Monday roots

Things I am feeling grateful for on this gloriously sunny Monday:

1. My volunteer work on the farm, and the opportunity to learn from and with children and youth outside while growing and harvesting organic food.

This photograph is the property of Ariana Salvo. May not be reproduced without permission.

This photograph is the property of Ariana Salvo. May not be reproduced without permission.

This photograph is the property of Ariana Salvo. May not be reproduced without permission.

This photograph is the property of Ariana Salvo. May not be reproduced without permission.

This photograph is the property of Ariana Salvo. May not be reproduced without permission.

This photograph is the property of Ariana Salvo. May not be reproduced without permission.

This photograph is the property of Ariana Salvo. May not be reproduced without permission.

This photograph is the property of Ariana Salvo. May not be reproduced without permission.

This photograph is the property of Ariana Salvo. May not be reproduced without permission.

2. My partner at crime on the farm, Guy. He is the director of education at Soil Born, and I not only enjoy working with him, I have learned an amazing amount about teaching kids and youth from him over the past seven and a half months.

This photograph is the property of Ariana Salvo. May not be reproduced without permission.

This photograph is the property of Ariana Salvo. May not be reproduced without permission.

3. Writing dates with my dear friend and fellow writer, Ahava, who is a creativity and loving inquiry mentor in British Columbia, Canada. You can check her work out here.

4. Artwork. Our house usually has beautiful artwork on all the walls. Since we moved into this new place last summer we had not taken the time to hang all our artwork, and so the house just did not really feel like a home. This past weekend my mother and I fixed this by getting out a hammer and some nails and hanging colour all over our walls. The painting over the fireplace and the one by itself between the two chairs are both the work of my dear friend Louise Mould, back on Prince Edward Island. Aren't they gorgeous?

5. The Mary Oliver poetry reading I went to on Friday. There were close to 600 people there. She is getting rather frail, but once she made it to the podium she was all humour and stories, and inspired us all with her deep enjoyment of the process of sharing her poetry with her audience. She received a standing ovation from us at the end, and had the threatre raise the lights so that she could see all our faces and blow kisses to us. There is something extremely profound about seeing the impact that a writer like Mary Oliver has had on so many lives at this point in her career. It was deeply moving.

6. The grape vineyards of Napa Valley are all making the transition into Fall, the leaves all just starting to tinge red and orange at the edges. Unfortunately I was driving, and my designated photographer had some technical difficulties, but the rolling hills and patchwork quilt of vineyards in the fall were breathtaking.

This morning I woke up and wrote a short little poem as I began my day. I am grateful for the poem, the day, and looking forward to the evening, and the last golden rays that are leaning in my window at an angle now as I type. I will leave you with my little poem. What are you feeling grateful for today, friends?
 

There is something daring about morning sunlight--

The way it blazes unselfconsciously

Full of joy

Down through the layers of Fall leaves, setting every vein on fire,

through windows left unshaded,

its whisper calling out in sing-song tones, asking

What will you create today?

Sunglasses, magnolia blossoms, and poetry: Day I

The last few days I have been practicing playful presence. A very close friend of mine, Ahava Shira, was doing a month-long silent retreat at Spirit Rock which ended this past Saturday. I had promised her that I would be there to pick her up and whisk her away for a few days together before she headed home to British Columbia. So on Saturday morning I set off for Spirit Rock, winding my way through picturesque towns up into lush hills dotted with professional cyclists pumping their way up steep inclines at speeds that I shall only ever dream of. As the road leveled out slightly, I saw a driveway to my right, and a sign for Spirit Rock Meditation Centre, so I swung my car into the driveway, and headed off to find Ahava. Ahava and I met on Prince Edward Island at a conference on Poetics. You know those "random" meetings that happen to be far more than "random"? Well meeting Ahava was one such encounter for me. I met her at a time when things in my life were starting to shift, and I was ready for some major life changes. Since then I have moved to California and started writing for myself, and Ahava has completed her P.h.D., launched a poetry CD, and started her own business leading retreats and writing workshops for women.

The parking lot at Spirit Rock was full of cars, but there were no people around. I decided to head up a hill towards the dining hall in the hope of locating my friend. I had barely started up the incline when a sprightly figure with long, full, bouncing honeyed curls came bounding down the hill at me. I had to smile. Ahava has a way of filling my chest with laughter, and seeing her racing towards me over the lush green hills of northern California made me laugh out loud.

