Tuesday, October 12, 2010

autumn and a garden







From the last two weeks of August I have had an unexpected gift of being home with my darling one and a half year old son daily. Today during his nap I had some thirty minutes of standing around our young wild looking vegetable garden that consists of some herbs, twigs, weeds, two determined strawberry plants, a cheerful crowding of cherry tomatoes, and a few leafy plants of Kale permited to grow by protective thistles that triumphed over little hungry garden visitors.

In months of mid-summer, when the afternoon is very quiet, one can find herself swatting away at boredom, or even less welcome, the looming buzz of lonliness. But solitude and quiet in the Fall is a comforting mug of cider. The earth is a cathedral of orange and red stainglass and silence calls the heart to mystery and adoration. Things are whole in the Fall, beauty and death have found each other in a lovely mandola and we know that if the earth has done it, it is okay to surrender.

I also have been appreciating the way in which this small vegetable patch crouched beside the deck has grown a personality in recent weeks. It's expanded beyond an amature attempt to grow something in the suburbs, or hasty trips to the garden centre, or even kind advice at the office. With foilege drying up in preperation for the sacred ritual of dying, it has taken a kind of enchanted posture toward the world, one of having always been, knowing old secrets.

I am thankful for this garden and the manner in which caring for it invites me to a greater awe for the beauty that surrounds me. Beauty that is a Good Creator, and the loving man in my life. Beauty that is in my little son, his wild looking curls. He too has grown a personality in recent weeks and taken an enchanted posture towards his world. My heart is filled with mystery and adoration.

Tuesday, October 5, 2010

red, insatiate


Should we not now be emerging
From that merciful sustaining fog
That allowed us enough sagacity
to bring jerry cans and cooking pots to the pump
To care for toddlers.
To vote.
To rush about and build this our Land and Nation.
To roll out the red cloth for the dignitaries
with arms full of capital investments.

For when the rooster called out that
the night had walked away and day had come to this village.
There were tasks that had to be done.
It was 1957, it was 1963,
The dark had been long, and it was good to be standing.
Dashing about, fighting, churching
and sleepwalking to keep this village running.

But now we are awaking,
One by one, group by group
We are emerging to the pounding shriek,
There has been a rape!

Intruder in our village,
Moved through windy dark air
Ravaged, Stole, Stabbed.
Took stories from the chests of dreaming children,
Placed Jerry cans in the grip of sleeping mothers,

We are awaking,
Rising and falling,
Harrowing wails,
Steadily fastened hands and souls,
Pouring red
Insatiate.