Saturday, August 27, 2011

My Fan


I am in love with my fan
these hot, humid days of summer.
I refer not to the human kind
that stand on street below
eyes raised towards my window
bothering me by flash and noise.
No, a box shape electrical in motion
sits on my window sill
swirling air to coolness in the
darkness fallen oppressed by the heat of day.

Its steady noise hides all,
protects me from the madness of sounds:
the cars that roar up the street
always it seems in a hurry,
hides the conversations broadcasting
beyond the intimacy of porches
bouncing yard boundaries
into windows gaping with the heat,
muffles the drunks sent home
by closing signs on bars
their drunken soliloquy kept
far from my silent slumbers.

The bliss of white noise and wind
blowing from my electric watchman
the outside world cannot intrude
on my poor thoughts
relishing the morning coolness
I lie curled within its safety
giving me sweet pause
in readiness to face the dawn.

Thursday, August 4, 2011

To a Youth

I cannot follow you down
through that winding path you choose
in tangles of forest undergrowth
I fear the evil presence
who lives somewhere nearby
above those sharp rocks
underneath the perilous
overhang of cliffs.

I wandered there many
years ago from now
the deadly one caught me unawares,
my heart was torn
left bleeding in the dawn
before a sunless sky.

I cannot follow you down
my steps will not leave
the sureness of the chosen path
leading ever upwards
into the shining light of day
I reach back into the shadows
with hope for that day
you send your gaze upwards
through all those leaves of grass
and see into that sky
we were born to call our home.

Saturday, July 30, 2011

Sketch of a Young Soul

When Melanie was twelve she was given an introduction to the Catholic tradition of mental prayer. From this instruction in the classroom there arose an exchange of letters between herself and the teacher based on the Carmelite tradition of prayer and St. Thomas Aquinas.

    From a young age she had loved the stories of the saints and when she moved to the Catholic school in the city, away from the little country school she had attended for the first three years of elementary education, her great delight was the library. 

    In it she found the Bobsey Twins, which led to Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys but more importantly, a junior series on the lives of the saints. She had worked her way through them all before she sat in the desk in the Grade Seven classroom and became a student of prayer. In this peaceful and orderly setting she explored the questions that entered her mind and at the end of the year, with the permission of her parents, her teacher became her spiritual director.

    The next year she entered the large public school and the teen-age years of emotional development with its ups and downs. That year she had had a premonition of the enormous cost of the spiritual life and she had recoiled in fright. The Divine fisherman had given her lots of line to run from Him and the results had been mentally distressing. Being lost in the woods of life was excruciating.

    Her youthful pride had led her to believe that the graces she had received were very commonly given.

    She was aware of external traps to be avoided but her effect upon other people and her own inner thoughts lacked awareness and self-control. Nor did she understand that idolatry is a subtle master.

    Sitting on the Lourdes wharf, the summer camp not far from her home, one late autumn afternoon in the sunshine, Melanie faced into her fifteen year old self and found that she wanted a foot in both the world and the spiritual life. Why couldn't she have both, why was there a choice to be made? Now at fifteen, faced with the need to change sheer wilfulness into the pursuit of a real spiritual life she obeyed her director and settled down to become a docile student once again.

    This choice brought her into conflict with the other adults in her life: her parents, parish priest and, indirectly, the bishop. She was forbidden the necessary contact with her spiritual director which resulted in great unhappiness as well as many rebellious attitudes on her part. It was a stormy year.

    The summer Melanie turned sixteen she met some priests and young people from Kelowna at the summer camp. When autumn approached she made a last minute decision, encouraged by the principal, to move to that city for grade eleven in the only Catholic high school in the diocese. Her parents reluctantly agreed to this strange twist in events, perhaps feeling, as she did, that a break in the tension and impasse between them would be welcome.

    It was a lonely year in many ways. It took four attempts to find a home, each move and circumstance made her grow up a little more.

    Being young and full of energy she joined the school drama club and played the lead role in the autumn drama, an old maid who commits murder, and in the spring she had the comedic role in the school musical.

    Guitar masses were sweeping through North American liturgies, youth movements such as Search were happening all over the diocese. She joined the youth choir, singing the folksy tunes that were making the rounds and more legitimately, she did music for the Search week-ends where folk music actually had a real place.

    She taught Grade Two catechism and learned she wasn't a teacher. Controlling the rambunctious boys took all her energy and when they made their First Communion, at long last, she hoped that something real had penetrated their little heads. She also joined a Charismatic prayer group. She was the only young person involved and although the older women liked her company and were kind she quit soon afterwards. She had to admit to herself that she was just making things up and felt uncomfortable.

