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

Why We Homeschool/Creativity Project

I can still hear the conversations like it was yesterday--are you guys crazy? I mean what are you thinking? Is it some great social experiment that you are trying out on your kids? Are you sure?

Five mainstream September school year beginnings have come and gone since we made our choice to keep our oldest daughter at home and this spring it will be five years since we took our other two younger kids out to learn at home and in the great world beyond the walls of institutional education.

Five delightful, frustrating and altogether unbelievable years of getting to watch as our children re-emerged from the stranglehold school had on them and became more creative and engaged versions of themselves.

Here are two neat takes on why someone chose homeschooling and what school/work can do to creativity.

How Society Crush Dreams & Kill Creativity

and

curious-about-home-schooling-families-ask-them-this-one-question

As the creator of and co-collaborator with the Creativity Project and as a parent of three intensely creative children I can attest to the truths being mined in the little short film. Our kids looked a lot like that little guy during their school days and now they have the creative freedom they deserve and the time and energy to engage creatively.

-Jill MacCormack

Late Summer's Promise

Unblinking as Cattail
on moonless August nights
Leopard Frog on roadside freezes
While crickets chirp 
nightfall
knead summer's
fading golds and magentas 
into autumn.

Promise me in days to come you will pick blackberries, sweet and succulent,
hang bouquets of cloud white Pearly Everlasting
to dry for winter wreaths.

Do promise me.

Bear witness to it as only you can.
The only true certainty is change.

In warmth,
Jill

Basho Haiku--Dewdrop on Leaf

Dewdrop, let me cleanse

in your brief

sweet waters . . .

These dark hands of life

M. Basho 

photo by Lucas MacCormack

White-throated Sparrows, Leaf Litter and Whiling Away Time

Practicing Mindfulness in Nature Part two: 

Another outing, this time in the expectant daylight of May, Lucas and I find ourselves in a nearby small woodland in which I whiled away many an hour of my teen years. On the forest floor leaf litter scatters while a pair of squirrels take chase. We sit awhile and watch as they race about.

Bordered on one side by a residential neighborhood and the other by a golf course, the small ravine of mixed hardwood and softwood somehow maintains a sense of being unspoilt by all the nearby development. I know otherwise but am temporarily lulled by the wonder of the moment. 

Our heads on swivels, our mouths agape, we are descended upon by small birds. A flock of White-throated Sparrows has swooped in exploring the lower brush, hen-like, their tiny feet scratch through the thick layer of last year's decomposing leaves. There must be thirty or more of these dainty sparrows whom I am new to identifying. Black eye stripe, yellow lores and boldly white throated, they are slightly larger than the Song Sparrow, their cousin.

My son explains they are newly returned spring migrants. I recognize in them a shared delight in this little woods, leaves in bud, fern fronds still coiled up as  fiddleheads along the riverbank.

One alights on a low hanging branch to my left, so near that I could reach out and touch it if I cared to.

Heaving up his long lens and aiming towards this moment's object of our attention, Lucas, an avid birder and nature photographer, attempts a photographic capture. He snaps a quick succession of clicks and lays back down on one arm avoiding the discomfort of the ancient Hemlock roots which not so subtly wind their way down the sloped bank towards the river.

Another day in the same woods, his older sister Maria joins us as she often does. Their keen ears catch wind of another creature's sound and turn my eyes towards a good sized bumblebee.

"Mom, check this out!" They point to where the forest floor is moving. Air from the bumblebee's wing buzz is causing the leaf litter to lift in places. Humbled, I can honestly respond that I've never before noticed such an occurrence. 

When each of our three kids were little, they happily brought me back to the level of grass blades and ladybugs. Our youngest daughter Clara, Queen of the Calapitter's, was noted for her ability to be present to the insects she adored.  And although it was a time of great wonderment, I must admit that too often I was not fully present. Agenda driven by arms length lists of household chores and seemingly endless meals to prepare, my attention was often fractured. I never would have guessed that it would be my teenage children who would quietly urge me back to a mindful awareness of the natural world I have always loved so much.

