seen it's relatives the bushtits sometimes do, upside down on the bottom of the screen. This didn't work very well so it flew back to the suet feeder, then back to the fence, then to the bottom of the screen again.


Meanwhile, the sun shone, bumblebees climbed into the mouths of waiting bellflowers, a hover-fly inspected the sedum, and a bald-faced hornet searched for something low down among the leaves. I glanced over at the hole in the fence this chickadee likely hatched out in. It had been taken over by bumblebees after the chicks had fledged and now I noticed there is an impressive funnel shaped web opening around the entrance to the cavity. It's delightful to think of the succession of creatures making use of that one small hole in so short a period of time.


At this point the more confident chickadee returned. Our unsuccessful diner appears to have paid better attention to what its associate did this time: It landed inside the feeder, spent a moment or two snatching up sunflower seeds, and returned to the trees. Immediately the young chickadee copied the action, landing on the upside of the feeder and settling down to eat.


Another skill acquired. There is so much to learn in our first year of life.








Image: "Poecile atricapillus 1513, A Black-capped Chickadee at Blanche Lake, Minnesota USA” by Tattooeddreamer, CC BY-SA 3.0, via Wikimedia Commons

Sunday 19 February 2023

Rescue Me, Oh Mud, Oh Earth




Rescue Me, Oh Mud, Oh Earth

 

This has been a hard, hard week. But I got myself out into the backyard today with my copy of Dave Goulson’s book The Garden Jungle - or Gardening to Save the Planet. I had my cup of decaf coffee and a folding chair which I tucked in out of the rain, between the planters and the birdfeeders. I spent several minutes just gazing out at my wonderful, soggy, dilapidated garden and feeling so relieved at escaping from the various stresses indoors. I must have been thinking a lot but I have no idea what I was thinking about. Probably, at first, the things that were chewing away at me when I was indoors. But I do recall beginning to distinguish between the plants I saw before me, to remember: these are the friends that I brought from home. The sword fern, the epimedium, these clematises and bellflowers, the giant bleeding heart, and of course, my Iolanthe magnolia.

 

I moved here four years ago from a place I’d been for thirty years, a beloved old building set to be torn down. It was really important to me to bring what I could of my plants. One, the magnolia, got some deep root pruning the year before I moved, to encourage it to grow roots closer to the surface in order to survive the transition. The move itself was difficult. And it turns out the land my new abode sits on was a dumpsite previously, and since then many hedge plants and high maple trees have penetrated that hard, compacted earth with their dense net of roots and rootlets. It took me weeks to dig a hole big enough for the little tree, but I got very good at cutting through roots, and I retrieved many interesting items, from rocks and broken glass and crockery to a shrivelled washing machine ringer. So, as gardening goes, it was hard, especially with my screwed up back and knees, but from an archaeological point of view it was fascinating. Finally, digging up that tree might have been the finish of me if one of my neighbours hadn’t come out to lend a hand. And then the wild ride here in the back of my friend’s pickup. Poor little Iolanthe!

 

I suppose that is where my thoughts began to dwell. On the plants I’d rescued from demolition at my old home to those I have introduced since moving here – those that remain and those that couldn’t adapt to conditions in my tiny yard. The garden bed I am building up from below rather than digging down into, to avoid repeating that fight with the roots. And, of course, there was my roving inspection from a distance: who is coming up from the soil, who has survived the winter, what needs replacing and shoring up.

 

After a while, I opened my book and began to read about peat bogs and some of the fascinating creatures that live in them, the properties of the bogs themselves and their importance not only to the plants and animals that make up their biosphere, but their role in preventing flooding and storing carbon. Having established the wonder and importance of bogs, Goulson discusses the conditions and health of soils in various circumstances, like farm fields versus allotments versus suburban and urban gardens. He outlines the efforts and lack thereof of horticultural societies and nurseries and gardeners to stop using peat. 95% of UK raised bogs are already gone; the majority of compost continues to be made of nearly 50% peat.

 

You would think that this would be totally depressing, and I might have done better to stick with my novel. But there’s something about the grace with which he speaks of the land, the personal relationship he has with the butterflies and his compost heap and the springtails and worms in his garden that make his writing uplifting despite all the worries outlined in such depth. Reading him helped me feel more grounded in and related to my own little patch, helped me think of ways to get around the impact of the bans in my building on having open water outside and establishing compost, and so on.

 

When I was finished with my reading I moved into the garden itself and began to see what was needed and do some work. It felt so good.

