Planning with Hope

Plans sketched with lines and form ~

steps, tasks and guidelines

Goals set far down the road for

visions, ideas, and dreams

Journeys and roads long or short

side roads sprout along the way

Hope, not considered in plans,

keeps direction straight and true.

Even a tiny bit of hope transcends

roadblocks that shift our plans.

Invisible hope trickles through all our plans

from our hearts, our belief and our souls.

“After all, hope is a form of planning.”

~ Gloria Steinem, My Life on the Road

Christmas Wrapping ~ 2

Short links of hope in 
chains of 'wait another day'
after one more phone call
gathering up loose ends
so Christmas has a roof,
a lock on the door.

There is always hope 
for another new beginning.

“Nobody’s life is wrapped up neatly in a bow.”

~ Zoe Lister-Jones

Life's Work

Like a fine string

threaded through beads 

many shapes, sizes and colours,

hope holds life together.

“Invisible threads are the strongest ties.”

~ Friedrich Nietzsche

One Nurse's Belief

Of the ugly things in this world I see
beauty nestled deep in the soul.

But wait. I don’t see ugly things
but ugly actions from the soulless.

But wait again. Who has no soul?
A soul is unseen, unheard, nor smelled.

How does anyone know that someone whose actions are horribly wrong

is missing that thing called a soul.

My brain struggles with this difficult task

to decide who is deserving until
with hope I look in their eyes ~

Yes, I do know that eyes can be masked.

My job as a nurse is to open my hands

to offer care, connection and share my belief ~
all are deserving no matter their past.

Is this an excuse to be hurt or abused?
Definitely not. Respect must be drawn to the fore.

The art of a nurse is deeper than just an offer or share
~ to let someone go is the hardest of all that is hard.

While a soul’s beauty is shadowed by pain,
it shines weakly, and always is there.

“I don’t deserve a soul, yet I still have one. I know because it hurts.”

~ Douglas Coupland, The Gum Thief

Book Review: The High Mountains of Portugal by Yann Martel

This fantastic story, with the beautiful writing of Yann Martel, is written in three parts. Homeless, is Tomás’ journey from the city of Lisbon, his home, by car to the High Mountains of Portugal. Understand, the car is his uncle’s pride and joy and one of the ‘new fangled machines’ that was replacing horses. And Tomás has never driven anything. And he walks backwards, turning his back on the God of his upbringing, because of the unexpected death of his son. Full of the energy of exploration and immense grief, Part One felt rather choppy for me, with a lot of graphic detail. Tomás journey is, ostensibly, in search of a religious artifact described in the journal of one Father Ulisses from 1631. However his journey is also of a much deeper personal nature that Tomás does not recognize.

Unexpected was the move to another story in Homeward. The stories of Eusebio Lozora, a pathologist and his wife Maria is also full of detail and discussion of religion. Maria, a devout Catholic, has found a parallel between the Agatha Christie mysteries and parables of Jesus. She visits Eusebio in his pathology lab to tell him of her revelations. Again the theme of immense grief is prevalent as they also had lost a child. There is an autopsy, with rather gruesome detail, but much magical realism. Maria comes to Eusebio, in two separate forms, first appearing alive and well, and then following, seeming much more etheral and dark.

Section Three, Home, again moves ahead in time to the life of Peter Tovy, a Canadian Senator who has also experienced great loss of his dearly beloved wife. He lets go of the secure, ordered life in Canada to travel to the High Mountains of Portugal. His companion is a chimpanzee named Odo. With a Canadian delegation of Senators, he had taken a four day trip to Oklahoma where he tours an Institute for Primate Research. There he meets Odo and a relationship of mutual respect is born. After relocating to and living in the tiny village of Tuizelo, learning Portuguese and learning how to live a very basic life, he also learns that he has returned to the home of his parents in the High Mountains of Portugal. 

