tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-78086003768315754192024-03-12T22:45:07.100-04:00My Writing WindowThis blog is a window to my writing process and the things that are important to me. It is also a work in progress.Trish Vansonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06339117247112860583noreply@blogger.comBlogger37125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7808600376831575419.post-69021857036669382522022-09-09T17:05:00.005-04:002022-09-10T21:32:02.178-04:00A Journey and a poem: The Kiss of Life<P>I’ve been on a journey since I last wrote for this blog. Not a journey in space and hardly a journey in time. The clocks kept ticking, but time often seemed to stand still. Like all journeys should be, it was a journey in learning and growing.
<BR><BR>I was diagnosed with rectal cancer, and since then experienced first hand what it feels like to be ill and helpless. Along with the usual onslaught of radiation, chemo and surgery, I also developed a serious infection. I felt like I was at the mercy of the medical system, but in the end, all the interventions helped me get back on track.
<BR><BR>I thought I would blog about my cancer journey, but I wasn’t able to write while I was ill. I couldn’t put words to the experience beyond sharing the facts with people I knew. Even on my good days, writing was elusive. This spring I thought I was on the other side of it. While I worked to regain my strength and energy, I began to write again. I wrote some short stories and made a good start on a novella. Poems remained elusive.
<BR><BR>A month ago everything changed. Cancer was discovered on a lymph node, necessitating a return to chemo. I could tell you all the details, but what I want to share here is that I am writing! I will soon be posting poems to my blog. I’ve had thoughts about returning to a novel I wrote a few years ago and redoing some of it. I may also share some of the things I’ve learned through living with cancer and metastasis. I’ve learned so much, but not things that are easy to put into words.
<BR><BR>I am including a poem with this post. I asked myself, and you might ask as well, why I would include a poem about flowers. I have learned that everything is much more connected than we realize. The insects and the flowers have everything to do with us, and without their presence our presence is as empty as the shell of the cicada nymph once the cicada has emerged.
<BR><BR><B>The Kiss of Life</B><BR><BR>
These conical flower clusters<BR>
Dress the tree in white<BR>
Send an open invitation<BR><BR>
Insects come<BR>
One after another<BR>
Little black ants crawl inside the cone<BR>
Wasps flit, abdomens hanging, ready to curl into place<BR>
Bees buzz and dance, their solid bodies crawl in for nectar<BR>
Butterflies flutter, confined to the outer petals<BR><BR>
With a gentle caress <BR>
Many feet tiptoe among the petals<BR>
The glide and slide of wings<BR>
Whisper songs of love<BR><BR>
As the flower rocks in the gentle breeze<BR>
Over and over again<BR>
She receives the kiss of life<BR><BR>
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<B>Some housekeeping:</B> while I was ill, the program that this blog (Google) used to send email updates was discontinued. If you wish to receive email updates to alert you that I have posted a new selection to this blog, please use the contact form at the very bottom of this page and tell me “please send me updates”. In that case I will send an email from my own email program, using BCC, to let you know I’ve published a new post.
Trish Vansonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06339117247112860583noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7808600376831575419.post-66626933386650333652021-01-13T21:46:00.005-05:002022-09-09T20:03:57.072-04:00A Poem: Unbound Soul- A Story of Mink<p> I wrote numerous poems in November. None are ready and many are not shareable. But they prepared me for the one I am sharing here.<br /><br />We think of ourselves as the humans who have control over the world around us, who are self-sufficient, who know almost everything. But between the pandemic and climate disruption, those illusions are crumbling. We are not okay as we are. <br /><br />We can learn much from the beings who share this earth with us. More than we think. Not all learning comes through thinking.<br /><br />All over the world, humans are longing for full vaccination against the SARS-CoV-2 virus, yet filled with uncertainty. We cannot wait for someone else to fix this. We need to listen to the pangolin, the mink, and all the other beings. The vaccines might stop the virus, but only our connections with Mother Earth and her creatures can bring true healing.<br /><br />The pandemic has taught me we can't turn away, we can't pretend bad things aren't happening. And even when we can't be near each other, we have to be connected somehow. The poems I wrote recently taught me a lot about learning from other creatures, plant and animal. Consider the mink. We can’t pretend minks are just cute little creatures and ignore the lives many of them have led. Despite the heart-breaking reality of caged creatures, we can learn from them.<br /><br /><br />A spoken version of this poem is available on Soundcloud, <a href="https://soundcloud.com/trish-vanson/a-poem-soul-unbound-a-story-of-mink">click here.
</a><br><br> <blockquote><blockquote><b>Unbound Soul: A Story of Mink</b><br /><br />Mother mink darts through the water<br />Sure strokes propel her<br />She grabs a fish between her jaws<br />Returns to her nest<br />Deposits the fish<br />In front of hungry little minks<br />Too young to get their own<br /><br />Mink on the farm<br />Lies down in her cage<br />Stares through the wires<br />No where to go<br />No river or trees or mud<br />She gets up <br />Walks front to back<br />Back to front<br />Lies down again<br />She knows she does not belong<br />In this world of cages<br />Imprisoned for the crimes<br />Of those who claim<br />Dominion<br /><br />The farmer approaches<br />Mask over his mouth and nose<br />Thick gloves on his hands<br />He opens the cage, reaches in<br />Grabs her in two strong unyielding hands<br />She snarls, bites at his gloves<br />Squirms with her under-developed muscles<br />This is all wrong<br />She needs to be free<br />To touch the ground<br />Swim in the water<br /><br />She drops into a dark place<br />Feels the other minks<br />Snarls her uncertainty<br />Teeth of another sink into her<br />She scrambles, climbs, reaches<br />Seeking a way out<br />She learns quickly<br />This is another cage<br />Just dark and full of bodies<br /><br />She lies still<br />In a press of bodies<br />But then the air changes<br />She can’t breathe<br />Once again she must fight<br />This place is too dangerous<br />She reaches and scratches<br />Seeking a grip<br />Her body weakens<br />Her reach shortens<br />Till she falls back<br />Shakes and convulses<br />Until finally her last breath<br />Sets her soul free<br />To heal<br /><br />The farmer retrieves bodies from the gas chamber<br />He shakes his head<br />Wonders how he will make a profit<br />These mink are infected<br />Even now he might have the disease<br />All these wasted fur bodies<br />He throws into a sealed container<br />For safe disposal<br /><br />Mother mink climbs out of the river<br />Fish firmly clenched in her jaws<br />Shakes the water off her fur<br />Walks back to her nest<br />A shadow passes over her<br />She digs her claws into the earth<br />In a burst of speed<br />Bounds away<br />Eagle’s talons dig into mud<br />Its meal out of reach<br />Mother safely in the nest<br /><br />Mother mink trembles<br />As adrenalin courses through her body<br />She nestles with her young<br />Back pressed into the earth<br />The smell of earth, fish, water, minks<br />Fills her nostrils<br />Deep into her lungs<br />She pulls in life-giving oxygen<br />The same air you breathe<br />And I breathe<br /><br />One with Earth<br />With other beings<br />Even the hungry eagle<br />She is calm<br /><br />The soul of the farmed mink<br />Now free<br />Knows Mother Mink<br />Knows you and me<br />Your dear departed ones<br />Free of the caged body<br />Unbound<br />The soul knows no separation</blockquote></blockquote><br /><br /></p>
<hr><br />
If you are looking for my short novel, A Matter of the Soul, <a href="https://mywritingwindow.blogspot.com/2020/03/introducing-matter-of-soul.html">click here</a><br />
<br />
<hr>Trish Vansonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06339117247112860583noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7808600376831575419.post-3666714808421101252020-08-23T22:28:00.000-04:002020-08-23T22:28:50.773-04:00A Poem: Living the Edge<p>In the past few months, I’ve had to find my new normal for living during a pandemic. </p><p>It started with two weeks of vacation, something that felt like a luxury after weeks of being home except to grab groceries and walk the dog. It was a wonderful time of relaxation and reflection. I wrote poems that I have yet to share, and I found my way to determine how to proceed once vacation was over. </p><p>I run a private daycare out of my home. Daycares were now expected to be open in my area, but I had to find my way through that. I was well aware of the risks of increasing our bubble, but I was not willing to take that risk merely for the purpose of supporting the economy. </p><p> In the end, I was informed by the pangolin poem I wrote, <a href="https://mywritingwindow.blogspot.com/2020/04/">Consider the Pangolin</a>, which I posted here in April. It is time to heal the disconnections of modern life. My daycare allows parents to work, but it’s also about connections. It’s about love and being real and living as part of this planet. My daycare is now open. The children have returned. </p>
<p>Today I had a day with few expectations, where I could take the time to do some writing. I was very pleased to be able to sit in my backyard in full awareness of my environment and write this poem.