 

There is nothing like concentrating on the leaves and shoots, the worms underneath old bricks, on the soil itself and its black nature and moist beauty. Nothing like deciding where this sort of leaves can go to do the most good and where these ones need to be – figuring out how to get the most out of my limited freedom here. My aim with my little garden is to make it as attractive as possible to all manner of invertebrates, and yes that does include scale insects, beloved of ants, even though my first instinct is to get them off “my” plant. The healthier I can make the soil, the more little creatures I attract, the stronger the plants are – able to carry a greater load of scale bugs, for instance, the more that bigger creatures will come to eat the little ones, and the more joy I feel when I am sitting out there with my coffee and my book in this small, imperfect sanctuary that helps so much to ease the pain of living in this world. 

 

When I was reading I heard the chip and thrum of a hummingbird and I looked up from my book. A male Anna’s was checking me out. He went to the left, he went to the centre, he went to the right, hanging in the air maybe two feet ahead of me. His brilliant iridescent neck feathers glittered as he moved from side to side. When he was satisfied, he zipped away. All the while in the garden today, I was hearing chickadees and sparrows and glancing up to watch the brave ones as they flew to their feeders, snatching a sunflower seed or stabbing at the suet, flying away in swift retreat.

 

There is something about being surrounded by plants and birds and air and mud that is like being swaddled in lace. There is a warmth even on a cool day, a gentleness – perhaps arising from the innate gentling of stopping and hearing and seeing more fully than usual. The worst sorrows can be kneaded softly by the garden world.

 

So, thank you for this much-needed intervention, oh mud, oh earth. Thank you for letting me reignite my love for you, my involvement with you, my caring for you, and feel again the balm of you against my soul.

 

I return indoors buttressed for whatever work I need to do in this more human world.



                               




Images: Photo of leaves by Kristian Seedorff on Unsplash. Photo of muddy hands by Chris Yang on Unsplash.

Tuesday 6 December 2022

Online Writing Groups (Not Critiquing, Just Writing) Are Cool

 


I am really appreciating the newly-discovered-by-me online writing groups that are apparently going for many hours, every night and day. After centuries of working alone at home I now get to work alone at home knowing there are these four or fourteen folk working away at their own tables, just there in the left half of my computer screen.

Mostly we are silent, and some turn off their video while working, but there are a lot of pluses to having them there.

1) I know the window in which this event is happening, and if I don't get cracking, I'll miss the boat.

2) Having living beings right there silently working calms me, somehow. I do get a bit anxious about settling down to write or plan, so that calming effect is very welcome.

3) At certain points there is brief checking in. This goes against the sense of isolation that can be there in the background, generally not anywhere I notice it. Having it contradicted by the check-ins has brought a sense of relief and camaraderie, so clearly the isolation is there, even if undetected.

3a) In some groups this begins with a query in the chat: "What are you working on today, Mael?" This helps me focus on a single, clear task instead of allowing myself to wander off into side-shoots. Focussing better makes me feel more secure in my efforts, and more satisfied with what I have done that day.

3b) There is generally a check-in at the end, or in the longer meetings, a couple of hours in. "How did it go for you?" That question makes the process more conscious, and therefore easier to consider. How did it go? Is there something I ought to have done to make it go better? (Like eat first.) Or was it just fine? In which case, hurrah!

3c) As faces become familiar, as I learn a little of what people are working on, how it's going for them, their aims and their worries, how they support and encourage each other and me, I begin to feel affection for them, and a sense that I want them to be happy with their work. In other words, even though we talk very little, a sense of community begins to emerge.

4) They end. Just as the beginning of the meeting prompts me to stop whatever I'm doing and get to work, the end says, "You're done! Go have fun." As someone who tends to work till I drop, this is a great thing to begin playing with. You mean, stop before it's finished? Assume I can return the next time and pick it up? Wow.

I just committed to the next two meetings I plan to attend, getting on the roster and writing them down in my calendar. (Yeah. Paper. Weird.) I looked at what was already scheduled for those days and thought, "Yeah, I'd like to put an hour of writing in there." Remembering how blissful it was last time to break after an hour for my (online) yoga class, as I will again this week, and come back to writing renewed and invigorated. Instead of that unscheduled hour trickling by as they are wont to do, I know I will get a contained dollop of work done. And I felt -- excited! What a wonderful way to feel about work that I love but tend to get anxious about. How perfect is that?

If you are interested in trying out a writing group like this, the one below is one of the groups available. It may be the largest, with many hosts across the world with their own meetings and formats. You can meet online, as I do, but they also have live events where folk gather in a coffee shop or some such thing. It's called Shut Up and Write:

https://www.meetup.com/pro/shut-up-write/

 



Image: Free clipart from clipground.com.

Wednesday 3 August 2022

Molluscs

 

I have a sad story and a happy story and they both involve molluscs.

Last night, a few hours after I got home from Emergency with my broken toe, I had the screen door open because one of the larger slugs was on the inside track tidying up for me and I didn’t want to disturb it while it had its head stuck down in the trough. So I just kept half an eye on the open door to make sure no mice crept in, and got on with my dinner.