    In the late spring a workshop was given by a free lancing Carmelite nun. The workshop's theme did not remain in her memory. What did remain was the experience of spiritual restlessness. Or was it just the novelty factor, the flavor of the month? Whatever the original intention, the week-end event turned into an experiment in defying Eucharistic discipline.  Promoted by this nun, it was decided by the participants that Anglicans and Roman Catholics should be able to share the Eucharist and so they did.   When Melanie reported this to her director he was indignant and scolded her for being involved. She felt ashamed but somewhat defiant, mostly through ignorance and not wanting to criticize the adults she had looked up to.

    The summer of her seventeenth birthday saw her filled with the conflicting experiences of the past year. She wanted to return for grade twelve in Kelowna even though in her heart of hearts she knew it wouldn't work. She had to face into the reality of having a spiritual director who told her to return home and dig in. Melanie was torn in two directions. How could she obey? It was so difficult. She knew her parents could not afford another year yet, inside, she resisted the truth.

    One hot summer day she rode her bike into town, buffeted by a spiritual headwind. All she could do was pedal and when the dreaded interview was over and she had agreed to obey she was astonished at how happy and free she felt. At peace once again with herself and her parents she found the freedom she had longed for. Her Dad gave her a small car and everything about her life fell into place.     

   The next autumn after graduating from high school she moved out of her parents’ house and into town to be with her spiritual companions and attend the local Catholic university college. Her life began to change. One day in the previous year upon entering the church she had had a brief vision of a man she did not recognize. Later she had another glimpse at this stranger and she began to suspect that for all her talk and activity in his name she didn't know him.

    One day he appeared directly to her and asked her what penance she was going to do.

    "Penance, what penance?" she had answered Christ.

    There was silence.  Her rudeness betrayed her inexperience.

    She did not understand why she had been questioned about penance, but somehow she sensed it was the gate to a life with Christ, together on the road that beckoned: the salvation of her soul and those of many others.

      It would mean criticism and rejection by those who knew her as she withdrew from that world into the embrace of penance. At nineteen, she was ready for her future, hidden in the will of Him, who was knocking on the door of her heart.

Friday, May 13, 2011

The Vine

Yesterday a pilgrimage
five miles by foot
to wander into time past
rural road walked for years
in all the seasons:
under moonlight or summer heat with
warm sand to rest upon
snowy tracks on icy ways
bundled against the cold swept waters
always sending thoughts around
the universe unfolded.

Years ago
we heard the owl
calling in the darkness
as we paused at the rise
the road gently led,
just before the death
young and heavily borne
by all who knew her
mournful that sound
mingled with the wind
high in the pines.

When times changed
beneath the stars we
watched the house lights
twinkle beyond our reach
filled with expectation we
walked this road endlessly
but in the end
the scores were settled
with hope our only prize.

Now once so rural,
the relentless development
houses gouge the hillsides
slash the wooded slopes
crowd the waters
poet's lamenting progress
always.

I went in search of memory
and the wild blue clematis
growing hidden along roadside
on slender vine, invisible
strung wantonly on the tangle
forest undergrowth
with four blue petals,
this secret virgin bower,
flowering in spring
sending out it's modest
tender hue untouched by
relentless real estate
just following the winding road
strung like Christmas lights
woven through branches and bush.

Along the railroad track
back into the sun
shining warm,
breezes off the lake
the past now memory alive
hidden from hurried ways
like this tender vine 
caught only with scrutiny
engaging the eye to follow
it's winding ways
on this pilgrimage
to memory and tiny bower
that blooms as faithfulness must.

Thursday, April 21, 2011

On Visiting the Graveyard

In this time of suspended season
A spring filled with hesitation
Shivering beneath the cold
Winds that will not warm
Tree branches still bare with
Leaves afraid to unfurl
Bear a silent witness
This Holy Week
Hope is on hold for now.

Up into the gray woods
The babble of brooks unheard
The birds sparse in the trees
Creation bent beneath
The weight of waiting
We visit the tombs
Walking the winding paths
Surrounded by so many names
We know.

Even in death
People congregate together
By religion
Nationality
The common fate of soldiers
The lodges and clubs
A general mix together as
On a summer street.
Does this make for better neighbours
Can one rest more peacefully
Be protected from the unknown
By these associations of
The posted past
Or will the trumpet blast
Send souls scurrying
In all directions
On that fateful judgement day?
But I digress.