</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-c7Fet3F-3Oo/X0MiVVxvQUI/AAAAAAAAOSM/tTmaL8KAOVM6Pvlw7iXYcW7W1u4Mu5wewCNcBGAsYHQ/s2048/20200823_172408.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1704" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-c7Fet3F-3Oo/X0MiVVxvQUI/AAAAAAAAOSM/tTmaL8KAOVM6Pvlw7iXYcW7W1u4Mu5wewCNcBGAsYHQ/s320/20200823_172408.jpg" /></a></div>
<blockquote><blockquote><p><B>Living the Edge</B></P>
<p>Thunder rumbles<br>
As the dark cloud mass<br>
Slides along the sky<br>
Just south of me<br></p>
<p>It’s a warning of danger<br>
Nullified by the bright edge<br>
Of the clouds <br>
Barely hiding the sun<br></p>
<p>I am living on that edge<br>
Caught between Covid danger<br>
And the intense brightness<br>
Of love<br></p>
<p>Like the ever-changing sky<br>
Life forces us into a balancing act<br>
While we seek love and connection<br>
We remain helpless<br>
To outrun the danger<br></p>
<p>We yearn for the safety<br>
Of our predictable lives<br>
Old patterns and square boxes<br>
We’ve forgotten never fit us<br></p>
<p>Thunder rumbles<br>
Clouds change their shape<br>
Raindrops fall <br>
Sun shines<br>
I sit under the tree<br>
In the middle of it all<br>
Grateful for the time<br>
To stop and be<br>
In it<br></p>
<p>Until the brightness of lightning<br>
Pokes my eye<br>
Suggesting I’ll be safer<br>
Inside<br>
With loved ones<br></blockquote></blockquote>Trish Vansonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06339117247112860583noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7808600376831575419.post-88064862998220033532020-05-18T20:58:00.001-04:002022-09-09T20:04:27.882-04:00A Poem: Rewild in the CityEvery spring I marvel as the earth comes alive again. Despite everything we’ve done to Earth, her plants and other creatures take every opportunity they can to live. They take full advantage of the sunlight and warmer temperatures and every bit of soil. <br />
<br />
As human beings we are capable of so much. But there is a cost to that. We've become rather muddled.<br />
<br />
<blockquote><blockquote><B>Rewild in the City</B><br />
<br />
Branches, barely green, <br />
Reveal the wind<br />
Blowing cool air<br />
Through our city<br />
<br />
Birds fly past<br />
Busy with spring’s endeavours<br />
Mating, nesting, feeding<br />
<br />
Early flowers bloom<br />
Each day new plants sprout<br />
City lawns need cutting<br />
<br />
Life abounds<br />
Among the trees<br />
In the yards<br />
Wherever growth is possible<br />
<br />
It’s an energy<br />
That flows<br />
An energy that lives on possibilities<br />
Light and moisture and warmth<br />
<br />
A responsive energy<br />
It lives when it can<br />
Rests when it must<br />
Moves on when viability has ended<br />
<br />
There’s a gentle ebb and flow<br />
To life in the wild<br />
No fear <br />
In winter’s rest <br />
Or even in departure<br />
<br />
That’s a freedom<br />
You and I dream of<br />
Our sense of responsibility<br />
Our concern for future things<br />
Our multitude of thoughts<br />
Weigh us down<br />
<br />
See the trees budding out<br />
Leaves hungrily unfurling<br />
Smile at the bright flowers <br />
Reflecting the sun<br />
Let your heart soar<br />
And dip <br />
With flight of the birds<br />
Rest your back against the<br />
Solid stillness of a tree<br />
<br />
There is a wisdom<br />
In the wild<br />
A different kind of intelligence<br />
Every leaf, every bird, every fly<br />
Can teach us<br />
<br />
In the strangeness of this time<br />
Let yourself be a student<br />
Attend the class of the wild<br />
Anywhere in the city<br />
Rewild the human<br />
<br />
Fear not the endings<br />
The changes and impositions<br />
Grow where you are<br />
Reflect the sun<br />
And live</blockquote></blockquote><br />
<hr><br />
If you are looking for my short novel, A Matter of the Soul, <a href="https://mywritingwindow.blogspot.com/2020/03/introducing-matter-of-soul.html">click here</a><br />
<br />
<hr>Trish Vansonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06339117247112860583noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7808600376831575419.post-55953741495548429322020-05-14T22:36:00.001-04:002022-09-09T20:04:55.452-04:00Short Story: Masked DateLife has changed so much; it feels like we need a road map to navigate it. But we don't have that. None of us have been here before. And things are constantly changing. This story imagines a situation where restaurants are open but physical distancing and the wearing of masks are expected. What would you do if you wanted a first date? Dinner out used to be so easy!<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Masked Date</B><br />
<br />
Sandra sat back in her armchair, phone propped up on her raised knee. “Have you been to any restaurants yet? They’ve been open for a couple of weeks, but I haven’t been able to get my head around the safety of it.”<br />
<br />
On the screen in front of her, Kelly shook her head. “No, I haven’t. I’ve spent so long staying away from places like that, it just feels like a strange idea.”<br />
<br />
“You know, six months ago I would have just asked you to join me at The Old Squire and we would have dinner together. We’ve been chatting for four months but thanks to this virus we’ve never had a real date. I like walking in the park with you, but that doesn’t feel like a date.”<br />
<br />
“A date would be so nice. But do you understand how anyone could sit at a table with someone they don’t live with and still follow the rules? We wear masks when we’re in the park. How can someone eat and wear a mask? How do you ever get to move on in a new relationship if you can’t even eat together. Honestly, I’ve been feeling really stuck with this. I love chatting with you, and walking, but I don’t know where to go with this.”<br />
<br />
“I guess you haven’t heard about the new masks? It’s of such economic importance to get restaurants flourishing again that someone invented a different kind of mask. It’s a win for the manufacturers and the restaurant owners, apparently.”<br />
<br />
“What?” Kelly laughed. “You’re kidding, aren’t you?”<br />
<br />
Sandra shook her head. “As far as I can tell, it’s legit. I watched a video. The masks lift up easily from the bottom. You quickly spoon some food into your mouth and close it back down while you chew. The restaurants supply them. It’s really easy to pop a straw in for drinking.”<br />
<br />
On the screen in front of her, Kelly’s head kept shaking back and forth. She stopped to speak, “I can’t believe this! I’m going to go crazy soon. Life will never be normal, will it?”<br />
<br />
Sandra shrugged, “The thing is, I really want to have dinner with you. I want to sit close enough to look into your eyes, to take our time and sit and do the things people used to do when they were in a new relationship with someone. The way things are right now, it feels like we’ll never do more than just talk to each other through a screen or walk side by side. I just want you to come over to my house and have dinner and take our chances, but I haven’t even had a chance to sit and look into your eyes. Somehow, I want us to move forward.”<br />
<br />
Now Kelly was nodding slowly. “Yeah, that makes a lot of sense, Sandra. I’ve just been telling myself to be content with a relationship that’s a lot like a long distance relationship, but that doesn’t seem fair. I just don’t know how to make the next step without it being a big one.”<br />
<br />
“Would you give a try to a restaurant meal with me?” Sandra asked her, feeling like she was wearing the beseeching puppy dog look. “It will be strange for both of us.”<br />
<br />
Kelly shook her head again, and looked down at something off-screen. Then she gave a little shrug, “I do really want to have dinner out with you, even just once. Yes, I’ll do it. But we better do it soon before I lose my nerve.”<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Sandra met Kelly in the park, and they walked to The Old Squire together. This time they walked side by side for the first time, without keeping the mandatory six feet distance that was required for people who don’t live together. They were both masked, as always.<br />
<br />
It felt good to be walking in such close proximity. Walking near Kelly felt so comfortable. “You know,” she said to her, “this is the first time in months that I’ve spent any time this close to someone else. It feels wonderful and at the same time it feels like we’re breaking the law. It’s hard to believe now that this used to be the most normal thing in the world. It’s amazing how things can change and become the new normal.”<br />
<br />
“I’ll admit, I’m resisting the urge to grab your hand.” Kelly ducked her head away, so Sandra didn’t see her eyes when she looked over to her. She let it go. Soon enough they would be sitting across from one another.<br />
<br />
They walked along in silence for a while, then Kelly spoke. “I hope they have those masks you were talking about.”<br />
<br />
“They do. I called them to make sure. Sorry I didn’t let you know.”<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Sandra put her hand on the entrance door and turned back to Kelly. “Are you ready for this?”<br />
<br />
“Yes, I need to sit with you,” Kelly nodded. Sandra thought she was smiling behind her mask. She held the door so Kelly could walk in without touching it, and then pumped a dollop of sanitizer onto her hand from the nearby pump.<br />
<br />
A young man in a colourful mask greeted them. “Welcome! A table for two?” Sandra nodded. “Do you know about the masks that are required to be worn? We aren’t permitted to serve you unless you agree to wear them.”<br />
<br />
“Yes, we know,” Kelly answered.<br />
<br />
He grabbed two packages containing masks. “Do you have your phones to access the menu? Then I’ll show you to your table.”<br />
<br />
It had been six months since Sandra had been to a restaurant. Here each table appeared to be two metres from the others. The space looked bare compared to the look they were accustomed to, but each table looked comfortably private.<br />
<br />
After they were seated, the young man opened a package, ripped it open, and held it out to Sandra so she could pull the mask out. Then he did the same for Kelly.<br />
<br />
“Your server will soon be with you.” He nodded to them and returned to his station.<br />
<br />
Before they had a chance to settle in, a young woman in the same colourful mask arrived with two glasses of water on a tray. She introduced herself and set a glass in front of each of them. She pulled the end off a straw cover and held it out so they could pull the straw out for themselves. Then she did the same with a package of napkin-wrapped cutlery. “Are you ready to order or shall I come back?”<br />
<br />
“Please come back, we are in no rush,” asked Sandra. She just wanted a chance to settle in with Kelly before they got busy eating.<br />
<br />
Finally they were alone. She looked at the woman seated across from her, and felt lost in her eyes. It was such a strange feeling. She felt hungry for the closeness, and at the same time she was overwhelmed. Kelly broke the contact first, and reached for her straw to take a sip of her water.<br />
<br />
“Oh!” she exclaimed. “This won’t work! Let’s check these masks out.”<br />
<br />
They took their own masks off, shoved them in a pocket, and immediately applied the new mask. They looked at each other and laughed, each of them sounding a little hysterical. Kelly shook her head, “Oh my, it’s a good thing I didn’t know they would look like this! I might not have agreed!”<br />
<br />
