Fallow

rhythm rests

when words are trapped

like tumbleweeds hung

against stunted elm trees 

tangled in mesquite

on a dry Texas plain.

seeds of whimsy

await a fresh wind.

“We never know the worth of water till the well is dry.”

~ Thomas Fuller

A Sense of Place

Retirement has given me opportunity to reminisce about all the places that have held great meaning to me over the past decades. How have they each shaped my present home? Can any of these qualities be seen already, just buried in my past work life. My childhood homes, both in a small prairie town in winter and on a small family grain farm five miles east of town, has set the bar, I think, fairly high for this greatest of meaning. Sense of place as diverse as the plains of the Panhandle of West Texas to the furthest western province of Canada where I now live has come with me in my travels. Admittedly, British Columbia skies are cropped by trees and mountains but farther north of Victoria on Vancouver Island, the trees do occasionally part to allow the sky some breathing room. I also lived in Kelowna, B.C. where the wide valley also opened itself to the sky. The water features of the Island and the Okanagan are not reflections of the dry prairies, but do reflect the sky. Any similarities to the flat southern Saskatchewan landscape are dear to me. Some memories do distance themselves, while more recent memories can be in a somewhat dreamlike state. In that dream state, I am still wandering down a dirt road, barefoot to feel the land. It always has been about the land, family and all things growing. Musing a bit further, the following paragraphs describe what may be seen in any rural landscape and my image of my sense of place on the prairies.

Barns and greenhouses, landscapes and the great blue sky. Rambling old farmhouses with verandahs. Green growing wheat, blue fields of flax or heather in bloom backed up by yellow mustard blossoms or sunflowers stretch wide over prairies, nestle against foothills, or sketch themselves into the rocky mountains. Places where there is space. Broad, open and free space or sheltered space enough to sprout and grow. Quiet, where even another’s breath can not be heard. Only the wind in the trees, a tractor remote and grumbling, meadowlarks and killdeers, eagles and crows, gulls and ravens. Those are all of my dearest times. 

There was the time before adolescence had blossomed and yet was on the unknown verge of that riotous growth. The prairies were flat, and I assume still are. Flat as this page upon which I write. If one could put one’s ear to the ground as if listening for the distant rumble of horses or a buffalo herd, and yet look along the flat curve of the earth, the textures of the growing wheat or rye would leap out in greens and golds, brown and black. Bright tiny flowers nestled in amongst the grasses or waving and nodding above. Tree roots and the bumps of roads, wrinkled the flat land. Above, a blue, blue dome of sky seen riding high. Maybe a skiff of cloud. The dry dust of shimmering air settling with the end of day as the sun settled on the horizon. Distant storm clouds, ruffling the thin edged horizon, shaded in pinks and oranges by the brilliance of the setting sun. This textured flatness blackens with the loss of the sun’s rays becoming sharp shadows by the silvery gloss of a full moon on the prairies.

“Maybe you had to leave in order to miss a place; maybe you 

had to travel to figure out how beloved your starting point was.”

~ Jodi Picoult, Handle with Care

Wonder

I wonder if 
flying away from this too real world
would carry me into the Magic World of Writing

I wonder if
I could climb on a dragon’s back and sail
over mountains and lakes until
freed from the gremlins below

I wonder if
I could set myself down on a grassy plain
bare feet cool in the dew soaked grass

I wonder if 
I could wriggle my toes into
the deep roots of my life

I wonder if
savouring the experiences of my history
would show me unknown gifts and treasures

I wonder if
taking all my gifts and my treasures
up to the mountaintop, I could climb on my dragon
flying away over the land once more.

I wonder if 
these seeds of creativity
will sprout and grow with tender care.

I wonder if
these treasures and gifts offered to the Universe,
the home of clouds, moon and stars
will become stardust and moonrays

I wonder if
my life has meaning and depth
that still grows strong and bright each day.

I wonder if
all of that travel can be glorious fun ~ 
a journey of joy and endless discovery.

“The world is full of magic things, 

patiently waiting for out sense to grow sharper.”