I have never been the first person to come into contact with someone who has not spoken for a month, so I was not quite sure what to expect. As it turned out, Ahava's re-integration into life outside Spirit Rock was a joyful one, filled with a steady stream of exclamations. I had been thinking of ways to help Ahava integrate back into the fast-paced life of California gradually, for days, and had relocated a lovely little spa in San Anselmo that a friend had taken me years earlier that I had loved. Us being of like mind, my suggestion of going to relax in a hot tub in our very own little Japanese garden was one that Ahava approved of immensely, so we set off in search of Shibui Gardens Hot Tub Spa, and before long were immersed in warm water, surrounded by greenery. It slightly more run down than the last time I had visited, but still exceptionally relaxing and rejuvenating. I listened while Ahava started sharing about her retreat while we enjoyed the steam and warmth of the water.

From San Anselmo, Ahava and I headed across the Golden Gate Bridge into San Francisco. Ahava cracked out her camera, rolled down the window, and snapped shots of the powerful cables, the geometric shapes of sky between steel beams, the bay below us, and other tourists exploring the bridge. As I navigated the city traffic, she delighted herself with shooting photos of colourful fruit stands, people, shop windows, side-streets, reflections and street signs (while giving me kind and reassuring support that I could, in fact, stop on an intimidatingly steep hill and start up again without causing an accident or stalling). We arrived in San Francisco and stopped briefly at the MOMA before heading across the street to Samovar Tea Lounge. A relaxing evening of tea-sipping and catching up had been the reason for this trip into the city. I had figured heading out into the city proper or trying to go gallery hopping might be a bit much with the crowds. So tea it was. We wandered through Yerba Buena Garden on our way to Samovar, enjoying the blossoming magnolia trees. It seems to be the season for these spectacular trees. With the rain showers of the previous days, some of the petals had fallen to the grass below, carpeting it in pink petals. Ahava and I stood under one tree in particular, studying the blossoms and attempting to photograph them despite the rain that had begun to fall on the city.

 

The back side of Yerba Buena Gardens has an amazing waterfall memorial to the civil rights movement, with a series of glass panels displaying Martin Luther King quotes in many different languages. There were many beautiful quotes, but I was still surprised to see Greek among the languages represented:

Ahava and I finally made it into Samovar, where we settled into cozy chairs and ordered an Indian-inspired meal of tofu curry and rice, with cucumber yogurt, that was accompanied by hot mugs of their masala chai, which is to die for. For desert we had a delicious sweet that I have written about before, and that is just as good the second time around as it was the first: rose-infused Greek yoghurt with dates, toasted walnuts, fresh mint, pieces of sliced apple, and coconut syrup. While we ate and drank, and enjoyed the complex, rich flavours, we also talked, shared our dreams, thoughts and struggles over the last year and a half. It was a sublimely relaxing evening, and we were reluctant to leave....

...so we were still there three hours later when the tea lounge shut, emerging into the rain for a slow walk back to the car, faces upturned to feel the shower against our cheeks, enjoying the sound of the fountains bubbling and water falling and sliding over stone, and the reflection of lights against the wet city streets.

We made the drive up out of the Bay area with the windshield wipers going steady, Ahava's bare feet tapping on the dashboard, both of us singing to David Francey's fantastic tunes (which, if you are not already familiar with them, I highly recommend you have a listen to here).

Unsent letter fodder

A couple of years ago I was getting to know a man who was just not right for me. He was, however, a terrific person and a truly breathtaking writer. And he had an excellent sense of humour, which was a good thing, because the first "getting to know you poem" I wrote to him was not exactly what most men would want to be receiving from the woman they had just started getting to know. And yes, in case you wonder after reading this poem, I did actually give it to him. And, amazingly, he was enough of a good sport to tell me that in his opinion, it was very well written. Yes, I do realize that he was being incredibly kind. He may well have a very different opinion of it today, but I doubt it -- one thing I always appreciated about him was his ability to judge my writing honestly, as something that was entirely separate from me. So here it is. A "getting to know you" poem: 

Unsent Letter Fodder

If I could write a book of love letters it would be the ones I never sent

There are always more of those, stuffed proudly in pockets, suitcases, wallets,

dogeared, too over-read for envelopes or stamps.