“They didn’t look like this in the video! They must have modified them for it.” These masks had a plastic frame that fit around the nose and mouth area. Shaped filter material fit inside it, made to fit over the nose. But it was the plastic frame that gave them such a strange look. There was a ridge along either side, and a little tab sticking down at the bottom. She examined Kelly’s, since she couldn’t see her own. “I think this plastic part is hinged.” They each felt their own mask. The panel lifted out from the bottom, leaving a gap. <br />
<br />
“This is supposed to work? Really?” Kelly reached for her spoon, and went through the motions of filling it with food. With one hand she moved the panel, with the other one she brought the spoon to her mouth. “Huh, it might work. If I don’t knock the food off in the process!”<br />
<br />
“I guess we take it slow and careful. It must work, other people do it.” Sandra stole a look around her. Two adults and two kids sat at another table, all of them busy eating. They seemed to be managing fine.<br />
<br />
Kelly followed her, watching them. “I feel like I’m inside the strangest movie, you know the kind where you can completely reassure yourself it’s just a crazy story. But it’s real.” She shook her head and gave herself a shake. “Seems like all I do lately is shake my head. It’s a strange new world.”<br />
<br />
She stopped and met Sandra’s eyes. They sat there, just looking at each other, no longer noticing the grotesque masks. “I like your eyes, Sandra. They feel very safe, but at the same time, my heart is racing like crazy. I think it’s because I don’t know what to do with the closeness. It’s not you. It’s just that I haven’t looked into anyone’s eyes in so long.”<br />
<br />
“It’s the same for me,” Sandra told her. “It makes it very hard to figure out how I feel about anything right now.” She looked down to her water, opened her mask’s panel a little for the straw, and took a drink, glad for the break.<br />
<br />
“I can’t believe how hard this is! Maybe we should check the menu.”<br />
<br />
They took out their phones to look at the menu. The menu had changed from what she remembered: all the options could be managed with utensils or fingers. There were no sandwiches, wraps or burgers. Talking together about the choices, with short moments of eye contact, felt more natural. Sandra could feel herself relax, and sensed the same from Kelly.<br />
<br />
They had just settled into their choices when their server returned. Sandra ordered a vegetarian salad with pecans and apples and a side of french fries. Kelly chose a chicken pot pie, also with fries. They both agreed that it had been too long since they had eaten fries, and they would be easy to eat with masks on.<br />
<br />
Feeling more at ease, they settled into chatting, just as they had in their video chats. “I’m glad we spend all those hours in video chats,” Sandra mused. “I feel like it’s pretty easy to know when you’re smiling even though I can’t see much of your face. I find that when I don’t know people very well, it can be hard to tell for sure if they are smiling.”<br />
<br />
Their server came over with two plates of food and set one down in front of each. “Enjoy your dinner,” she said and walked away.<br />
<br />
They each picked up a fork, held it up in hesitation, and their eyes met. Sandra gave a little laugh. “Let’s do this. I’m hungry.”<br />
<br />
She stabbed her fork into her salad, came up with a few pieces of lettuce and a mushroom, and aimed her fork toward her mouth. She tipped up the front panel of her mask and slipped the fork in. The mushroom fell off, bumped by the panel, but the rest of the food arrived safely. <br />
<br />
She felt her eyes open wide. “Oh, no, I just had a vision of this mask being covered in dressing with bits of lettuce hanging out this bottom part! This could be a very challenging experience. Can you imagine trying to eat a burger, with ketchup and mustard smeared everywhere?” She checked on the status of her napkin, imagining she would have to try to keep her mask clean. “Oh, I guess that’s why there’s an extra napkin here.”<br />
<br />
Kelly chuckled, “At least if my mouth is dirty, no one will see it.”<br />
<br />
“I can’t believe this is how things are now,” said Sandra. “I got used to keeping physical distance and wearing a mask whenever I’m out, waiting in line everywhere, but this feels even crazier than I imagined it would. I just really wanted to sit at a table with you.”<br />
<br />
Kelly filled her mouth again. “Mmm, it might be crazy, but the food is good. Let’s just enjoy it.”<br />
<br />
It was a slow process, having to be so careful with every mouthful. When they were both satisfied, they set their forks down and sat there looking in each other’s eyes. Kelly spoke, “They say the eyes are the window to the soul. I never understood that until now. Your eyes truly are the window to your soul, Sandra. Thanks for letting me in.”<br />
<br />
“And thanks for letting me in, Kelly.”<br />
<br />
Kelly nodded, while her eyes crinkled in an obvious smile. “What now?”<br />
<br />
“I want to navigate my way through this with you, Kelly. With you I will experience this as a brave new world. With you, masks are irrelevant. I feel like we can find our way, and it will be good. For the first time, I don’t feel afraid.”<br />
<br />
Kelly reached her hand across the table, and Sandra reached out with hers. They rested comfortably together, an instant warmth soothing them both. <br />
<br />
“Kelly, will you come to my place for dinner tomorrow? We can eat without masks, and talk, and find our way together.”<br />
<br />
“I’d love that!”<br />
<br />
Sandra paid the bill. They removed the masks the restaurant had given them and carefully re-applied their own masks.<br />
<br />
Kelly pumped a dollop of sanitizer, opened the door for them, and then rubbed it carefully into her hands. As they headed down the sidewalk, she reached out to Sandra, who reached out to her, and they walked back to the park, hand in hand.<br />
<br />
<hr><br />
If you are looking for my short novel, A Matter of the Soul, <a href="https://mywritingwindow.blogspot.com/2020/03/introducing-matter-of-soul.html">click here</a><br />
<br />
<hr>Trish Vansonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06339117247112860583noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7808600376831575419.post-23506215601326937602020-05-07T22:48:00.000-04:002020-05-14T22:40:29.616-04:00Short Story: No ReturnI wrote this short story mostly just for the exercise of sitting down and writing a complete story in one day. I couldn’t avoid something related to this pandemic. Consider young people who don’t coping with staying home:<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>No Return</B><br />
<br />
<br />
Stan sat on his bed, back against the wall, arms pounding down at the bed. He wanted to yell, but that would bring his mother to sit on the bed with him and start another lecture.<br />
<br />
“You know this is just how it has to be, Stan. If you go out, you’ll just get sent back in. It’s the only way to make sure this virus stops spreading and to make sure Dad doesn’t get it. You know he’ll die if it hits his lungs. Everyone is staying inside, You aren’t the only one, you know. You have a roof over your head, we have lots of food, you have internet and video games. It could be so much worse. You just have to find a way to accept it. Get on the exercise bike, burn off some of that excess energy.”<br />
<br />
She had thrown some version of this lecture at him every day, as if it would change how he felt if she said it often enough. It wasn’t working. He just felt more frantic. He had to move! All he wanted to do was run and run and never stop.<br />
<br />
He got up from the bed, put on a baggy sweatshirt with large pockets, and the cargo pants he rarely wore. He went down to the kitchen. His mom was intently looking at her computer, headset in. He grabbed food, filling his pockets. He filled his water bottle, and slid it into a pocket on the side away from her.<br />
<br />
He walked past her to the front door, grabbed his coat, hat and shoes and opened the door before she had a chance to get to him. By the time he was two doors down and stopped to put his shoes on, she was standing in the open door.<br />
<br />
“I’ll be back!” he shouted. “Don’t worry, I’ll be safe.”<br />
<br />
“No, you won’t be back,” she returned, and shut the door.<br />
<br />
He stood there a moment. That made no sense. She must not believe him.<br />
<br />
The sidewalk stretching out from their house beckoned to him. It had been a month since he was outside. Other people went outside, he’d seen them walk by. But his mom had refused to let him outside, for fear of the virus coming in. None of them went outside except to grab groceries and other items that had been delivered. He had read enough about this virus. If he didn’t touch anything and didn’t get near to another person, he would be fine.<br />
<br />
The fresh air was amazing. The expanse of sky above him filled him with awe. He shook his head. This was crazy! It used to be so normal.<br />
<br />
He started running, but his water bottle bounced against his leg. He pulled it out to keep in his hand, and continued. He was a few blocks away from home when he had to stop to catch his breath. He hadn’t moved like this in a month! He was never a long distance runner, but he could always pull off a kilometre with ease. He settled into a walk.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
The sun was starting to set when he returned to his house. He turned the door knob, but the door wouldn’t budge. His mom usually kept the door locked, so he wasn’t surprised. He knocked quietly, then stood back a bit so she could look through the peephole and see it was him. He tried again, knocking louder. Maybe she had her headset in. Still no response. He knocked as loud as he could. Still nothing.<br />
<br />
He walked over to the front window to peer inside. His mom was standing there, her hands on her hips, like she’d been waiting for him. He gestured to her to let him in. She just stood there, shaking her head and then stopping to say “No.” He could just barely hear her through the window, but there was no mistaking the message. She really wasn’t going to let him in!<br />
<br />
“But all I did was walk all day! I didn’t even sit down anywhere. I’m tired and hungry. I need to be home!” He pleaded to her, even though he doubted she could hear him. He had to try.<br />
<br />
She shook her head one more time, then reached up to close the blind. He was completely shut out.<br />
<br />
He sat on the step to text her. She sent back, “no”. He kept trying, pleading, but all she said was “No” until she just stopped replying. How could she do that to her own son?<br />
<br />
He sat three, on the front step, and despite his grown-up age of 22, he cried. He was so tired, and had no clue what to do.<br />
<br />
When his tears were cried out, he wiped his face on his shirt and stood up to look at the house. A backpack was on the porch. His mom must have set it out there for him while he was crying. Under it was a sheet of paper.<br />
<br />
He took the paper. It was still just light enough to read it. “I’m sorry, Stan. The risk is too great. I love you so much, but you are an adult and you chose to leave. You will have to find your own way. I packed some stuff for you. I’m sure you’ll find a way to be okay. Stay safe!”<br />
<br />
He didn’t feel sure at all. He crumpled the paper into a ball, threw it at the ground, then picked it up and stuffed it into a pocket.<br />
<br />