~ W.B.Yeats

Stirring My Senses

Across the road from Hazeldell Orchards, Kelowna, BC

There is something about each of us that is spontaneous. Five somethings. Our five senses. 
Reading my journals from 2006, I found an unedited writing assignment. We were to write a 300 word short story about the five senses with an autumn theme. I have a few more than 300 words! Closer to 570 words! And I'm pretty sure I didn't get all five senses. Never the less, here is my creative non-fiction:

Stirring My Senses

“The road had been long. It was dusk. I was almost at my destination and in the unfamiliar terrain of low mountains. I had crossed the United States from North Texas into Western Canada and through a variety of mountain ranges. The Gaudalupes in Southwest Texas, the Eastern Rockies and now the Western Rockies crossing the United States/Canada border. I had been driving into Canada for only a few hours at the end of a long day at the end of a long trip home. I was changing homes to come my home country to the foreign province of British Columbia. My window was rolled down - the only air conditioning in my old car. Something stirred my senses. Gathering dusk had blackend the surrounding terrain although I could see a vast low forest of trees around me. I was glad the highway was wide and paved. Being used to, for the last fifty years, the open Saskatchewan prairies and LLano Estacado plains, this was one part of the trip that had been quite uncomfortable to me. Yet the air in the window was cool and fresh. Different somehow. It was not the smell of prarire dirt or highway asphalt or new mown hay. I didn’t recognize the fresh aroma wafting into the car. I felt awake and rejuvenated.

*****

And there they were. Bins of apples and pears. Wendy had asked that I help her with her fruitstand as her mother was not able to help out this year. I loved the thought of being on a farm again at harvest time. Just then the old blue Fordson tractor swung around the corner from the orchard carrying another bin of striped red apples on it’s outstretched iron arms. Once the bin  was lowered carefully into place and lined up, I set to work. Apples! Gala apples this time. Small, red and cream striped with dimpled bottoms. Picking one up to check for bruises and other anomalies, I leaned forward into the bin. Something stirred in my memory. I filled the box in front of me, culling out any barely imperfect apples leaving  only the most perfect for my box. The next step was to put the just packed box away in the big cooler at the front of the fruit stand. It was already crammed with boxes of the fresh picked fruit, I picked up the twenty pound box and followed my boss, Wendy, outside to a second larger cooler waiting to be filled. Opening the door, a rush of cold, aromatic air completely loosened the stuck memory. I was back on the highway driving through apple orchards. Orchards that stretched through the Okanagan Valley as far as the eye could see except for the chunks of land stripped and replanted with pavement and shopping malls, homes and schools. 

At that moment I knew what had been missing from my life for so long. The outside. Growing and harvesting. Friends and family living, loving and working on farms. Falling exhausted at the end of the busy day on the land. Meeting only the deadlines that the natural world sets. Each time I smell, touch, taste an apple or pear, it brings me from the mountains to my prairie home and I am glad. And so this piece of my journey back to self is a memory told by my senses. If I deny my senses, I deny myself."

“Nothing revives the past so completely 

as a smell that was once associated with it.”

~ Vladimir Nabokov

An Aura of Calm

Living on the prairies of Saskatchewan
and the plains of Texas    where land and sky
wrapped under and over me, I felt in awe of the grandeur

A return to Canada's land of 
   mountains, vast expanses of water and soaring trees
a new home wrapped around me.

The gardens of prairie and plains passed into memory
Only small patches of land existed - would that suffice?
Definitely - always aware of the satisfaction of growing food, flowers and an aura of calm.

“To dream a garden and then to plant it is an act 

of independence and even defiance to the greater world.”

~ Stanley Crawford, A Garlic Testament: 

Seasons on a Small New Mexico Farm

Wandering through Winters

The house across the street here
in Victoria one early morning
before the moon had gone down.

Rain drip-dropped from low clouds avoiding my protected kitchen window dribbling through 

eaves and downspouts

Not a prairie winter with 

glistening icicles

white, crunchy snow 

blue, blue sky

winds that whip up the grainy powder 

sending it skidding across highways and into driveways

Nor winter in the great plains of Texas

dry sandy brown grass,

brown leafless trees

blue skies and a few evergreens 

the only relief of color

wind whipping and loosening top soil

sandblasting anything daring to stand in it’s way

Snow a short lived treat - for some

Winter on this west coast island

grass green in yards and boulevards

growing unchecked with

any other growing plant - hardy flower or gangly weeds.

In those nights dipping below freezing

garden’s vegetables wilt into thawing mulch on the bare wet soil

sky cloudy and patchy blue on the good days

winds like giant hands claw mightily through trees and 

shake stout fences, angry that they stay standing.

Winter in all these places share 

warmer clothes - whether snow boots or rain boots

comfort food - chili, stew, hot cocoa ______ (you fill in the blank)

a desire to hibernate 

in a cosy bed

curled up on a sofa

out in community for laughter and good cheer.

(Sometimes a magic snowfall does quiet any of these lands.)

“Winter is the time for comfort, for good food and 

warmth, for the touch of a friendly hand and for 

a talk beside the fire: it is the time for home.”

~ Edith Sitwell