When I was done, I hobbled over to the doorway and instead of crouching down as I normally would I lay down because that was easier on my toe. So there I was draped over the threshold with one little slug nibbling – well, radulating – and one big slug doing the same, and a couple of others down below on the pavement mucking about.

I greeted them all, my friendly allies, and took note of the pleasant air where no screen was there to stop it from moving against my skin. And I took a few relaxed breaths and watched them at their work. I had with me a small piece of apple to see if I could lure my large friend from its task.

There was something comforting about breaking up this little piece of fruit and distributing it amongst them. Comforting because I was treating them as I would any other creature, rather than simply despairing or resenting because of the work they do on plants I’ve been cultivating, or being grossed out because of their form and fluid state.  Comforting to drop the illusion of being enemies.

The little one stretched out its tentacles as it inspected its piece and the two below moved towards theirs at that gentle pace that slugs employ. But the chunky one on the inside of the threshold didn’t even blink. There was something delicious in that trench, that place that I can’t get at very easily to clean, so I left it to its meal.

You know how, when you are around people who are revved up and ready to dance, their energy can be infectious and before you know it you are revved up, too. Or when you are with praying people or meditating people that can inspire you to feel prayerful or meditative, in that moment. I found that being up close to these beings, with nothing I needed to do, watching them moving in their sedate way, I slowed down, as well. And as I watched them move, extending their tentacles or changing direction in a slow but flowing manner, I began to realise that if they were humans moving in that way and not these creatures that people find so horrifying, I would describe the movement as sensual or like a dance.

I became mesmerised and very happy spending time with them.

I went away and returned when it was time to go to bed. I needed to move my little friend whether it liked it or not. But when I returned it had made a fast track across the doorstep and up the frame halfway to the top. As gently as I could, I took it by its waist and began to detach it. This action met with great resistance. Slugs are very good at gluing themselves to things when they want to. I wonder what kind of substance it is that can both act as a lubricant to move across and a glue so they can’t be pulled away. Even when I had peeled the entire length of this being’s body away from the frame its chin stuck fast. I began to worry I’d do damage if it wouldn’t let go, so I used another finger to jimmy it loose. The amazing thing to me was, when I placed it down on the apple bit, it went straight to nibbling, completely unflustered by our struggle a moment earlier.

It is a deep pleasure to find again and again that time spent in quiet observation of beasts, from bears to cats to spiders to slugs, always leaves me with the sense of having been fully and wonderfully alive.

I have changed my mind about one thing. I’m not going to tell you the sad story. Let’s stay with this one for a bit.



Image of a small slug in the door frame. Casey June Wolf.



Friday 24 June 2022

Grace and Lynn - In Garments Made of Love

 


It's been a long time since I have posted here. All I could write about was grief, and I decided to stop a while. 

This wasn't meant to be a blog post. It was to be a short note that I would stuff in with the clothes I am sending Lynn. But it got longer, and more intense. When I was done, I wanted to share it with you.

                                                                                                                    24 June 2022

Precious Lynn,

I have hung onto these clothes for many years, since the original owner, my sweet and elderly friend Grace, died and left her husband Bill and I bereft and sorry.

I want you to have them. I hope you or Lee or someone you love can make use of them. If not, they are yours to pass on or hang onto as I have.

Grace died about thirty-five years ago, and these were old then, archived in drawers and closets.

Grace and Bill rented the main floor of a large Victorian house set back against the alley. There were three plum trees, an apple, a vast rhododenron, and many smaller plants in our big front yard at 1663 Frances Street, just off Commercial Drive.

Grace couldn't leave her floor. There was a long, steep staircase at the front preventing her, and a good verandah where she would sometimes stand and take in the air. Her cussing, grade three educated husband, Bill, had a complicated relationship with the world, but Grace assured me he was a good man, so I persisted until I could finally be his friend.

Many years before, when Grace was a waitress at a workers' café on Hastings Street (The Milo), she and another waitress , and a fellow her friend knew, went to Ambleside Beach on their day off. The friend and the fellow went into the bushes, leaving Grace alone for awhile.

Grace raised the resulting boy.

At some point Bill, one of her customers, became angry at how her boss treated her, and told the man she was quitting and coming to live with him.

Grace was one of the gentlest women I have ever known. Her dream, never realised, was to one day travel by car all the way across Canada, to see it all.

You would have loved her.

For many, most, of the years of my life I suffered great emotional pain and despair. I would cry my heart out and curse, hoping they couldn't hear me through those old timber floors. I asked her once if my crying bothered her. She lied, said she couldn't even hear me. It was a safe harbour to live through my grief.

I'm telling you all this so you can know, in a small way, the woman who bought these clothes so many years ago. I loved her, and I love you. May you be safe and loved as Grace was with Bill. Imperfect, loyal, and kind. It's all we need, and all we need to be.

Love,

Casey