Into the Void

It’s easy to let hope 

drain drop by drop

while deep inside

healing fills spaces

that hope has abandoned

~ spaces designed to

hold light or dark,

sadness or willingness.

It can be difficult to 

decide which to choose.

“We are our choices.”

~ Jean-Paul Sartre

One Question

To ask 

one question ~

what do any of us

know of another’s life?

To ask 

one question ~

Is there a design flaw

from within that 

is ours to fix? 

To ask 

one question ~

Or do we look

to the design that 

truly is ours to reshape?

“There are always answers. We just have to be smart enough.”

~ John Green, Looking for Alaska

Artistic License

I have seen one or two 

before ~

blank white canvases

with one thin 

red, blue, or yellow 

brush stroke

across or diagonally

and I wonder ~

did the artist look at

that white blank canvas

~ pace and pace ~

brush poised, 

pick up a palette of paint

 ~ suddenly inspired to

gently stroke in that line

and there it is

a finished, priceless canvas.

Much like this 

blank screen

covered with only 

the thinnest attempt 

at open verse.

“Artistic license sneered through the thin fabric.”

~ Ingmar Bergman

Chapter Two, Episode Eighty-Four - Emptiness - Situationally Theirs

Emptiness

It was not usual for Cook to suddenly take her apron off, turn off her oven, pick up her jacket and umbrella and leave the Estate kitchen. Half way over to the garden she stopped, turned around….hesitated and spoke to no one. “Well, aren’t I the fool. I forgot to turn off the lights. But, I’m not going back. It’s too blessed quiet in there.”  Turning back toward the garden, she set her pace again. 

Samuel,  proud of the Estate garden, had been pleased to show it off to James’ brother, Thom. He was far more interested in the new plantings than James had ever been. He’d never been when they were teenagers, but since living in the mountains with all that snow, he had a real treat. He showed him the green house and the plants that were just being started.A pretty damp and cold spring, his garden was not the greatest, except to Thom. 

“Who’s that coming across the lawn. Doesn’t look like Miss Dez……Elizabeth? Maybe….she’s not carrying anything except her umbrella and it’s barely even raining.” He called out to her. “Elizabeth, is somethin’ wrong?” No answer. She just kept coming. “Guess she’s goin’ to keep me in suspense.” He went back to his work, pulling a weed or two, as young as his vegetables. His slicker was damp with mist, his hands muddy. Gloves were foreign to him unless he was hammering or building something. 

~~~~~

“What do you suppose they’re up to?” Dez and her sister, Emelina were up in the dining room. Em was reading some novel she picked up at the library. “Hmm? Did you say something Dez? What are who up to?” She put her book down on the little oak table by the couch she had been curled up on. She liked reading on these rainy days, but when Dez spoke up, she decided she’d best stop ignoring her sister.

“Elizabeth and Samuel. Elizabeth is almost never out to the garden, especially on rainy days.” Dez laughed. “Samuel would laugh at me saying today is a rainy day. The first time I fussed about working in the rain, he just looked at me and grinned. Anyway, what does it look like to you?”

“Dez, do you remember when we got out of that awful isolation two years ago? We went into town, just to get out and decided to be brave and buy some bread.” She smiled a little smile. “I hope you never told Cook we bought bread! She’d never forgive us.”

“Sure I do. That bread was dreadful. And all the people we ran into. Everyone with masks on doing the same thing……just getting out. But what has that got to do with those two out there?”

“I’m not sure, but I just wonder. It was so quiet in here when we got back. At first it felt….well, comforting, we were home. Then you went to Martha’s office - which you had for a bedroom then - and shut the door. It was more quiet than ever. So quiet I felt uncomfortable.” Emelina stopped talking, just looking out the window, soft rain drizzling down the glass.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Em.”

“Let’s go down to the kitchen. Hadn’t you noticed the lights are on down there? That’s not like Cook to leave the kitchen with the lights still on.” Em looked puzzled. “I know she’s not here. James and Martha are away………Dez, look at the kitchen ~ she’s left pots beside the stove,  dishes not put away. I hope she’s all right.” 

~~~~~

“Can’t I just come out to see what you’re planting, Samuel? I just wanted to see what kind of vegetables to expect this fall.”