And so this creation from Yann Martel’s imagination journeyed through much loneliness and grief amid the busyness of life. Each story is connected through the distance of family. Hope and faith are also challenged in the stories, but each person carries some semblance of faith and hope. Some faith is stronger for some than others. The mood of this book went from agitation and high energy to great calm and acceptance of what is important in this life. Not religion, not things and not marching with progress but looking ‘for moments that make sense.’

“Stories full of metaphors are by writers who play the 

language like a mandolin for our entertainment, novelist,”

~ Yann Martel, The High Mountains of Portugal

Sunshine, Sand and Snowflakes

Sunshine, Sand and Snowflakes 

It was an old guitar propped up against a rock. Sun had dried the wood, thin strips of blue paint peeling away. Only one string remained strung. The others broken and curled. Sand had drifted up against the base of the once beautiful instrument. Petra could picture a cowboy sitting on the rock and strumming quietly as he watched over his herd. 

Petra had been out riding at the far end of her father’s ranch. At this far end, the cliffs allowed her to look over the desert. There was little plant growth but tough grasses and mesquite. Cattle seldom came this far to graze but if one of the herd was lost this was an area that was searched. To a newcomer to this land, it would look as though the guitar had been here for a long time, but the dry winds and hot sun of the desert quickly dried and weathered all that they touched. It was difficult to tell how long it had really been there. Or why.

Petra dismounted, letting the reins of her pinto, John, trail in the sand. Cautious of rattlesnakes, Petra decided to not go far from her horse. Taking her sketch book and pencils from his saddle bags, and her bottle of water, she settled against the only tree throwing shade. While John grazed on the sparse grasses, Petra sketched a picture of the guitar, the rock and the shimmering expanse of red desert in the distance. On that day, the wind had been calm, desert sand lying still in the heat.

~~~~~

Thirty-five years later, Petra looked wistfully at the finished painting of the old guitar that hung over the mantle. So strange. She had come so far in her life. In this northern city far from the desert, where everything was convenient and beautiful, her life was still a good life. Interesting, busy but so very different. Cars instead of horses. Snowflakes in the sunshine. Each stage of her life had been full of hope. It was always the hope that moved her forward. Hope and the strength she gained from each experience. This Christmas, as the others, she was grateful for all those people she had met along the way. 

The doorbell rang, reining in her wandering thoughts. Her family had arrived for turkey dinner with all the trimmings. Laughing their hello’s they stamped the snow from their boots. They would make their own paintings of their lives to cherish. They would be cautious and they would be brave. Petra smiled and opened her arms to her grandchildren and welcomed them into her home.

“I may not have gone where I intended to go, 

but I think I have ended up where I needed to be.”

~ Douglas Adams, The Long Dark Tea-Time of the Soul

One Particular Toy

One particular toy one Christmas
Of all hoped for toys and gifts
From Santa Claus or even from under a Christmas tree.
From my cousins Sandra and Mary on a family holiday
To Grandmother’s when I was but five
It was a little red iron and ironing board
That today is not allowed in the stores.
A little red iron plugged into the wall
It really did get warm!
The ironing board just fit a five year old
I could iron clothes just like my mom!
Now both iron and ironing board have gone the way of all toys.
Yet, my memory keeps them safe from harm
And yes - I still love ironing. 
With a big girl’s steam iron and an ironing board that fits.

“Christmas is the keeping-place for memories of our innocence.”

~ Joan Mills, Author

My Life Story in Five Sentences

Yesterday afternoon's writing assignment was to be Five Paragraphs not Sentences, ten minutes timed writing and was really difficult. I did write for ten minutes but….the creativity was extremely lacking, so I have pared it down to sentences. I’ve chosen what seemed to be the core of each paragraph. 

My Life Story in Five Sentences

Learning to be human.

Learning how to learn.

Learning to survive through goodness, fun and turmoil.

Learning to be grateful while away from home.

Coming home to my sons full of hope.

“Do you wait for things to happen, or do you make them 

happen yourself? I believe in writing your own story.”

~ Charlotte Eriksson