Speak the language of nature
and you will have an audience.
If words fail, do not despair
that poetry can not emerge for
nature is the foremost expounder
of poetic images whose presentation
transports in an ecstasy of visions
The poetry of a sunset, of new
fallen snow, of a child's smile
a bird's song, a blooming rose
and an ancient tree stretching
its arms up to the sky extolling
the perfection of its creator.
You see, you read, you hear and you
experience then you synthesize and the
result is your very own lesson on the
intersection of history and geography
at any given time leaving you with
the realization of so many histories
and so many geographies and you know
the repetitious nature of it all and you
sigh, or you fail to and instead shrug.
You see an infant held in its mother's
arms, an adorable child with large and
luminous eyes into which can be read
its future in years of adapting to being
and thriving and becoming, its destiny
assured. You see an infant held in its
mother's anxious arms, the child with
large, vacant eyes in which there is no
future for it has already lived its destiny.
That child has reached what will become
of it in reflection of where it was born
and what it has too soon suffered.
Appearances certainly can be deceiving
but despite their faded appearance and
joyless expressions those gathered in
this place have a love affair with life
and they are determined against all odds
to cheat the unctuous solicitations of
the Grim Reaper. They may have lost
possession of many of their faculties
but the urge to survive remains constant
alert and defiant. Throughout the course
of the day they stream, one by one, in
pairs, ambulatory or pushing walkers
alternately being themselves pushed in
wheelchairs, all sharing that one ambition.
Some are new to this unit where the
lighting is maintained in a soothing dim
constancy and many are returnees; the
former for pre-surgical assessment, the
latter returning after open heart surgery
for routine checks. There the survivors
of long lives congregate in their white
wisdom studiously ignoring the presence
of counterparts yet occasionally leaning
forward to enquire of personal experience
as in recovery details by the anxious
willing to break the unspoken conspiracy
of courage in silent aloof indifference.
I wonder why it is that the most frequent
dream that visits my sleeping hours that
I identify as a recurrent nightmare has
always been of myself at different stages
of my life wandering a busy street
looking, looking for familiar signposts
that would lead me home wherever that
home at any given time happened to be.
My subconscious mind busy while I
sleep dredging up concerns not known
to me during waking hours; am I then so
emotionally vulnerable? I think about our
two little twin poodles, brother and sister
who we know have thoughts and memories
and can discern far more than we credit
them with in their emotional attachment
to us. Their sensitivity to our emotional
fluctuations must come from somewhere?
Their language skills and capacity to
decipher body language, their willingness
to communicate to us their own body
language speaks to a deep need of their
very own. So I wonder when they sleep
do they too dream and wander about an
unfamiliar landscape in search of their
own vague recollections of dependency
on their mother, recalling no doubt her
deeply protective instincts, now absent.
Oh the places I've been to, the landscapes
I've seen, touched and that have touched
me throughout my long and fortunate
life. Standing on mountain summits and
looking out over the countless peaks
marching into infinity, ambling about in
an old-growth forest, the masts of ancient
trees rising as of nature's cathedral ...
paddling lakes and rivers alongside loons
and great blue herons, cooking meals
over a campfire, watching the embers
drift skyward to join the multitude of stars
winking back from the deep velvet of
the sky. Living among people in far-off
countries of a heritage, culture and language
not my own. I could write of my adventures
and I have, just as have countless others
whose escapades allow me to see, hear
and feel what they experienced and through
them have been to Easter Island, Alaska
Antarctica, the Himalaya and Africa.
What more could anyone ever desire as
long, my love as you have been with me?
There, in my tender mind's eye our
summer garden still thrives in grand
colourful insouciance, a vivid reminder
of loss in a winter landscape whose
confined colour palette wearies my
consciousness that reverts to dreaming
of summer breezes, a searing sun
casting brilliance over the banished
splendour that roses and lilies awaken
my grieved sensibilities to mourn.
And does nature care that we are so
deprived of the joy of summer gardens?
She remains removed and singularly
unimpressed. This is, after all, her
world and we its tenants. These are
her seasons and she has her reasons.
Our gardens are her gardens in very
fact, on loan in the most temporary of
ways. Yet empathy does not completely
elude her. She nudges us to notice and
regard her very own unrivalled winter
garden, there for our visual comfort.
The early morning sun illuminated
the house this morning in contrast
to the days when grey gloom
pervaded the atmosphere within
and without. Clear blue winter skies
come with a pricetag bringing icy
temperatures in lieu of snow and
so cold that blustery winds wreak
havoc on warm-blooded creatures
huddling in their shelters. In the
forest among the trees where snow
yet remains on trunks and branches
and the forest floor is steeped in ice
all is still, no birds sing or flit about
much less the furry denizens last seen
frantically in search of denning-up
victuals to over-winter. Tramping
through the forest trails with their
winter-entrancing landscapes we
briefly savour the sharp air tingling
our nostrils, pinching our cheeks
as we watch the antics of our little
dogs clad as we are in winter gear
seemingly impervious to discomfort
entranced by the atmosphere, at one
with the forces that shape our world.