I am wondering if you too will be nothing more than January unsent letter fodder

If your double eye winks, tactile words, and all those octaves of atheistic silence

will fold neatly into the back of an ink-stained oak drawer.

Here’s what I’m thinking: If we recognize the sheer impossibility of this ending well

we can avoid all those wasted hours of wanting each other to be some one we are not.

Efficiency is what its about: getting straight to the heron without snubbing the crane.

Or maybe its about sparing the world all that inevitably bad poetry

where I actually miss the smell of stale cigarette smoke in my hair

or your long, transitional silences wading further and further out into the afternoon.

I do not see you folding well.

Maybe I’ll float this down a spring creek, first dawn, as a light snow is falling.

An early morning journey without having to rise

horizon between half-light and your dreams cracking a yawn.

A little winter beauty

We host a women's devotional gathering at our home twice a month. The devotionals have a theme, and guests are asked to bring something with them inspired by the theme. This month our theme is beauty. I shared two things that are beautiful to me. One was an abstract landscape painting called Mandarin Light, by Louise Mould. I will post a photograph of it here if I get her permission to do so (watch this space!). In the meantime, you can see a great deal of the beauty that she adds to the world here. I also shared a poem that I wrote a number of years ago, that is about PEI. It is called One Thing We Must Do.
 

One Thing We Must Do

Red sandstone cliffs tumble soft down to ocean

grasses lean, whisper against my legs. 

A heron pauses perfectly still on one leg, head poised.

It is June, and I have been here long enough to watch winter defeat rusty, golden fall, 

learn to move through snow, slide over ice smooth and bubbled beneath me. 

I have been here long enough to feel the cold slap of wind, see ice thicken over water,

trees become dark naked dancers twisting mournfully against a silvery white landscape. 

I have been here long enough to smell violent perfume of freshly harvested shellfish

that makes me gag and ache simultaneously; 

long enough to admire the awkward grace of the crow,

concede the defeat of the umbrella, feel frozen rain against my face.

I have been here long enough realize that calling this home means learning to co-exist with, open oneself to the elements, recognizing human fragility in the face of nature. 

Here I learn to appreciate simple things:

bright yellow finches outside my window,

aroma of earth from weeks of summer rain,

sensation of sun warming skin after surviving months on memory alone. 

I have been here long enough to appreciate the physical strength of people who at 80

still shovel snow, hands strong, breaths puffing in hushed January air;

to walk home through fields late at night, pale moon lighting the way fearless,

be able to trust darkness as I have not since childhood. 

This island awakens awe, each season has its own distinct boundaries

within which nature flourishes colourful and alive. 

Identity rests in endless miles of gently sloping potato fields,

fishermen who still know stories of discovery, shipwrecks, hidden treasures. 

Who sit and recount of ghost ships that went down, sipping tea,

enveloped in clouds of smoke. 

I have been here long enough to learn to navigate the tightly knit web

of community and judgement – cage and safety net for those not from away.

On this island ecological networks are mirrored in social structure,

everyone knows everyone else, everyone has a specific niche in the system,

individual movement and change resisted by the whole,

unspoken rules are respected. 

Size and isolation nurture a sense of belonging.

Those that stay become vital members of the community–

emigration slackens the taut network of interdependence, is felt by everyone. 

People and place mingle and blur,

inseparable hues of deep cold blue, red clay, sharp green. 

Icicles freeze over crimson berries in winter,

ice breaks too early, rains fall and fall, saturating spring air. 

When fish wash up dead on a beach

it is our food, our fishermen, our farmers, our waters that are sick. 

There can be no detachment, no putting things off ‘til later. 

This land is all there is. 

It is what we depend on for survival, is limited, must be protected.   

Cycles spin. 

Now sun, now snow that blinds, constellations of ice that climb my windows at night, now brilliant golds, mustards, firey blazes of autumn,

now cool pastel blues on ponds we skate on at night. 

It is time to recognize this is finite, delicate, unique. 

I may always be an outsider,

but I have been here long enough to know we must keep this alive. 

Keep the connection with land, with sea, with isolation, story. 

It is not too late if we start now.