Are all the mystical poets are old bearded men
with pointed turbans who lived centuries ago?
Do women have mystical wisdom?
we who bear children
experience the mystery of pregnancy
we who lend our bodies to the growth of another
we who labour to bring the child from the inner to the outer
we who suckle our babes
feel our breasts hard with milk
feel it drip bounteously from our nipples
we who see the mystical in the mundane
laundry dirty dishes perfect salads
snotty noses sick children
well made beds clean kitchen sinks
we are no strangers to the unknown and the agony
since the beginning of time
we have created groaned nurtured
our babies into being
we have screamed at the wailing wall
as our children have been wantonly killed by bombs bullets cars
our handiwork is the work of God
yet destroyed as thoughtlessly as the work of the devil
women’s work is love
not the romantic kind
that ends happily ever after
but ongoing tough love
that expands through pain tears and forgiveness
love that causes our tender hearts to ache for the pain of another
love that breathes us into acceptance
love that keeps on loving after tragedy
wild courageous feminine love
Friday, January 20, 2012
Friday, December 30, 2011
Facebook poetry
THE TURNING
the coracle moon
drifts on mountain waves
showered by stars
pinpoints of light
in the winter solstice night
and welcomes the fiery dawn
PARADISE FOUND
in a valley called Chickadee
the world born anew
covered in fresh snowcrystal
blue skies
fleece and friends
warm body and soul
HOLY GROUND
seeds sprout in stillness
spread interwoven roots
offer an anchor in the storm
cocooned in the forest
i am entwined
in the moon’s embrace
a place to grow myself
the coracle moon
drifts on mountain waves
showered by stars
pinpoints of light
in the winter solstice night
and welcomes the fiery dawn
PARADISE FOUND
in a valley called Chickadee
the world born anew
covered in fresh snowcrystal
blue skies
fleece and friends
warm body and soul
HOLY GROUND
seeds sprout in stillness
spread interwoven roots
offer an anchor in the storm
cocooned in the forest
i am entwined
in the moon’s embrace
a place to grow myself
2011 Christmas letter
There is a globe beside my computer with the Americas covered from top to bottom in bright pink dots – showing Shona, Andrew and Kumu’s 55,000 km route from Canmore, Whitehorse, Alaska and then south. Yes south as far as you can go by land without falling into the southern oceans. Then a few dots north to Buenos Aires from where they shipped their vehicle to Jacksonville, Florida, then drove north to Ontario and west to Canmore. A year’s round trip. It was great to welcome them back to Canmore just in time for Shona to start her University education in Environmental Science at Calgary University, and Andrew to take up his position as a Coach for the Lake Louise Ski Club. They are living in Calgary and have settled into a routine of weekdays in the city and weekend in the mountains, which they assure me, are among the most beautiful in the world. I have to agree with them. We have enjoyed their visits. You can read about their trip in their blog: www.kumulife.blogspot.com
Chris continues his busy life in Revelstoke. He had an exciting trip to Kashmir, India last February. This was nostalgic for me as I spent a year there 40 years ago. Sad to say it has been war torn for years and soldiers were in many of his photos. Still he went helisking with a New Zealand company and the skiing has expanded significantly since the seventies. Chris was one of the athletes in a locally produced ski movie called ALL.I.CAN. It took two years in the making and has an environmental theme. In late September Clive and I were thrilled to be at the premier in Whistler along with 1198 others! The movie was even better second time round in Canmore. Superb cinematography, young people spreading the joy of skiing around the globe and inspirational reminder of the beautiful planet we call home. This summer Chris started to run his own Home Renovation Business and never seemed to be out of work. That has now been put on hold six months while he carries on with his winter skiing activities!
Clive and I spent 2 months in Scotland and Europe in the spring. One highlight was 10 days biking on the west coast of Scotland with two days of the Island of Eigg. Scotland, my first love did not disappoint and her beauty still takes my breath away. We spent 10 days hiking hut to hut in the Zillertal Alps in Austria with our university friends Fred and Alison. I loved it. In between time we reconnected with family and friends. Unfortunately Clive’s 94 year old father Theo, was not doing to well and had a few days in hospital with an infected toe that might have been a blood clot to begin with. He is still determined to live in his own home. He is actively very interested in the world, does his own grocery shopping and travels on Edinburgh buses and does the Guardian crossword every day. He is better now and his perseverance, wisdom and courage are inspiring.