Samuel was not fooled by her gruffness. “Elizabeth Saunders don’t you lie to me. You know what I planted because we already talked about that. Fact is, it’s almost all we talk about, unless it’s whatever you’ve been cooking - or maybe the weather. I’m about finished up here. Got to get back to the house to feed Bentley. I left him inside so he wouldn’t put his muddy paws all over everything.” He wiped his hands on his slicker, pulled a rag from a big pocket and tried to dry them. Elizabeth relaxed. There would have been a time when she chastised him like a little boy for wiping his hands on his slicker, but not this time. Folding up her umbrella, she picked up the pail of weeds while he took his tools into the shed. “I hope you want these in the mulch bin because that’s where they’re going.”

They walked in silence the short way to Samuel’s ‘shack’. It was a plain little house, not that old, but he always had called it his shack, even when it was being re-built. He scraped his feet on a metal bar he installed by the steps to his porch. “Clean your feet Elizabeth. Guess I don’t have to tell you that. Listen to that dog, he’s heard us coming. Stop your whining, Bentley, I’m coming.”

~~

The tea was hot. Elizabeth warmed her hands around the mug Samuel brought her. “Now, Elizabeth. The truth. What’s goin’ on?”

“You really want to know? I got real lonely in that big empty kitchen today. While Mr. James’ brother was here with his wife, the bunch of us sat around the table almost every night while they were here. If we weren’t in the Estate kitchen, we’d be over at Digby’s or in town at a restaurant. There were times it was almost like we were thirty years younger. Now I know why Miss Emelina changed so much after her sister was here.”

She looked up from her tea to Samuel. “It was like we were all family and then they were gone.” Samuel didn’t know what to do with that look she had in her eyes. “And we never were family, my family is gone. Lily, my only sister, died………..Oh, what am I telling you this for? I guess I was just feeling how empty that big old kitchen gets. And not just today.” ……. She took her empty mug to the sink. “When was the last time you did any dishes, Sam?” Turning the hot water on, she reached under the sink for soap and began cleaning up. “Where’s your dishcloths, Sam? Well, come on, I’m not doing all these by myself.”

“There’s just something obvious about emptiness, 

even when you try to convince yourself otherwise.”

~ Sarah Dessen, Lock and Key

Whispers ~ 2

Few of us know what we’re doing in this life unless we have created 

a design. Or one has been created for us  ~ missing the music of our souls 

that whispers new directions like the pull and tug of a magnet ~ true and strong.

Our noisy world dampens the whispers

until we are willing to listen.

“And slowly a discussion begins - as Morrie has wanted all along

 - about the effect of silence on human relations. 

Why are we embarrassed by silence? 

What comfort do we find in all the noise?”

~ Mitch Albom,  Tuesdays with Morrie

Waiting to Rumble

gathering strength

waiting to rumble

to fling cold rain

on thirsty land

or ~ just hover

waiting to rumble

“What avails a storm cloud

accurate in form and colour

if the storm is not therein?”

~ Albert Pinkham Ryder, painter

Born: March 19, 1847

Died: March 28, 1917

Author's note:  Weather is so strange ~ Manitoba is floating away, while we are grateful for rain!

A Mother’s Day Muse - A Worthy Goal

Mother’s Day. There are many ideas about the origins of this special day, as far back as Greek mythology. However, each year the moms celebrated are all around us; many only one or maybe two generations past. And yes, we do honour and celebrate each of the aunts, uncles, neighbours, and friends that have mothered us. 

It can be a frustrating struggle to honour a mom who, because of thorny life experiences unknown to us, has not fit into the ‘good mom’ picture. Maybe that is where we need to go. Into the unknowing, the compassion for the young child, young girl, young adult that tripped into and over life. Am I sounding too sunshine-y? I hope it is not seen that way. 

I am well into my seventh decade. When I review all the mistakes and missteps I have made as a mom, I have gained some of that compassion for those youngsters that became moms too soon, or too late, or who were not mothered themselves. Choosing to live a different, and possibly healthier, path to honour those moms seems a very worthy goal.

“Compassion is not a virtue - - it is a commitment. 

It’s not something we have or don’t have - - 

it’s something we choose to practice.”

~ Brené Brown