Late May Afternoon, South Shore PEI, May 2017

Heave- heave-heave-
I feel the thrusting motion of
the ocean as it heaves itself upon the shore, as
a lone song sparrow calls out,
its trill cutting through the brackish air
upon which a great blue heron casts its wings,
heaves, lifts off above salt water marsh next to
rosebushes greening, still leaning after winter's scorn-
the nodding heads of last year's rose hips
adorn the bush that crowns the sparrow as it sings
its song the way it was designed to sing it-
to sea, to shore, to morning time,
its song, enduring ode to life,
bears out life's joys and sorrows 
and we are called to bear witness in equal measure-
yet what bliss this shore contains
in the quiet of a late May afternoon-
tide high, light southerly wind dappling the 
sunlight on the rippled waters as they rush, heave on-
despite our wavering
the tides remain constant in their rhythms
while tidal urges rise within the springtime of all things and
saltwater fecundity bears forth much life-
we're born unaware death awaits-
and what we learn in time we try to keep
mostly forgotten amidst our busyness-
Take note-
the beautiful dandelions are already going to seed 
and fluttering cabbage white butterflies are mating here, now-
and all the while this jagged little coastline
washes red into the waters near--
time's passing whether we choose to notice it, or not 

Jill MacCormack

Photo credit Lucas MacCormack
https://lucas-mac.wixsite.com/nature-photos/about

Late April Greening--Cinquain Sequence

Spring is

time to renew

old vows made in quiet,

allow rush of greening to swell

freely,

upward,

groaning, silent

as crocus blades thrusting

into unknown tomorrows-Life,

Changes.

To life

and it's endless

changes I want to say:

you're as welcome as the flowers

of May

as my

grandma oft said.

I want that ease, trusting

presence, desired as desperate

as breath

and love; 

as destructive 

when lost. Thankfully and

despite me, spring's greening arrives

immutable as morn.

Jill MacCormack

Women of the World Must Speak -- Happy International Women's Day March 8th, 2018

"How can we use each other's differences in our common battle for a livable future? All of our children are prey. How do we raise them not to prey upon themselves and each other? And this is why we cannot be silent, because our silences will come to testify against us out of the mouths of our children."

                                      Audre Lorde

I pulled this quote as a writing prompt from a recent essay I read on one of my favourite blogs.

Lorde's words really resonated with me as an Island woman concerned for the welfare of my birth land and as a mother of three young people growing up in an era of widespread pain and destruction. 

As a middle aged woman with a near desperate need to be close to the Earth I fail to see any separation between caring for my own children and caring for the Earth. If I fail to teach my children how to meet their needs in a manner which is respectful of Earth, I too fail Earth and likewise, if I succeed in raising children who see Earth as their mother, and themselves as shining pieces of that beautiful whole, I will have done well by both my children and Earth. I see no separation.

So then, how can we raise children to not fall prey, as Lorde write's, to the ills of the world in which we live? How can we ourselves push forward when so much of what we hear each day hammers down the fear and uncertainty of modern times? And why is it so important that women must make their voices heard as caretakers, healers, intuits and empaths? 

"because our silences will come to testify against us out of the mouths of our children."

I believe Lorde's words to be true. That our silence will only serve to allow the ways of corruption to continue.

We must endure, but not the sort of endurance which destroys much in servitude of  an egoist, power hungry self— we are living fifty shades of that already. Rather we must endure our present societal sufferings in order to begin to restore a sense of dignity to all things.

But how?

How do we restore a sense of dignity to something which seemingly requires so much effort in what seems like so little time?

By bearing witness and sharing our stories of the persecution and oppression of all the children of Earth we remind each other of the natural dignity inherent in all. This is how we heal. This is why we pay attention.

The birthright of Earth, of all creatures and energies, of trees and flowers, of breath and stone and waterways and sky-their birthright is the right to exist by their very existence. All things exist because  they have come into existence through processes of creation in the shape of time and space.

Yet, until we ourselves escape from the cultish grip of the fetishes of selfhood, through removal of the adulation of self above all else, we will be cursed to perpetuate the same old, same old in the service of the wealthy, image, security and comfort.

When we can untangle selfish desires from being who we ourselves are meant to be, only then will true dignity be restored.

And it cannot be restored through our attempting to restore it. The more we try to control the outcomes of life the more we make a mess of things. Rather, as with raising our children, we only need create the space for them to emerge, removing layers of expectation and comparison, by being truly present to what is.