Meanwhile in Canmore Clive and I have an active life doing yoga, hiking, biking and skiing. I have spent time writing and teaching. It feels like I have chased a snarling three-headed dog out of my writing brain as I work on the second draft of my memoir. Who knew it was such hard work?? We do have so much to be thankful for after all we live in paradise!!
Winter has got off to a very good start and we have already had some excellent powder skiing at Lake Louise. The backcountry snow conditions are still very unstable so trips there have been low key so far.
It’s really great at Christmas to receive everyone’s letters and news – thankyou for that.
All the very best for an enjoyable Christmas season and a memorable 2012.
Chris continues his busy life in Revelstoke. He had an exciting trip to Kashmir, India last February. This was nostalgic for me as I spent a year there 40 years ago. Sad to say it has been war torn for years and soldiers were in many of his photos. Still he went helisking with a New Zealand company and the skiing has expanded significantly since the seventies. Chris was one of the athletes in a locally produced ski movie called ALL.I.CAN. It took two years in the making and has an environmental theme. In late September Clive and I were thrilled to be at the premier in Whistler along with 1198 others! The movie was even better second time round in Canmore. Superb cinematography, young people spreading the joy of skiing around the globe and inspirational reminder of the beautiful planet we call home. This summer Chris started to run his own Home Renovation Business and never seemed to be out of work. That has now been put on hold six months while he carries on with his winter skiing activities!
Clive and I spent 2 months in Scotland and Europe in the spring. One highlight was 10 days biking on the west coast of Scotland with two days of the Island of Eigg. Scotland, my first love did not disappoint and her beauty still takes my breath away. We spent 10 days hiking hut to hut in the Zillertal Alps in Austria with our university friends Fred and Alison. I loved it. In between time we reconnected with family and friends. Unfortunately Clive’s 94 year old father Theo, was not doing to well and had a few days in hospital with an infected toe that might have been a blood clot to begin with. He is still determined to live in his own home. He is actively very interested in the world, does his own grocery shopping and travels on Edinburgh buses and does the Guardian crossword every day. He is better now and his perseverance, wisdom and courage are inspiring.
Meanwhile in Canmore Clive and I have an active life doing yoga, hiking, biking and skiing. I have spent time writing and teaching. It feels like I have chased a snarling three-headed dog out of my writing brain as I work on the second draft of my memoir. Who knew it was such hard work?? We do have so much to be thankful for after all we live in paradise!!
Winter has got off to a very good start and we have already had some excellent powder skiing at Lake Louise. The backcountry snow conditions are still very unstable so trips there have been low key so far.
It’s really great at Christmas to receive everyone’s letters and news – thankyou for that.
All the very best for an enjoyable Christmas season and a memorable 2012.
Thursday, October 27, 2011
My Writing Story.
“Write for an hour.” Antoinette instructed.
“An hour?” my mind screamed. “What will I write for an hour? What needs explored this morning? What will come I wonder?”
When I signed up for this day of Life Writing I wanted to investigate the part of my story that seeks expression in my memoir. It has been a journey, a long journey.
It began as I travelled on a train across the deserts of Iran 40 years ago. Fresh eyes, young and innocent of the world I wrote a travel log of our honeymoon to Afghanistan. Back then my inner world was not a place I visited, it remained off limits, unexplored, not worthy of my attention. A forlorn, forbidden place where if I dared to enter I would find terrorists, demons filled with unspeakable shames and secrets. It was many years before I was forced to open the book of myself.
When I returned from India a few years later I wrote an article about hairdressing in the Himalaya. I though it worthy of National Geographic but when it was rejected by a travel magazine I filed it away in a box that I carted from London to NZ to Australia and finally Canada.
My life changed dramatically in 1984 as I plunged into mother hood. I did not want to forget the extraordinary life of travel I had lived, the wild places and people I met on those ‘once in a lifetime’ journeys. I carved out space in my busy life to write. In the small back bedroom, I closed my mind to my surroundings while I recorded our adventures on our first computer.