He would have to take his chances and knock on some friends’ doors. Surely someone would take him in.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Stan was trembling with exhaustion by 10 o’clock. He had knocked on doors, starting close to home and ending up just now at the door of his friend Joe who lived with his girlfriend. He was the farthest away, but with no parents around, Stan had felt so hopeful knocking on his door. Joe shook his head from behind the safety of his screen door, “I can’t let anyone in. Sorry,” and closed the door. No one would let him in.<br />
<br />
He had walked all day and all evening, but no one had stopped him. A few people had smiled hello, mostly those out walking dogs. He had to lie down somewhere. He wondered what other people did. The city was full of homeless people, but he hardly ever saw them.<br />
<br />
There was nothing to do but keep walking and look for somewhere to rest. He saw a small park. It had some of those large evergreen trees whose branches went all the way down to the ground. That would have to do.<br />
<br />
He stopped to check what was in his backpack, using the light from his phone. His mom had clearly put a lot of thought into packing it. There was an emergency kit, a blanket, an extra set of clothing, toiletries, and some food. He grabbed the blanket, shoved everything else back in, and crawled under the branches of a tree.<br />
<br />
Trembling with exhaustion, he lay there crying. Then he started shivering. The blanket felt like nothing, lying outside on the cold ground, even with his coat on. But soon his exhaustion won over, and he was asleep.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Three days later Stan was still wandering around, spending his days walking and his nights shivering under a tree or bush. He was exhausted and felt filthy. His food was gone, and his belly grumbled. He had a new appreciation for what it was like to be homeless!<br />
<br />
It was starting to get dark. He would have to find a place to spend the night again. He groaned out loud, but there was no one to pay attention. A lecture from his mom would be very welcome right now.<br />
<br />
He looked around, then realized the darkness came from heavy clouds. He had lost all sense of time, and his phone battery had died long ago.<br />
<br />
He had no idea what to do! He couldn’t sleep in the rain. He couldn’t even walk around in the rain. He would be drenched and cold and all his stuff would be soaked. He didn’t have any rain protection.<br />
<br />
He would have to find a place with a roof, even if it meant he couldn’t hide properly. He headed toward the downtown core. As he walked, he spied a bus shelter. He would be dry there, and even have a place to sit.<br />
<br />
The bus shelter was well lit by a street light. There was no privacy here. He shrugged, and sat down on the little bench just as the first raindrops started to fall. They were huge drops, and soon a river of water was running down the street. The steady beat of the rain lulled him to sleep.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
“Hey!” a voice yelled. Stan straightened his stiff body and sat up. A police officer stood in the rain, yelling at him. “What are you doing here? This isn’t a bedroom! Get yourself home!”<br />
<br />
Stan shook his head. “I’ve nowhere to go. I’m sorry. I just wanted to stay dry.”<br />
<br />
“If you have nowhere to go, you have to come with me. I have a place for you. Wait a minute.”<br />
<br />
The officer reached into her car. She came back with a bag on the end of a stick. “Put this mask on. Then get in the car.”<br />
<br />
She opened the back door, then stood aside as he got into the car. She closed the door, then got into the car. She put a mask on herself and got the car moving.<br />
<br />
“I’m taking you to a shelter. They will have a bed for you, and you’ll get fed. As long as you follow the rules, stay at least 6 ft away from everyone else, you’ll be okay.”<br />
<br />
“Thank you,” Stan said. He didn’t know what else to say. It would be good to be dry and to eat, but he didn’t know what it would be like to be in a shelter.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
“How long have you been living on the streets?” asked the man at the shelter, who introduced himself as Bruce.<br />
<br />
“Three days. But it feels like forever.” Stan explained what happened.<br />
<br />
“You really messed up, huh? It’s a rough time to be out on your own. There is no way you can go back home now, unless you can stay completely separate from everyone. This virus is a strange thing, and it seems to spread in ways we don’t understand. It’s a huge problem, because you have just been given our last bed. Every day there are more people who lose their homes or got kicked out. We don’t have a place for everyone.”<br />
<br />
“Shit!” Stan shook his head. “I’m so sorry. I really messed things up. I couldn’t stand being inside any more, but if I had known this would happen, I would have found a way to cope. If there was a way I could undo this, or do something to make up for it, I would.”<br />
<br />
Bruce looked him in the eye, nodding. “I believe you, man. It doesn’t help in the moment, but I hope some kind of solution appears for you.”<br />
<br />
They talked some more. Bruce had a long list of questions for him, including some that were clearly intended to find out how likely it was that he might have caught the virus. Stan figured he was still pretty safe. He had sat in public places, like that bench in the bus shelter, but otherwise he kept to himself for the three days.<br />
<br />
Bruce tossed a package containing a mask toward him. He explained how to use it safely so that it could be re-used.<br />
<br />
“I’ll show you where you can go to have a shower. Later you’ll be called for your supper, and shown the way. Remember to always keep your distance. Other than that, just stay here on your bed for now.”<br />
<br />
“Thank you so much!” said Stan.<br />
<br />
Returning from his shower, feeling so much better for being clean, he laid himself down on the bed. He was exhausted, but didn’t want to sleep. He had a lot to think about, and wanted to be awake for supper. He was so hungry his stomach was clenching in pain.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
He woke to someone calling his name, roused from such a deep sleep he couldn’t remember where he was. Looking around at the other beds spread across the large room, all two metres apart, he was jolted into wakefulness.<br />
<br />
“It’s your turn for breakfast,” said the person at the end.<br />
<br />
Stan sat up abruptly. “I’m so hungry!” he exclaimed, clutching his stomach. “I must have slept through supper, and I was so hungry then!”<br />
<br />
The person waited while he put his shoes on, and then led him to the eating area. He pointed to a chair at the end of the table. “When you’ve eaten, go back to your bed. Others need to eat as well, and we can only serve a few at a time. If you haven’t eaten in a while, go slow. You want your stomach to have a chance to absorb it.”<br />
<br />
Stan hungrily filled his mouth, not even noticing what the food was. “Go easy, man,” the man reminded him as he walked away.<br />
<br />
Stan forced himself to slow down, reminding himself that the food would be more help if he enjoyed it. As he did, he looked around. The large room could only serve six people at a time, because each table only had two chairs, one at each end. When someone left, the table and chair had to be disinfected before the next person came.<br />
<br />
The enormity of the situation struck him then. Anyone who didn’t have a home of their own needed to be housed like this. He thought of all the work that went into it. The constant cooking and cleaning. He felt like such a spoiled brat, sitting here eating a free meal when he could have held it together and stayed home.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
He had been lying back on his bed, just thinking about everything, wondering if it were possible to charge his phone, wondering how his mom and dad were doing, when he saw Bruce walk over toward his bed.<br />
<br />
He stopped at a distance. “Hey, Stan, I’d like to talk to you. Grab your stuff and follow me.”<br />
<br />
Stan carefully re-applied his mask, grabbed his backpack and outer clothes, and followed him. Bruce brought him into a room. “Have a seat,” he motioned to one of two chairs.<br />
<br />
“I have a proposal for you. I’m a pretty good judge of character, and I can tell you are honest and wish things were different. The thing is, we need help here. We have a separate room for people like yourself who can both live and work here. If you want a chance to turn things around and make the best of this, you can sign a contract that you will work for us and keep yourself as safe as possible and we will assign you a bed and the freedom to do things like take showers and charge a cellphone. But let me warn you that you will be watched closely and if there is any hint that you aren’t as reliable as I think you are, you will be out of here.”<br />
<br />
“Oh, that is just what I want!” exclaimed Stan. “I would like the chance to do something helpful, to give back for the help I’ve been given. Thank you! You won’t regret it.”<br />
<br />
They talked over the details and signed the papers. Stan was now an employee.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Stan sat on his bed, back against the wall. He shared this room with four other people, each in their own corner, but right now he was the only one in the room. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. He never would have imagined he would enjoy disinfecting and cleaning or delivering meals, but he was happy. His life had meaning, and he had been given a chance to make a difference. He was grateful.<br />
<br />
<hr><br />
You can subscribe to my blog by <a href="https://feedburner.google.com/fb/a/mailverify?uri=MyWritingWindow&loc=en_US">Email (click here)</a><br />
<br />
If you are looking for my short novel, A Matter of the Soul, <a href="https://mywritingwindow.blogspot.com/2020/03/introducing-matter-of-soul.html">click here</a><br />
<br />
<hr>Trish Vansonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06339117247112860583noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7808600376831575419.post-25376507971430236862020-05-04T22:14:00.000-04:002020-05-04T22:26:20.091-04:00A Poem: Bewilderment(If you are looking for my short novel, A Matter of the Soul, <a href="https://mywritingwindow.blogspot.com/2020/03/introducing-matter-of-soul.html">click here</a>)<br />
<br />
This time of pandemic has brought a lot of changes in people’s lives. For me, it has meant that I have more time for writing. I intend to use this blog to share some of my current writing, particularly as most of it relates to the pandemic in some way. Some of it you may merely find interesting, but other pieces may touch your heart. They may resonate with you in a way that helps you understand better how you fit in this confusing time or what this time demands of you. They may also in some way give you a sense of peace.<br />
<br />
This poem considers our response to life in the covid-19 pandemic and the changes that are coming as civilization attempts a return to normal.<br />
<br />
<blockquote><blockquote><b>Bewilderment</B><br />
<br />
Well-adjusted was a picture<br />
Seated in the car driving to work<br />
Kids in school and daycare<br />
Spouse at their own office<br />
Each one in their place<br />
<br />
Every Friday <br />
Family dinner out<br />
Saturday date night<br />
Soccer practice, swim lessons<br />
Each night had its slot<br />
<br />
Or without a family<br />
Dinners out with friends<br />
Conversant on movies<br />
Musicians, all that’s new<br />
Shopping the latest designs<br />
<br />
Then came the upheaval<br />
Workplaces closed down<br />