So many friends sleep here
Beneath these grass clad slopes
I am overwhelmed by
Their sheer number
How time has slipped by
These souls departed
Resting within us
In tears we pass
Slowly between these graves
Some modest
Others demanding
A skyline of their own.

As we leave the cemetery
A small procession of cars
Their lights blinking
Slowly approaching the gates
Led by the mourner's black van
The driver on the phone
Is he communing with the dead?
Or just the other talking drivers
Alas, there are no voices
In that silent world
Along those wooded paths
Only a heart once known
Can speak
To the heart that is left waiting.

Friday, April 15, 2011

Recollection of Prayer

   In 1948, the rosary crusader Fr. Peyton, came to the Canadian prairies and my parents were among the twelve thousand people gathered to hear his message. They had been married in the Depression and then living through the Second World War they were eager to found their family on solid ground. They adopted the practice of saying the rosary together with their children.
   A dozen years later this practice of the evening rosary was to impress itself on my small person. That summer, my aunt and family had traveled from Edmonton to visit her older sister, my mother. There in the living room of our little house with the summer sun fading from the mountains, we all knelt before the crucifix on the northern wall. The prayers began as usual but soon I was rudely drawn out of my reverie by my Aunt turning towards me and saying that it was my turn to lead a Hail Mary.
I was alarmed and tried to hide behind my mother. Slowly I became aware of a dozen or so pairs of eyes watching me which to my five year old self was a vast multitude of people looking in my direction. I froze in terror as I only knew the first two words having never bothered to learn the rest. It was a gentle rhythmic sound that I had registered, not words.
   Thus began the painful process of being fed a few words at a time, to be repeated out loud until with great relief, my part was over and it was the "crowd's" turn to answer. My release from public scrutiny left me on alert in case such attention was shown me again. Alas, my invisible world of daydreaming had suffered a severe shock. I had just survived my first public performance.
   I still had my private evening routine to perform under the watchful eye of my mother as I knelt beside my bed, before the hand-tinted painting of the child Jesus with a little bird sitting on his hand, to make contact with my guardian angel whose protection I was taught to request.
   I can recall three events of physical danger that needed such angelic help on the small farm we lived on.
   The first is remembered more by hearsay, I have only a vague memory of the portable cement mixer passing over my head and down upon the ground, leaving me safely behind in the box on the back of the tractor from whence it had tumbled, heading up too steep a hill.
  I do remember being on top of the hay wagon that overturned and left me buried under the hay. Not for  long as my father was quick to reach me. Just long enough to feel the panic of suffocation.
   The third event was quietly dramatic. I had been watching my brothers doing something with the barn door that ran on metal rollers to open and close. For some reason it came off its mooring and fell straight in my direction. I turned and ran as fast as my little legs would take me and the metal rollers scraped my back as they fell, missing my head by a whisper. Crying loudly and unaware of my close call, I ran into the house to have my wounds tended to, my life being preserved by a matter of inches.
   Most of all I recall in that little house, how many times with every childhood illness, my mother rocked me in the blue rocking chair, how one day my little soul was caught up into the arms of the Virgin Mary, who filled me with the greatest tenderness I had ever known.
   These recollections live in the timeless world of memory, hand in hand with those loved ones who no longer walk this earth but keep me company on my journey of prayer.

Thursday, April 14, 2011

In Praise of the Confiteor

The birds return now
Filling the silence of winter
With songs so joyful
They
Intent on their nesting
New life into being
The sounds reaching our ears
With springtime unfolding.

I think of the prayer
That has begun the
Greatest Sacrifice repeating
The words that set the tone
Upon a busy week
World events and personal
Losses and gains
Within this life of earthly
Journeys and vanities.
I confess
I am a sinner in
Many ways
Through my choice or neglect
And I humbly ask you
My brethren
To pray for me
In the presence of the saints
That I may one day
Take my place among them.

Alas, there has been another robbery
The hooligan attack on liturgy
Continues
Impoverishing year after year
The Confiteor replaced by other options
Valid it is true as
Options being made to have
A change of pace
But this constant diet of options
Is unwelcome to this soul
The Confiteor interferes with hearing
God's words says the thief
Removing the wax of
Weekly events
Stepping back from sinful ways
Does not apply.

You best be careful, I say in return
That you who chose this course
Will find salvation an option.

Please let my silent song
With the beautiful words whispered
Quietly in God's ear
Herald a spiritual spring
Released from so tight
An icy grasp
Though I still do fly away
Unto a nesting ground
So far above
In praise of words
Confiteor.