I showed these writings to a trusted mentor Jack Shallcrass. His comment took me aback. “Wilma we need to know about your thoughts and feelings.“ My files were pushed into the box to be forgotten as I raised my family.
Becoming a mother I propelled me into my feelings. I remember the awe I felt as my fully formed baby boy was placed on my stomach after 14 hours of labour. Love at first sight, careful examination revealed he had no squint. His brown eyes, in his perfect pixie face, framed by his dark hair, gazed at me wide and alert. A miracle. As he grew feelings poured through my body, weariness, exhaustion, anger, frustration, irritation, boredom, despair, depression, hope, joy, play, compassion, and love.
Years later the children grown, I wrote a draft of my life and now I am re-crafting this, some days it feels as if I am wallowing in my past.
Last night on facebook I watched photographs Louise Hay the writer who in the eighties gave me priceless tools to love and design my own life. She was dressed in a filmy magenta top celebrating at her 85th birthday party with vigor and enthusiasim. I felt warmth as if her love reached out to me across cyber space and through the computer screen. More than that I was inspired that she is still writing and living life full of meaningful activities.
Why write a memoir? It is about the growth of me, my unique story, my own unfolding, life’s process of revealing mySelf to myself. Each step not wrong, not bad, but necessary to my journey towards wholeness. In this happy day world of linear thinking and rationality where emotions and wandering are judged as wasting time, unacceptable, or downright wrong, I can’t think of anything more valuable than trying to express my growth, my development, my authenticity on the page.
“An hour?” my mind screamed. “What will I write for an hour? What needs explored this morning? What will come I wonder?”
When I signed up for this day of Life Writing I wanted to investigate the part of my story that seeks expression in my memoir. It has been a journey, a long journey.
It began as I travelled on a train across the deserts of Iran 40 years ago. Fresh eyes, young and innocent of the world I wrote a travel log of our honeymoon to Afghanistan. Back then my inner world was not a place I visited, it remained off limits, unexplored, not worthy of my attention. A forlorn, forbidden place where if I dared to enter I would find terrorists, demons filled with unspeakable shames and secrets. It was many years before I was forced to open the book of myself.
When I returned from India a few years later I wrote an article about hairdressing in the Himalaya. I though it worthy of National Geographic but when it was rejected by a travel magazine I filed it away in a box that I carted from London to NZ to Australia and finally Canada.
My life changed dramatically in 1984 as I plunged into mother hood. I did not want to forget the extraordinary life of travel I had lived, the wild places and people I met on those ‘once in a lifetime’ journeys. I carved out space in my busy life to write. In the small back bedroom, I closed my mind to my surroundings while I recorded our adventures on our first computer.
I showed these writings to a trusted mentor Jack Shallcrass. His comment took me aback. “Wilma we need to know about your thoughts and feelings.“ My files were pushed into the box to be forgotten as I raised my family.
Becoming a mother I propelled me into my feelings. I remember the awe I felt as my fully formed baby boy was placed on my stomach after 14 hours of labour. Love at first sight, careful examination revealed he had no squint. His brown eyes, in his perfect pixie face, framed by his dark hair, gazed at me wide and alert. A miracle. As he grew feelings poured through my body, weariness, exhaustion, anger, frustration, irritation, boredom, despair, depression, hope, joy, play, compassion, and love.
Years later the children grown, I wrote a draft of my life and now I am re-crafting this, some days it feels as if I am wallowing in my past.
Last night on facebook I watched photographs Louise Hay the writer who in the eighties gave me priceless tools to love and design my own life. She was dressed in a filmy magenta top celebrating at her 85th birthday party with vigor and enthusiasim. I felt warmth as if her love reached out to me across cyber space and through the computer screen. More than that I was inspired that she is still writing and living life full of meaningful activities.