The spaciousness we desire, that breath of fresh air, the new idea, the welcome change; it all exists already and lays in wait for the space to emerge, like the brightness of daffodils in springtime.

When we raise our voices to lay bare the truths of our existence those truths will speak for themselves.

Those structures of society-the institutionalization of learning, loving, wonder and creating- which we have become unwitting participants in- only further serve to recreate consumer culture- choking out the very possibility of any new ideas arising and taking the precious lifeblood of entire generations, destroying culture and community, land and sea and untold species in the process.

What then, might a birthright of dignity look like for our children?  For Earth?

The right to a meaningful existence. To have needs met in a manner which respects both child and Earth alike? The freedom to play, explore, to wonder and to be extraordinary? The right and freedom to exist and not be exploited for profit or gain?

But in the absence of this the world is filled with tears, confusion, hunger, fear, rage, pollution and destruction. And so much of this is due to our collective apathy and silence.

And so we must speak.

Women of the world must speak.

Hugging trees and holding children, caring for the ill and aged, singing, dancing, growing food, holding hands of lovers, making peace with soil and waters and lighting fires with words.

Women must speak.

To be silent is to resist our own truths. It is a lie and it hurts the whole world as much as it hurts ourselves.

It is time to release our children and ourselves from expectations, and image and from the exploitation of industry and from the perpetuation of more of the same.

Let us all be courageous enough to be our truest selves and before we know it we will have a whole world of children growing up to actually know and like themselves and to live their passions as their lives. Inevitably, these children will grow up not to serve themselves but they will have unwittingly, beautifully become that puzzle piece, the change, the critical difference, the bright light the world's been longing for.

Happy International Women's Day 2018!

Be the change you seek and speak your truth. The world needs your voice!

In words of Peace and Hope and Love,

Jill

Chinese Courtesan in Spring original by Li Qingzhao Happy Chinese New Year 2018

Chinese Courtesan
Apologies to Li Qingzhao

White silk adorns her falsely slender frame.
Another spring night falls, she must endure.

Beneath her eyes, thin plum stains, past hurts made up to look as new.
Cloud-like, she has woven herself a hologram of light.

Word upon word, mercurial song moves through
her down-turned painted mouth. A tease, she knows.

Leaving time--peach blossoms thick along the trail.
She watches for the shallow in the river, crosses.

The sky unobstructed. The moon, a penetrating gaze.

She was once valued like jade at the Imperial Court.
Regretfully, no more.

Youth's brightness never circles round again.

Jill MacCormack

With sincere thanks to Andrew Griffin for his translation from the Li Qingzhao original and to John MacKenzie for sharing his version and Andrew's translation with me.

And thank you to my dear son Lucas MacCormack for the lovely moon photo.

An Island Meditation: Nov 2013

A young family walks on the remains of an old mossing road along the rugged cape of the Island. The red earth beside their feet is slowly giving way to new territory; to sea, to sand, to rocky shore, to expansive sky. 

It is a gentle, achingly beautiful scene. 

They stop and sit on the now fading grass, the broken edge where land meets the wondrous sky.  Courageously, lovingly, together they sit peacefully with the difficult knowledge that the very ground they sit upon will soon give way.

Trusting in the shared goodness of their own hearts they have the wisdom to realize, wonderfully realize, the utter import of drinking in the view from the vantage point available to them; the difficult reality of their here and now. 

And so, instead of falling off the edge of much that is so large and challenging, they choose to fall into it; to quietly sit and touch the  small, soft clusters of what remains of late summer's delicate beauty, pearly everlasting, recognizing that there is strength in togetherness.

Reaching out they pick a bayberry leaf, knowing that in gently holding it in the warmth of the palm of their hands, it will release its own sweet fragrance. 

They know that they too are being held and guided.

They cast a sweeping glance out over a windswept sea on the seeming eve of wintertime because they know that this can do a soul good. They rest in the fragile knowledge that by themselves they can never take in the enormity of it all, nor alone do they have to. Watching in wonder they see bright white gannets plummet intentionally to frigid depths no one wants to enter in mid autumn. They smile and laugh as the gannets rise back up wet with splendor from the belly of the giving sea. They know well that it is in giving of them-selves that they receive and that it takes opening their hearts wider than they ever thought possible to fully receive the greatest gifts.

Quietly they remember the gentle caress of summertime waves lapping on little bare toes on wet sand. Good things do truly come in small packages. 