Shopping only for essentials<br />
Lessons and games curtailed<br />
Gatherings outlawed<br />
<br />
The rules have changed<br />
But we will survive<br />
We will wait this out<br />
Soon to be back to normal<br />
Business as usual<br />
<br />
This might not end, they say<br />
You might go back to work<br />
But no gatherings<br />
Continue to maintain your distance<br />
It’s a new normal<br />
<br />
We shake our head<br />
Try to understand<br />
A return to work with new rules<br />
To survive as a person<br />
As a country<br />
Financial survival<br />
<br />
Well, we are the resilient ones<br />
We survive<br />
We learn the new rules<br />
And move forward<br />
Just tell us what to do<br />
And if you don’t tell us, we’ll figure it out<br />
<br />
The picture of well-adjustment narrows<br />
Some will fit<br />
Make the transition<br />
With no fear, no health concerns<br />
No loved ones hit by the virus<br />
They wear masks with ease<br />
Manage physical distance<br />
<br />
Some will wait<br />
Buoyed by hope<br />
Confident the new world will hold a place<br />
For them and their loved ones<br />
A new world with new rules<br />
History rewritten<br />
<br />
Some will flounder<br />
Ill with virus symptoms<br />
Broke and homeless<br />
Stuck in fear of the new world<br />
Resources depleted<br />
Hopeless<br />
<br />
Look around you and inside you<br />
Acknowledge bewilderment<br />
You can give up<br />
Surrender to hopelessness<br />
Or accept the new order<br />
Whatever it is<br />
In hope it will save you<br />
Or you can live<br />
In the middle of it all<br />
<br />
Nothing is as it was<br />
Nothing is as you thought<br />
Fling aside all spoken<br />
And unspoken <br />
Expectations<br />
<br />
Live in the tremble<br />
Of the unknown<br />
Dare to find the in-between spaces<br />
Between laughing and weeping<br />
Up and down<br />
Serenity and fear<br />
Accept bewilderment<br />
</blockquote></blockquote><br />
You can subscribe to my blog by <a href="https://feedburner.google.com/fb/a/mailverify?uri=MyWritingWindow&loc=en_US">Email (click here)</a><br />
<br />
Trish Vansonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06339117247112860583noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7808600376831575419.post-27904442279292666072020-04-09T20:11:00.003-04:002021-01-09T21:42:15.917-05:00Consider the Pangolin(If you are looking for my short novel, A Matter of the Soul, <a href="https://mywritingwindow.blogspot.com/2020/03/introducing-matter-of-soul.html">click here</a>)<br />
<br />
As millions of people across the globe are doing, I have been pondering the implications and meanings of the covid-19 pandemic. Someone told me near the beginning about the possibility of the pangolin having a connection to the virus. At the time, I couldn’t even call to mind the appearance of a pangolin, but I knew I needed to do something creative with that knowledge.<br />
<br />
And so I wrote a poem. And then I realized that this time I had to do more than share my poem in written form, I also needed to read it. That led to a project that caused me to produce a youtube video. I used drawings of pangolins for that video (as a slideshow), so I also wrote a poem for children, particularly so those who made drawings would be able to watch a video.<br />
<br />
The poems can be heard by going to the following links:<br />
<br />
For mature audiences: <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uSTc8Stgedc">Consider the Pangolin</a>.<br />
For children: <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u-SoF2g0oow">The Pangolin</a>.<br />
<br />
Written versions of these poems follow.<br />
<br />
For mature audiences, who think abut COVID-19 and care deeply:<br />
<br />
There have been stories surfacing that suggest pangolins are thought to be the transmission vector for the SARS-COV-2 virus that causes COVID-19. According to Wikipedia, the evidence is not at all conclusive. Maybe they were. Maybe many of these vulnerable creatures were killed because people thought they were. It matters not via which animal the virus was able to pass on to humans. What matters is what we do with the possibility that it was the pangolin.<br />
<br />
<blockquote><blockquote><b>Consider the Pangolin</b><br />
<br />
My home has grown a repellent coating<br />
My dog and I squeeze out the door for walks<br />
But none may enter<br />
<br />
My own body carries a forcefield<br />
A six metre radius to keep others away<br />
Save those in my own home<br />
<br />
Social distancing, they call it<br />
A microscopic bug<br />
Reinforcing our lack of real connections<br />
<br />
Take time to meditate, they say<br />
As my heart cries out for others<br />
Helpless to act for the lonely, the fearful, the destitute<br />
Nothing I can give, nothing I can do<br />
<br />
A tiny bug<br />
That drives huge wedges between people<br />
Destroys our equilibrium<br />
Leaves us unmoored<br />
Floating aimlessly on the sea of uncertainty<br />
<br />
This tiny bug can not be ignored<br />
We follow the numbers it has infected<br />
The numbers sent to coffins<br />
We learn to disinfect, clean, isolate<br />
And still, the fear never leaves us<br />
<br />
Now we seek answers to this huge change<br />
Scientists warned of possible pandemics<br />
While we kept living our twenty-first century lives<br />
Finding our way in this human-centred world<br />
Ignorant of the rising trauma to our land and its creatures<br />
<br />
The fear rising in our gullets<br />
Threatens to spill out of our throats<br />
Spew itself over our neighbours<br />
If they were near enough<br />
Burn them with its caustic energy<br />
<br />
This fear does not come from you<br />
The humans do not get to own it<br />
Stop and consider where it came from<br />
Consider the pangolin<br />
The bat<br />
All the so-called exotic animals in<br />
The Wildlife Trade<br />
<br />
Trade is such an ordinary word<br />
Wildlife the critters that hide away from us in the forest<br />
<br />
The pangolin is curled in a cage<br />
Surrounded by other wild creatures<br />
Awaiting its turn for slaughter<br />
Its blood spilling out in the streets<br />
An interesting meal for a human<br />
<br />
Consider this pangolin<br />
No longer safe in its own habitat<br />
Its fear is touching us.<br />
<br />
A minor animal virus mutates<br />
And through the web of physical connections<br />
A new virus comes rushing toward you<br />
<br />
In this social distancing experiment<br />
Distant from human bodies<br />
Distant from the normal activities of civilization<br />
You have been given space<br />
<br />
We have lost our way<br />
Distanced ourselves from the pangolin<br />
Considered ourselves separate, above, non-humans<br />
And now<br />
We are distant from our neighbours and human friends<br />
<br />
Stop<br />
<br />
In this web of inter-connected life strands<br />
You and the pangolin are not so separate<br />
<br />
Offer your heart to the fearful pangolin<br />
The power of healing this vast disconnection<br />
Is within you</blockquote></blockquote><br />
And for less mature humans, notably children, who also need to consider the pangolin but in a different way:<br />
<br />
<blockquote><blockquote><b>The Pangolin</b><br />
<br />
It is covered in scales<br />
But it’s not a fish<br />
Or a lizard, either<br />
<br />
It curls up in a ball<br />
But it’s not an armadillo<br />
Or a hedgehog<br />
<br />
It loves to eat ants<br />
And termites<br />
But it’s not an anteater<br />
<br />
It can spray <br />
Very stinky!<br />
But it’s not a skunk<br />
<br />
It is a pangolin<br />
A mammal<br />
Warm but not furry<br />
<br />
It wears its scales<br />
Like armour<br />
Hard and strong<br />
And even sharp<br />
<br />
Long, sharp claws<br />
Dig for insects<br />
In the ground<br />
Or behind bark<br />
<br />
Longer tongue<br />
With sticky saliva<br />
Scoops them up<br />
It has no teeth!<br />
<br />
Tiny rocks stick to that tongue<br />
Join the insects <br />
Down into its gizzard<br />
That’s a stomach<br />
<br />
A tough stomach <br />
With spines inside it<br />
Is ready for this food<br />
<br />
Spines and tiny rocks<br />
Chew those crunchy insects<br />
Help the pangolin<br />
Be healthy and strong<br />
<br />
I have not seen a pangolin<br />
Just pictures<br />
They like it that way<br />
<br />
Mostly<br />
They get food<br />
When we are sleeping<br />
<br />
When we are awake<br />
They curl in a ball<br />
Sleeping<br />
Some in trees<br />
Some in burrows<br />
<br />
They like to be alone<br />
Safe<br />
Away from humans<br />
<br />
But some people<br />
Find them<br />
Capture them<br />
<br />
You and I<br />
We learn about them<br />
Send love to every<br />
Pangolin<br />
Especially when they are scared</blockquote></blockquote><br />
Trish Vansonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06339117247112860583noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7808600376831575419.post-54310831613614043662020-03-27T18:42:00.000-04:002020-04-02T14:40:19.695-04:00Breathing CompassionIf you are looking for my short novel, A Matter of the Soul, scroll down to the next post or <a href="https://mywritingwindow.blogspot.com/2020/03/introducing-matter-of-soul.html">click here</a>.<br />
<br />
<br />
I planned a post like this a couple of weeks ago, and then suddenly the world changed. Business as usual is no longer possible. People are confused, frightened, sick, dying. It was like we blinked and everything fell apart. Businesses closed, jobs disappeared, store shelves were bare, and every day there are more sick with COVID-19.<br />
<br />
People are left wondering how they can cope and how they can help. The advice is to stay at home and to look after your neighbours, particularly the elderly. It’s not very helpful advice. Many of us don’t know our neighbours. And if we do, we might not have shared our digital contact information with them. It is not easy to help someone while you are sitting on your couch.<br />
<br />
I care, but what can I do? How often have you asked yourself the same question? Some would say pray, but traditional prayer means calling on someone outside yourself and all you can do is wait and hope they fix the problem. It lets you do something, by speaking the words of your prayer, and is itself a form of connection, but it might leave you feeling like a bystander. It might leave you wishing there was more.<br />
<br />
So now what? We have compassion, but what do we do with it?<br />
<br />
There is this:<br />
<br />
A couple of years ago I read a book by Pema Chodron, a Bhuddist teacher. This was where I first learned about Tonglen breathing, as it applies to Universal Compassion. I myself do not ascribe to any particular teachings, Bhuddist or otherwise, but I have used this breathing ever since because compassion is important to me.<br />
<br />
It is deceptively simple. Just long, slow breaths. You breathe in the pain, the discomfort, then breathe out some ease, some relief.<br />
<br />
Why might this work?<br />
<br />
We are all connected, you and I and your friend shaking with anxiety and the person with Covid-19 lying under a respirator and a South American person sweltering in a heat that never allows their perspiration to dry and the pangolin curled up in a cage.<br />
<br />
We are all connected in the Soul. It’s not just your soul or my soul but the Soul of the whole universe, bigger and fuller than we can ever imagine. When you breathe as deep and slow as you are able, you reach to the place where you can sense your soul. You may not sense it at first, but it is there, in the stillness. This is the place where we are all connected. When you breathe in, you can take with you the pain of others. Take it down with you to that place of stillness where it can be transformed, and then breathe out some ease. <br />