Why write a memoir? It is about the growth of me, my unique story, my own unfolding, life’s process of revealing mySelf to myself. Each step not wrong, not bad, but necessary to my journey towards wholeness. In this happy day world of linear thinking and rationality where emotions and wandering are judged as wasting time, unacceptable, or downright wrong, I can’t think of anything more valuable than trying to express my growth, my development, my authenticity on the page.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
A trundle from Moraine Lake to Lake O'hara
 |
| Clive chomping up to Obabin Pass |
 |
| Heading up to Obabin Pass on nice firm snow - it was icy on the other side and we had to use our crampons oh no I nearly wrote tampons! |
 |
| Jeanette and looking back to were we had come from over the passon the left well you can't quite see it but you get the general idea -right! |
 |
| Evidence of Climate change - this used to be a warm shallow sea and now its a place where there is 9 months of winter and 3 months of poor sledging! |
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| Our intrepid group plunge down into the next valley |
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| baby marmot ahh! |
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| Eiffel Lake in the early morning with Wenchemna Pass on the right. |
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| Indian Paintbrush |
Here are the files that I want to share with you.
I sent these using Elements Organizer. Find out more: http://www.adobe.com/go/pse_photoshopelwin_en |
| Light on Mary's Lake ok this should be the last photo!! Well computers are a mystery - it started out at the top and now here it is so apolgise from the creative order of things. |
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Nothing like returning home to find out how far I have come ……or not!
Life is like a kaleidoscope. Holidays, new places, new experiences, revisiting home, enduring relationships are like a turn that produces a fresh vibrant pattern and demands self reflection. Big stuff happens in the crucible of family - illness, job loss, retirement, growth, grief, laughter, joy all between the bookends of birth and death. These and the voices from my ancestors that echo through my bloodline and mitochondria challenge me to see the broader picture, to expand my vision.
My choice to move away from judgement and criticism, teaches me to be conscious of my intentions for loving connection. I remember we are all works in progress when I look behind hurtful words to see the light, the sacredness, the divinity hidden by a tricky personality and tough life circumstances.
My long deceased mother thought; I the black sheep was godless. Now I know that by going home if I remember to step into my godliness and see that in other, the visit runs much more smoothly. Still old patterns attach like super glue and in my humanity if I slip from this ideal, I know to have been present, to let go, to forgive is to have done my best.
My choice to move away from judgement and criticism, teaches me to be conscious of my intentions for loving connection. I remember we are all works in progress when I look behind hurtful words to see the light, the sacredness, the divinity hidden by a tricky personality and tough life circumstances.
My long deceased mother thought; I the black sheep was godless. Now I know that by going home if I remember to step into my godliness and see that in other, the visit runs much more smoothly. Still old patterns attach like super glue and in my humanity if I slip from this ideal, I know to have been present, to let go, to forgive is to have done my best.
Sunday, July 10, 2011
Raindrops keep falling on my head.
Actually they were not raindrops but more like gazillions of jugs of water that have fallen out of the sky in Edinburgh these last couple of days, accompanied by nature's wild symphony of crashing tymphanies and rumbling drums. It was like a flash flood running across the ancient cobbles cleaning away litter and endless cigaratte stumps. Friday I escaped into the book shop and left puddles on the floor.
Yesterday after a wonderful sunny morning appreciating the elegance of Edinburgh, the castle and Princes street gardens huming with a cacphony of languages, the heavens burst open as Clive, Des his brother and wife Jane and I set out to walk along the hidden valley of Rosslyn Glen. The sheets of rain soon added dramatic atmospherics to this magnifcent valley of mixed forest, beeches trees, Scots pine, sycamore, and oak draped with fragrant honeysuckle. We clambered along the muddy path happy in the knowledge that we humans are the top of the food chain in Britain. The size of the trees and the density of the foliage, the steep sandstone cliffs, combine to make this another of nature's wonderous masterpieces.
Yesterday after a wonderful sunny morning appreciating the elegance of Edinburgh, the castle and Princes street gardens huming with a cacphony of languages, the heavens burst open as Clive, Des his brother and wife Jane and I set out to walk along the hidden valley of Rosslyn Glen. The sheets of rain soon added dramatic atmospherics to this magnifcent valley of mixed forest, beeches trees, Scots pine, sycamore, and oak draped with fragrant honeysuckle. We clambered along the muddy path happy in the knowledge that we humans are the top of the food chain in Britain. The size of the trees and the density of the foliage, the steep sandstone cliffs, combine to make this another of nature's wonderous masterpieces.
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