Bravely, so bravely, they wonder the why's and how's of life that sometimes are too big to wonder and still somehow they manage to keep breathing deeply. They know the answer to much lies in trusting, letting be, and letting go into love's mysterious truths. 

Their graceful ability to negotiate the precipice is amazingly evident in the way they walk their given path. (Unlike most, they don't turn their faces from the north wind for long.) In sharing with deep honesty and creating their own footpath, they share the beauty of a vantage point that no one wants to ever have to look from.

Then standing, they lovingly hold hands, and cradling the tiny ones, walk on. 

A few purple asters cling to the cape. The sting of salt has taken its toll on the evergreens huddling there but they still stand together and face the full force of the seaborne wind. The sand below the cape is littered with driftwood and wonderful, yet to be discovered gems. The sun catches, glowing for an instant, on the crests of waves that too quickly roll back into the blue-grey deep of the sea. The horizon, unflinching, remains the same.

Steadfast in the knowledge that our edges are only edges until we reach them...they recognize that each new moment can be a place to begin again from. They know intuitively that as long as they have hearts of love, goodness will guide them on their journey into the unknown. 

 Sweet and wondrous gifts to the world they are!

Thank you to them for their powerful example of vulnerability and strength in their time of need. 

Photo by Lucas MacCormack

The Lindens on McGill--1957

The Lindens on McGill--1957

 

In springtime

the Lindens on McGill

rained down catkins.

They slithered dew worm like

down the street on windy days.

Big, fat worms they were to us and

we imagined them

pierced and wiggling on our hooks.

Sitting there with Easter haircuts and folded up knees,

we'd cast off from sidewalk riverbanks into waters wide and deep as memory.

The only shimmering fish that ever got away--our youth.

Love,

Jill

 

A gift for my dear father, Christmas 2017

Dear Journal, I'm sorry it's been so long...

Brutal. But write I must.

My handwriting almost illegible, my spelling atrocious, grammar non-existent. Stress-induced sleep deprived, imbalanced hormone driven drivel is not all I am capable of, but if for now it is all I produce, so be it. I accept my present limitations and I ask you to as well. As a woman writer this is my right; to let myself be as I am, part and parcel of my becoming.

On the other hand, I do not accept the walls I have erected to keep myself small and fearful. These I boldly reject all the while consciously redressing my own deconstruction. 

How to do this gently? In softness I acquiesce, bow to all which is larger than my small self. I admire my former scaffolding, apply curiosity to all situations, wander with a childlike sense of wonder. In place of cursing I find myself mumbling "so be it", and "it is thus", and humbly " I will begin again."

Transformation is a strange land and I accept its invitation to traverse its peaks and valleys.

But I do not accept blindly. I've done that in a previous dark night which lasted the better part of a year. Trembling, stumbling, gracelessly fumbling my way towards some kind of wonderful for which I'd only had the slightest prior inclination.

That was years ago. My children still babes in arms. Now they are growing into selves I never could have imagined in my wildest dreams. For this I am so thankful.

And now I sense a need within calling me towards another large creation movement. It asks for an increased willingness to engage in my own life. I accept with a knowing that allows room for uncertainty and insecurity. In fact, I welcome these former foes as friends. "Come in, where there is room in the heart there is room at the table." And what greater feast than your own life! 

As I begin to feast, I recognize that those feelings of vulnerability, uncertainty and insecurity, rise and fall like the morning sun. But at sundown I will not descend into the darkness and remain there. I see these feelings now as portents of  new growth. Potent fields of latent energy demanding my mindful attention and, more importantly, my kindness and nurturing. I am like my south facing garden; fecund and wild one day and frost kissed, withered and blackened the next. Life happens. Death and rebirth happen too.

I have given birth many times before; to my own three beloved children and to many selves, not all of whom I have had the energy to fully acknowledge. Their persistence is dogged and I must pay attention.

Typical and unfortunate both,  mid-life finds me heavily cloaked. At an age where acknowledgment feels like an honour garment, I must remove layers in order to reveal my truth.

I am capable. I am worthy.

In concession, I remind myself kindly:

Take a deep breath woman. Just because the tide is coming in doesn't mean you need to flee the waters. Let the sea of life be cause to dive deeper into your own myth. Allow yourself to rise naked, shivering and exalted. There is no other time than now. The beauty you behold is worthy of your attention.  Forget all that tells you no and become the yes your heart knows you are meant to be.

In warmth and possibility,
Jill