<br />
Here is something to be aware of about the physical act of this breathing. For some reason, it doesn’t come naturally to us to breathe like this. I think the busy-ness of our lives causes us to become accustomed to short little breaths. You might find it necessary to hold your hand on your stomach to remind yourself to push out your stomach so that your diaphragm has room to move down to allow you to take a deeper breath.<br />
<br />
Ignore the voice that says this is crazy or hokey or non-scientific. We don’t have the luxury right now of holding onto rigid ways of seeing things. Give yourself a chance to try this kind of breathing. It can allow you to send compassion to anyone, anywhere. It requires concentration, but you don’t have to maintain it for a long time. Once you have a sense of it, you can do it for a minute here and there throughout your day, according to what you are able.<br />
<br />
As the world seems to grind to a halt, except in hospitals, stillness might be just what we need to help us to find true compassion.Trish Vansonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06339117247112860583noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7808600376831575419.post-8021334095863817432020-03-02T20:44:00.000-05:002020-03-23T22:17:10.034-04:00Introducing: A Matter of the Soul<br />
<blockquote><blockquote><p><h3><b>A Matter of the Soul</b></h3></p><br />
<p>Peyton, who lives a pretty ordinary life in our current times, becomes increasingly frustrated by all the things that are going wrong. Sleeplessness finally drives them out of their bed one night, into their car and down the highway.<br />
<br />
But Peyton is not as alone in this universe as they think. There are people and circumstances that come together to send them on a spiritual journey and help them find answers to questions they didn’t know they had.<br />
</p><br />
</blockquote></blockquote><br />
I intended to write a blogpost about my progress regarding the short novel I was working on, but I just kept working on that novel, unable to be distracted. Instead, this post is the official announcement of a completed novel.<br />
<br />
A Matter of the Soul is a written, revised and formatted book. It is ready to be enjoyed by others. Personally speaking, this is a first for me and feels very momentous! I’ve written a number of novels and embarked on the revision process, but this is the first time I’ve completed the process. I understand now that this is the first story I’ve written that needed to be completed and shared. The others were all preparation.<br />
<br />
I’ve tried to express before that this novel is so much more than just the thoughts in my head. It is so much more than just something written by a single person. For those of us living in the mainstream individualistic society of today’s world, this is a difficult concept to understand or to express. I am one with all of life, with the very universe, and so, this novel comes from me and from all with whom I am connected. I am honoured to have been the one whose job it was to write this story. I believe the Universe, the fullness of life, wants you to be able to read this story.<br />
<br />
And so, I am offering A Matter of the Soul in digital form to any who desire it, without restriction. There are those who would say this is not a wise decision. I’ve been told that if you don’t put a monetary value on something, then people don’t think it is worthwhile. But this book is not intended to feed capitalism. It is truly a matter of the Soul.<br />
<br />
From a purely financial perspective, I wrote this story in my spare time and as such do not need it to be my source of income. As long as I have a computer and internet access, I can freely offer digital versions. Also, no one is restricted from passing the story on to others. I would love to have print copies; if any money becomes available I will arrange printing according to available funds.<br />
<br />
There is a great deal of uncertainty in the world around us right now. My wish for this story is that it gets passed from person to person, taking full advantage of this digital world we are currently living in. I believe there will be people who find some peace within themselves after reading it. I will attach my name to the story, because I am a real person living in the here and now who wrote this book, but I have no need to have my name or reputation become anything more than just me, just one of us. <br />
<br />
Edit: to acquire a copy of A Matter of the Soul, you can go directly to this <a href="https://www.dropbox.com/sh/fdb8eth7g4brt37/AAAcQlFDrbNtJLovOsOxJRuxa?dl=0">dropbox link</a> to download a copy. In the increasing uncertainty brought about by Covid-19, I want to be sure you can access a copy without having to look for the contact form. <br />
<br />
To acquire a copy of A Matter of the Soul, use the contact form on this blog. I will respond by sending you a copy in the format you request, as I am able. <br />
<br />
Please note: If you are using a cellphone to access my blog, it might be necessary to scroll down and tap on “View web version” in order to find the contact form.<br />
<br />
This book is available in three formats: pdf, epub and mobi. Reading it as a pdf file in a pdf reader may require you to read it by scrolling. A pdf file is the smallest in file size. Reading it as an epub or a mobi file will allow you to read it in book form, by flipping pages. They will require a reading app or an e-reader, but appear from my tests to work best in the brand name apps/ereaders. Most apps are offered freely and can be installed on any device. The file will be sent to you by email, as an attachment.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Trish Vansonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06339117247112860583noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7808600376831575419.post-86388524526764707142020-01-23T20:55:00.000-05:002020-01-23T20:58:10.577-05:00Revisions are underway! And a poem<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Writing is such an interesting process, for me at least. I hope that something I write will be enjoyable and benefit other people, but first it has huge benefit to me. I continued to be amazed at the things I learn and the ways in which I grow as a person.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Writing this novel last November really taught me to trust matters of the soul. That’s not an easy thing for us humans. There are so many outer things to distract us. So many expectations, so many worries, so much change. We so desperately need to pay attention to the internal things, and yet it seems life makes this more difficult all the time. It’s like the world around us has been systematically designed to distract us, to keep us outward focused, suggesting that peace is just an illusion.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">This novel I wrote suggests peace is not an illusion. I find myself working at it day after day, at least a little, sometimes more. Just as the original writing of A Matter of the Soul was something I felt compelled to keep at, so is this next stage where I am making revisions.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">At the same time, I have these worrying thoughts in my head that it’s not really a great story and people won’t enjoy it, or it won’t mean to others what it meant to me. I just keep pushing them aside. They’re just thoughts, just worries. I will keep working on it regardless.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">As I write this, I’m about halfway through making my first revisions. Then I’ll export it to an electronic device and read it through again myself. Once I’ve fixed anything that stands out to me while I read it, I’ll seek a few readers to help me out. There are always things you can’t see when it’s something you’ve written yourself. I don’t want to seek perfection, but I do want it revised well enough that it’s a pleasant read. I don’t want mistakes or awkward writing to get in the way of the story.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">In the meantime, my day job gives me time outside with children. Often, it’s outside, in the presence of trees, where I find inspiration. This week I wrote a poem I’d like to share with you. By way of explanation, Ringo is a dog who lived with us recently and taught me so much. I miss his bodily presence but rejoice in his being-ness.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <blockquote><blockquote><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Right before my eyes</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">On a cold winter morning</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Woodpecker flits</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">From branch to branch</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I glory in the view</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Red patch</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Loud contrast of black and white</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I ponder the food it finds</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Completely invisible to me</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I rejoice in its liveliness</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">In its alive-ness</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I smile</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I grin, ear to ear</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">It’s the soul of the universe</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Manifest in this little creature</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Manifest</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">In the bumblebee I watched</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Hovering over tiny flowers</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">In the cut grass</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">As I sat alone</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Bereft of Ringo’s bodily presence</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Manifest in every dog</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">In every creature</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The soul of the universe</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">In Ringo</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">In you</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">In I</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Connecting us all</span></blockquote></blockquote>Trish Vansonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06339117247112860583noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7808600376831575419.post-23294775179949051562019-12-31T13:58:00.000-05:002019-12-31T13:58:51.717-05:00"A Matter of the Soul" -- Draft complete!Another November has passed, and the busy-ness of “Christmas” is now on its way out. I’d like to reflect upon my Nov 2019 writing, to share some of the process.<br />
<br />
My last post was written on the first day of November, before I started my novel. It was an unusual post for me, written quickly without much thought or revision. Once I’d written it, thinking it was just for me, to get me started, I realized it needed to be shared, so into my blog it went.<br />
<br />
November is a special month for me, because it’s the one month of the year I give myself permission to put writing ahead of anything I’m able to set aside. That keeps me focused on writing, and pretty eager the whole month through.<br />