Practicing mindfulness in nature is the act of losing oneself to the experience of the present moment as it unfolds in the natural world. In our stillness we find the ceaseless motions of nature begin to reveal themselves to us. But our choosing to pay attention is required, and if the natural world around us isn't worthy of our attention--what is?

Jill MacCormack

Amphibian Hunt and the Marsh Maiden

Practicing Mindfulness in Nature: Part One

Practicing mindfulness in nature is the act of losing oneself to the experience of the present moment as it unfolds in the natural world.

The fictional character with whom I've identified most recently in my life is the Irish marsh maiden from Lord Dunsany's The Kith of the Elf-folk. Wild eyed mistress of the night time marshlands, the soul of humans and their constructs are such a curiosity to her that they temporarily pull her from the rhythms of the night marsh towards solid land, daylight and a human form. Towards this end, her kin, the kith of the Elf-folk, fashion a soul for her from un-quantifiables such as "the gray mist that lies by night over the marshlands" and "the myriad song of the birds". Soon, she is off into the strangeness of a walking human body dressed in clothing, desperately seeking the beauty of the world but saddled with the responsibility and mystery of dinner table talk.

Like the marsh maiden soon after taking leave of her native home,  I often find myself questioning the ways and motives of humankind. In response to my own sense of confoundedness, I have a renewed interest in a wild re-connection to nature. 

And so I am re-becoming the nature lover of my childhood. 

In mid April, wet nights are particularly magical as amphibians are called out by that deep, ancestral need to be acknowledged by another.  And so, one mild and rainy night this past April my teenage son Lucas and  I headed out for a walk to nearby Moore's Pond to hunt for amphibians and see what we might see.

About a half hour into our walk, after the initial excitement of finding several species of toads, frogs and salamanders, we were drenched.  I thought we should turn around to head for home but Lucas thought otherwise and strongly suggested that we go on just a  bit further to a favourite side road. It was there that we made our discovery.

In the inky darkness, about halfway down the roadway, his flashlight caught a glimmer of something light in the centre of the lane. There before us was a sizable Northern Leopard frog, laying on its little speckled back, its smooth white underbelly facing the blackness of the rainy night sky. Stranded by who knew what, it was the very picture of death waiting. 

With bated breath we paused a moment straining our eyes to take in the scene before us.

I think he's gone mom" was my sons gentle reply. Disbelieving, I looked a little closer and soon pointed out that its breath was still rising. This acknowledged, we were called  towards action.

Earlier in the day I had strangely zippered a sturdy envelope into my rain coat pocket instead of tossing it into the recycling. Recalling this, I took it out and in a moment Lucas slipped it beneath the trembling creature and carefully carried it off the laneway slick with water. He laid him right side up on a bed of wet grass in the hopes that it might survive. We turned and walked back towards the shadows of the main road.

As we made our way back past Moore's Pond we noticed two frogs had been squashed by passing cars since we had been by about ten minutes earlier. We couldn't help but feel for these little creatures who were simply trying to safely make their way across the road from one waterway to the other in answer to the call of the wild. And what about the little frog on the side road whose life we had  possibly just saved? What exactly was it that had caused Lucas, my mild mannered son,  to strongly urge me onwards down that dark laneway when we had already felt satisfied by seeing any number of amphibians crossing on the main road? Had that little Leopard frog somehow been calling out to him for help? 

Spurred on by tiredness and the seeking of our warm, dry beds we quietly paced our steps to the brisk, uncertain chorus of spring peepers and the occasional toad. 

Upon our return home that night I thought of Lord Dunsany's words as he wrote about wild things and the little marsh maiden : "I chanced to stand that night by the marsh's edge, forgetting in my mind the affairs of men; and I saw the marshfires come leaping up from all the perilous places. And they came up by flocks the whole night long, to the number of a great multitude, and danced away together over the marshes."