Snow Scent 


Last night it smelled like snow–

when I stepped outside 

the air was crisp and icy–

pregnant with promise.  

In my garden 

the late blooming sunflowers

with their damp, cold petals

looked crestfallen and forlorn

as if thinking:

“I wasn’t expecting this!”


In the early morning half-light

I see the rooftops are powdered with icing sugar.

The kids wake up with excitement

and begin dreaming of gingerbread. 

My seven year old starts spouting:

“Snow says Christmastime…stuff has to stop growing sometime. 

If flowers never stopped growing there would be vines everywhere

Even in the road, and the cars could hardly go.”

Well, there you go. The seasons explained!

Ears of the Forest 

These tiny white tendrils

perched like innocent ears atop a mossy log

listening to the secrets of the forest…

What stories could they tell us, if they had mouths?

For they have heard the early morning trilling of birds

when everything else was silent

save for dew drops dripping from tall trees

bearded with curly mosses.


They have listened to the lapping of water

at the lake’s edge,

the liquid murmurs flowing over submerged logs 

soaked with sunken memories

–mine, too–

ones I dare not extract from their watery repose

lest I tumble in and get absorbed by their somnolence. 


These little glowing ears…

they could tell of green and growing things,

of red and rotting things,

and of the perfect patience of trees

which live and die and even in death

keep giving life. 

Babysteps into eternity: no one is too small to do good

 

Some people might doubt the impact on the world of a person who never saw the sun. Or even took a breath. What could such a person possibly have to say? What could a baby who died in early labour have to teach the world? 

Love. Unconditional, perfect, unending love. The kind that doesn’t have to be earned. The kind of love which created us all. Rather the Love Who created us all, and to whom we return. Losing my baby Josephine three years ago today has ripped open my heart and exposed it to this kind of love. I have been honoured to share it with many other beautiful people who have lost little ones as well. 


Through my daughter’s silence, I found my voice. I had the courage to speak words of sorrow, of brokenness, of hope and of consolation. I wrote book of poetry spanning the first year after her loss, and in this past year have been able to send almost 250 copies of it out into the world. Less than a handful are left and I’m planning to order more copies of unexpected blossoming: a journey of grief and hope this coming week. If you know someone who has suffered the loss of a baby through miscarriage, stillbirth or infant loss, and who could use some words of encouragement and solidarity, please let me know. 

Every now and then I get an amazing email from someone who has found an echo of their heart’s sorrow in my book. It’s a consoling reminder of the beauty that can come from shared suffering. I hope those ladies won’t mind if I share a few of their sweet words… One friend who suffered a mid-pregnancy stillbirth told me “Your poems express what I felt but couldn’t describe…they made me feel less crazy about my grief.” Here are a few more responses:

Your book – your words- have been so therapeutic and healing. I really enjoyed it and I am so thankful for you for sharing it with me.

For many weeks I worked very hard at working through and processing my feelings and my grief. It is difficult to face pain head on, but so necessary. 

M.S.

I really wanted to take a moment and let you know how truly touched I was (and am!) by your vulnerability to share your story through your creativity. I cried like mad as I read the book from cover-to-cover in I hid under my blankets while the baby was sleeping and the 2 eldest were watching a video! I treasure your words, and please know how profoundly they have touched my heart and surely helped me along the road of healing. ❤
E.D.

 I’m sharing these with you not to applaud myself but to rejoice in the impact my little daughter has had…the powerful healing she helped bring about by uniting me with other babyloss mamas and affirming that the depth of their grief comes from the profound depth of their maternal love. 

So Little Jo, on your third birthday, know how incredibly proud I am of you and all the good you do from Heaven. May it be the icing on your cake of heavenly joy!

Sliding into Contemplation

This afternoon after snack-time

as I take a moment

to put up my feet and read,

my toddler arrives–

attracted to the anomaly

of his mother being silent and still.

As I read about art and contemplation

and the creative necessity

of perceiving reality

without a mind cluttered by distractions,

he discovers the delightful idea

of using my legs as a slide.


So I stop to observe him

and weave him into my prayer–

his mischievous face crowned

by a golden mullet of impetuous curls

as he climbs up and down, up and down

to do it again and again–

seeking even in this interruption

to find “a deeper and more receptive vision […]

a more patient openness to all things […]

the abundant wealth of all visible reality.”*

 

 

*snippets from page 36 of philosopher Josef Pieper’s beautiful little book on art and contemplation, “Only the Lover Sings.”

 

 

 

Pale Sky Breakfast Blues

It is early.

The sky stretches above the mountains

–pale, white, untouched–

a question unanswered:

What will we make of today?

It is too early for thoughts.

The sun itself has barely opened its eyes.

Only the toddler is noisy and cheerful

as he munches the insisted-upon breakfast:

peanut butter sandwiches at the break of dawn.

“Num!”

Smoky City


Every day

time stands still

stupefied by heat and smog–

this strange oppressive greyness 

that crouches over the city 

obscuring the view.

Every morning the sun sends ruddy orange beams

through my glass porch door

like a joke played by someone

with a giant coloured flashlight

pretending we’ve woken up on Mars.

The mountains have disappeared in smoke,

the interior forest fires making 

an imaginary conquest of the coast.

Even the rooftops three blocks away

have been engulfed by this grey Nothing.

My kids don’t care.

They play outside oblivious to all change

except the burning orb of the sun in the evening–

a giant fireball glowing red

a perfect sphere glaring at us

like the eye of Mordor.

“Take a picture, take a picture!” they cry,

but for once my iPad mini camera doesn’t do it justice 

and we are forced to just stare long enough

to imprint the image in our memories 

next to distant recollections of clear blue sky.