<br />
This past November was different. It was, like the title of the story I was writing, a matter of the Soul. I felt this strong urge to get the story written, and a sense that the story came from deep inside me, not a product of my mind's imagination. It reminded me of what I’ve read about some painters: they are driven to keep working at a particular project and they need to keep at it until it is done.<br />
<br />
But unlike painting, writing requires a person to get very involved with words and thoughts. And, for me, life still had to go on as usual. My job requires my full presence. Our family needed to eat and have clean clothes and such. So it was necessary for me to ensure that I stopped to breathe deep and centre myself. I often found myself repeating the reminder, “it’s a matter of the soul.”<br />
<br />
I started writing on the first day of November, without a distinct plan other than a sense of what I needed to accomplish with the story. About mid-way I stopped paying attention to my word count. I had already told myself it didn’t matter what the numbers were, but still, it was getting in the way. My goal was to write a story, not to reach the 50,000 word goal that is built into the NaNoWriMo system. It helped to ignore the count of words. I kept writing, and when I worried about getting done or where the end of the story would be, I reminded myself that the story was coming from within and it would happen as it needed to. The story was finished on the last day of November!<br />
<br />
During December I set the story aside, although I kept feeling it calling me back. I have work to do before I can share the story. At the end of December I took a quick look at the first scene, ready to start the process. I realized, as is true of every novel, that the beginning needs to be revised. But what I really need to do first is read through the entire story. I need to let it settle back into me, but now with some of the distance of being the reader and not just the writer immersed in the creative process.<br />
<br />
I have written every November for the last eleven years. In that time, I have written novels, short stories, and poems. Some of them have been shared with a few people, but other than the poems I have posted here on my blog, nothing has been published, either formally or informally. I have the sense that everything I’ve written so far has been a part of the process for preparing me for this story. This story will be finished and shared, for any who wish to read it.Trish Vansonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06339117247112860583noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7808600376831575419.post-48581238815906385852019-11-01T13:29:00.000-04:002019-11-01T13:29:16.077-04:00NaNoWriMo 2019So many ideas, none of them a story. A childhood without a muse, without fantasy, stuck in boxes, hidden deep, knowing only what is outside. Years later, learning to be, to dream, to sense, to be truly alive. So much to unlearn. So much seeking. So much change.<br />
<br />
And now, embarking on the hidden novel. The novel that will be formed from my thoughts and feelings and sensings and dreamings. From my musings. A novel that will come from within. Not from the recesses of my mind, where forgotten details lie. It will come from within my soul. From the womb where the little girl hid her fantasy doll. From the deeper womb where the little boy hid his entire self. It will be born of magic, magic of the soul, of the universe. It will be born of great things, greater than I can comprehend. Greater than any mere human can comprehend. For we are so limited. <br />
<br />
I sit here, not believing I just wrote about greatness. I’m just me, little old me.<br />
<br />
But, from Jan’s post:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ybVMu83EvWs/XbxpZDXpJ4I/AAAAAAAAMRc/ymttWf0Z8kYGTL_3m0osj2i-tdPqP96OgCNcBGAsYHQ/s1600/Within.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ybVMu83EvWs/XbxpZDXpJ4I/AAAAAAAAMRc/ymttWf0Z8kYGTL_3m0osj2i-tdPqP96OgCNcBGAsYHQ/s320/Within.jpg" width="320" height="284" data-original-width="960" data-original-height="852" /></a></div><br />
<BR><BR><br />
I claim this!<br />
<br />
I have all the power within me. And I intend to do all I can to access that power, to let it be the driving force in this novel. My mind is the supporter. My fingers that type, my eyes that see the words pop onto the screen, my ears that listen to Loreena McKennitt, they serve my Soul.<br />
<br />
My Soul. Our Soul. The heartbeat of the universe.<br />
<br />
My poem from last November:<br />
<br />
Breathe<br />
Deep<br />
Slow<br />
Let your diaphragm move down<br />
To your stomach<br />
Down to your intestines<br />
Stop and listen<br />
<br />
Feel the stillness<br />
Of that place<br />
It is the stillness<br />
Of a wise old tree<br />
It is the vastness<br />
Of the universe<br />
It is the limitless space<br />
Of your heart<br />
It is the Soul of you<br />
Inseparable from the Soul<br />
Of all<br />
<br />
Breathe <br />
Out<br />
Slowly <br />
Release your breath<br />
As your diaphragm moves up<br />
<br />
You cannot keep<br />
All<br />
That vastness<br />
That stillness<br />
The Soul<br />
To yourself<br />
<br />
Breathe again<br />
Whatever you take in with your breath<br />
Discomfort<br />
Your pain<br />
Others’ pain<br />
Anxiety<br />
Is being transformed<br />
<br />
Breathe deep<br />
Again and again<br />
Into your Soul<br />
Allow yourself to be transformed<br />
<br />
Release yourself<br />
From the collective conscious<br />
That puts human intellect<br />
At the centre of everything<br />
<br />
There is no centre<br />
There is the heart of the universe<br />
The Soul of all<br />
In which you are<br />
I am<br />
<br />
<br />
Amen.<br />
Trish Vansonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06339117247112860583noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7808600376831575419.post-2750666353417356532019-04-02T21:54:00.000-04:002019-04-02T21:54:26.437-04:00Metamorphosis<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">We live in a world full of rules. Most of them are unspoken, unnoticed. Women always shave their legs. The economy always grows. Children must be in school in order to learn. Dying is to be avoided at all costs. White people are first. Getting things right must come before connecting with people. It’s not proper to think of pets as having as much value as humans. The list is endless.<br />
<br />
We are all expected to keep order, to follow expectations. We’ve learned to feel very uncomfortable if we don’t. We just assume it’s imperative that we “fit in”. So we go about our lives doing our best to make everything okay.<br />
<br />
And then suddenly, despite our attempt at being orderly, something forces a change in our lives. And we never seem to be ready for it. Even when change upon change happens, we continue to be surprised. We grit our teeth, figure we’ll endure it, get through it somehow.<br />
<br />
In this we can learn from children, the very young ones who have not yet been impacted by the world of rules. They build and break, build and break. They live in the moment, with no need to preserve their creation, to make it permanent.<br />
<br />
A few years ago I witnessed this and in that very moment wrote a poem:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><blockquote><blockquote></span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>Towers at Two</b><br />
<br />
Higher, higher, higher<br />
Reach up, build the tower<br />
Tumble it down<br />
Make it again<br />
<br />
Higher, higher, higher<br />
Smiles grow bigger<br />
Tumble it down<br />
Big wide mouth smiles<br />
<br />
Higher, higher, higher<br />
Working together<br />
Tumble it down<br />
Make it, make it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span></span></blockquote></blockquote><br />
Granted, if we tumbled down all our buildings we would have no shelter. So of necessity we learn about permanence. But most of us have lost the ability to flow with things, to enjoy the very moment of putting one block on top of another.<br />
<br />
I’m reminded of the Tibetan monks who painstakingly made a mandala with coloured sand, only to wipe it away when they were done. If you’re not expecting it, the act of wiping it away can seem quite shocking! Perhaps it’s a worthwhile thing to practice, intentionally changing something, intentionally breaking a rule that wasn’t really that important after all.<br />
<br />
We live in a time that makes us all stop and wonder at it. The rich get richer while the number of poor people increases. More and more throughout the world, the people in power show no care for the earth or its creatures and instead cause harm. No matter how much we as individuals want to make things better for the planet, the situation keeps getting worse. There is so much that makes no sense to us.<br />
<br />
We’ve tried. In so many ways, we’ve tried to make everything right. Surely if we just want the best and work for the best, won’t it all work out? We’ve followed the rules and we’ve tried so hard.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><blockquote><blockquote></span><b>Metamorphosis</b><br />
<br />
Get ready for the change<br />
<br />
A caterpillar does not know<br />
It will become a fluttering butterfly<br />
<br />
Yet it trusts the process<br />
Spins its cocoon<br />
Leaves the world it knows<br />
To awaken with a new consciousness<br />
<br />
Does the soaring butterfly remember<br />
It once crawled along a leaf<br />
Munching its way<br />
In slow, small steps?<br />
<br />
Perhaps not<br />
It trusts the process<br />
That brought it into the skies<br />
On thin-scaled wings<br />
That leave the heavier<br />
Duller<br />
Self-conscious humans <br />
Gazing in admiration<br />
<br />
The caterpillar<br />
Crawling along the plant<br />
Did not envy the soaring butterfly<br />
<br />
It is the speaking<br />
Thinking<br />
Creating<br />
Humans<br />
Who long to soar with the butterfly<br />
Yet fear their own transformation<br />
Hide from death<br />
Grit their teeth<br />
Against change<br />
<br />
Be still and know<br />
Human intelligence<br />
Does not exempt you <br />
Be willing to change<br />
Trust the process<br />
That lies within<br />
Metamorphosis<br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span></span></blockquote></blockquote>Trish Vansonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06339117247112860583noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7808600376831575419.post-5674897946102086992019-03-06T21:46:00.001-05:002019-03-06T21:46:54.496-05:00Window to My Love<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Most of my posts in this blog have been about my writing projects. But I am more than a writer, and I think it’s time to open the window to my soul a little wider.<br />
<br />
This past weekend my spouse and I celebrated our 30th anniversary, counting from the time we first committed to love each other forever. It was a wonderful celebration with a short service that could be considered a renewal of our vows. <br />
<br />
There were some who were invited and could not attend. There were many we wanted to invite but were limited by the resources we had. It is especially for you that I share here the poem that I read.<br />
<br />
<br />
<blockquote><blockquote>To My Love<br />
<br />
I loved you, my friend<br />
From the beginning<br />
When our lives were separate<br />
And we just talked<br />
<br />
I admired you<br />
Sensed your compassion<br />
And integrity<br />
Wanted to know you better<br />
<br />
We shared a home<br />
Shared laughter and tears<br />
Never had I cared<br />
So much<br />
<br />
No one ever mattered<br />
Like you did<br />
You put your hand in mine<br />
And touched my soul<br />
<br />
Our sharing and caring<br />
Became a lover’s love<br />
Something so unexpected<br />
And so wonderful<br />
<br />
We couldn’t deny our love<br />
It just didn’t fit<br />
In the closet of bad things<br />
Of harmful and hurtful things<br />
<br />
So we made a special closet<br />
To hide our love<br />
We were lovers in the closet<br />
And friends outside<br />
<br />
The closet was stuffy<br />
Lonely and shameful<br />
We could hardly breathe<br />
Leaving was scary<br />
<br />
When we came up for air<br />
Soaking in the sunshine<br />
Rooted in love<br />
We grew stronger<br />
<br />
We lost some things<br />
When we left the closet<br />
But now we are richer<br />
Than ever before<br />
<br />
Twenty-three years ago<br />
We stood proud and tall<br />
Shared our vows<br />
Rejoiced in our love<br />
<br />
Love, a thing of the soul<br />
Transcends time and space<br />
Transforms words and actions<br />
Informs and inspires us<br />
<br />
Today we celebrate <br />
And re-affirm<br />
The love we’ve known<br />
More than thirty years<br />
<br />
My friend, my lover<br />
Through the end<br />
We’ll talk, we’ll laugh, we’ll cry<br />
Connected, you and I</blockquote></blockquote></SPAN>Trish Vansonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06339117247112860583noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7808600376831575419.post-76154419543154888822019-02-20T21:57:00.001-05:002019-02-20T21:57:21.545-05:00EvolutionI’ve been slowly working away at my poems and short stories from my November writing. The dog I wrote about in the last poem has something to do with my lack of time to work on it, as his physical condition deteriorates. It’s surprisingly difficult to find a way to put together a number of individual projects. It’s not something I’ve tried before.<br />
<br />
One of the obvious things to do is to re-read the poems and find ways to improve them. It is interesting how helpful it can be to look at something, take a break, and look at it again, and then again. I was working on a poem I had titled “Evolution” which is also the provisional title of my collection of poems and stories. I suddenly realized that this one poem encapsulates what my month of writing was about. <br />
<br />
Some time ago, I was part of an online discussion about the ills that humans have caused in this world. Basically, the things we have done wrong. They might be things that seem normal to our civilization, but they cause harm. Someone suggested to me that I “write our wrongs”. I’ve tried to do that a number of times, to put some perspective to those harmful things humans have done. It was difficult and left me stuck in the wrongs. Then finally I came to this poem, and I knew that this was it: this poem said what I needed to say.<br />
<br />
<blockquote><blockquote>Evolution<br />
<br />
I tried to right our wrongs<br />
Separate the organics<br />
From <br />
The toxic plastic<br />
The altered metals<br />
Let the leaves, the stems,<br />
The flowers, the twigs<br />
Return to the gentle earth<br />
From which they grew<br />
<br />
I taught the children<br />
Respect for critters<br />
Plastic to the landfill<br />
Used tissues in compost<br />
Open your senses<br />
To the natural world around you<br />
Live in deep respect<br />
For the vegetation<br />
The wildlife<br />
Protect the smallest insect<br />
Honour the plant<br />
Growing in the cracks<br />
<br />
I tried to write our wrongs<br />
In a poem<br />
Of critters become pests<br />
Death splatter on windshields<br />
On asphalt<br />
Paradise paved<br />
Of kids cooped in boxes<br />
Sitting at desks<br />
Minds melded to screens<br />
Tar sands and tailing ponds<br />
Slag heaps and coke ovens<br />
Clear-cut forests<br />
Poisoned rivers<br />
But I feared this poem <br />
Would have no end<br />
<br />
So I turned to stories<br />
Of humans who evolve<br />
Who stop<br />
Righting the wrongs<br />
Fighting the wrongs<br />
Even ignoring the wrongs<br />
Who discover<br />
The heart-beat of the universe<br />
As their breath is pulled<br />
Deep within<br />
Who release <br />
Their harmful, soul-less life<br />
At the end of their out-breath<br />
Who start<br />
Living from their Soul<br />
The heart of the universe.<br />
</blockquote></blockquote>Trish Vansonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06339117247112860583noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7808600376831575419.post-41347034295546943962018-12-05T14:15:00.000-05:002018-12-05T14:15:41.719-05:00A November Recap With a PoemNational Novel Writing Month was very interesting for me. I immersed myself in writing poems and short stories, only in my spare time, but in almost every moment of that time. In the process, I learned to listen to and express my inner wisdom. <br />
<br />
In the end, the amount of that type of writing that accumulated was impressive. I wrote 54 poems, some of them only part or short, and four short stories.<br />
<br />
In the next while I will go through the poems and short stories and make revisions. I plan to choose some of the poems and the short stories and compile them into a collection that I can share. Perhaps the wisdom I found will be of benefit to others as well.<br />
<br />
In the meantime, I offer this poem. It is a poem about one of my family’s dogs, written in the middle of writing all the other poems. Much can be learned from the other creatures that we humans share this earth with. Perhaps this is one of the most important things we can do for ourselves as the outer world that we know changes so rapidly: look to the non-human creatures and learn from them. They know things our busy thinking brains don't show us.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LscMdxUQgrE/XAdDrgCn_JI/AAAAAAAAIqI/MmTe1LMi_WUSgEykMI-VKuRpZxjbUd9agCLcBGAs/s1600/Ringo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LscMdxUQgrE/XAdDrgCn_JI/AAAAAAAAIqI/MmTe1LMi_WUSgEykMI-VKuRpZxjbUd9agCLcBGAs/s320/Ringo.jpg" width="320" height="292" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="1461" /></a></div><br />
<blockquote><blockquote>Ringo<br />
Our dog<br />
A most precious soul<br />
Sharing with us<br />
This time and place<br />
<br />
His eyes <br />
Speak volumes<br />
A knowing<br />
Beyond words<br />
Bigger than words<br />
His demeanour<br />
Softens<br />
The hardest heart<br />
Brings a smile<br />
To the painfully<br />
Self-conscious<br />
<br />
Live<br />
He tells us<br />
Right now<br />
Soak in the sun<br />
When it shines<br />
Smell every scent<br />
On your path<br />
Taste every morsel<br />
You find<br />
Look into the eyes<br />
Of those who love you<br />
Shake off the little things<br />
When you can<br />
<br />
As his joints fail<br />
Muscles weaken<br />
Cold and damp<br />
Slow him down<br />
He tells us<br />
Live<br />
Right now<br />
In this moment<br />
Be who you are<br />
Be present<br />
And love<br />
Be love</BLOCKQUOTE></BLOCKQUOTE>Trish Vansonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06339117247112860583noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7808600376831575419.post-18412717129847739952018-10-29T14:00:00.000-04:002018-10-30T08:32:04.181-04:00Looking to My Month of Writing: November<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">November is approaching. It is the month of the year that I count on being able to write, using the structure of nanowrimo.org. NaNoWriMo is intended for novel writing. It has been used successfully by many people to get into the flow of writing and accomplish a large chunk of writing in a short time. <br /><br />This year I am really only using NaNoWriMo to give me the structure to find time to write. I won’t be writing large numbers of words. I don’t expect to write a novel. But I do expect to do what I always do in November: use every spare moment for writing. <br /><br />Despite having no plot or characters, this year’s planning feels much like other years. I feel myself getting into the “space” that is particular to my writing month. I am finding my way to the place where I can be open to my inner muse. This process is something that is always hard to put into words, but I can say some about it. One thing I have focused on is my breathing, the kind of deep breaths that allow me to connect to the still place inside me, the place that connects with the life of all beings. I also have a list of ideas that I can imagine might be the basis for poems. I expect to write poetry, and maybe a short story or longer story. But other than breathing and a list of ideas, I have no other concrete preparations. This will be a month of listening to my inner wisdom and creativity rather than counting on word following word to generate flow.<br /><br />I try to live in the moment as much as I can these days, but I am looking forward to seeing what comes of a month of this kind of writing.</span>Trish Vansonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06339117247112860583noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7808600376831575419.post-10726783425690963522018-10-27T22:27:00.000-04:002018-10-27T22:27:30.970-04:00Poem: Human Canary<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Leaden skies<br />Heavy and sullen<br />Pin me to<br />This dying earth<br />An indifferent<br />Atmosphere<br />Holds me down<br /><br />Climate-induced<br />Depression<br />Leaves me longing<br />For crisp autumn inhalations<br />Invigorating my steps<br />A gentle October sun<br />Illuminating the gold-veined leaves<br />That shine a promise<br />Of a vibrant spring to come<br /><br />Pressed to this Earth<br />She, I, my body<br />Are one<br />As arthritis pains<br />Slow my joyous run<br />To a walk<br />Tears no longer soothe<br />My dry eyes<br />Hot flashes<br />Burn through me<br />Then leave a chill<br />My skin sun-attacked<br />No longer soothed by its warmth<br /><br />I’m the canary in the coalmine<br />Sensing the change<br />The dying<br />My depression jolted <br />By agony<br />My tender heart<br />Pierced by death pangs<br /><br />My love for this earth<br />Her creatures<br />Her plants<br />Her crazy humans<br />Keeps me present<br />This canary must live<br />Bear witness in my poetry<br />And bid farewell to<br />Our physical presence</span>Trish Vansonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06339117247112860583noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7808600376831575419.post-12504539227204512502018-10-26T20:21:00.000-04:002018-10-27T21:36:25.564-04:00Poem: Evolution<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Earth has become<br />My alien<br />Home<br />More and more<br />Unrecognizable.<br />These clouds <br />An ever changing skyscape<br />I do not know.<br />This air<br />I did not breathe<br />Heavy and moist.<br />My Canadian garden<br />Now a tropical jungle<br />Plants tall and lush.<br /><br />My rhythms <br />Learned from earth<br />As I grew<br />Have been replaced<br />Rhythms become randomness<br />What should remain<br />Goes<br />What once would go<br />Stays<br />Confusion abounds<br /><br />In this time<br />I, too,<br />Must change<br />Release my grip<br />On routines and rhythms<br />Leave expectations<br />To slip through my fingers<br />Breathe deep<br />Down into the vastness<br />Of my Soul<br />See through<br />All these failing structures<br />Find the webs<br />That hold us<br /><br />I, myself,<br />Am an alien<br />To my younger self<br />The landscape of my personhood<br />Barely recognizable<br />My rhythms no longer imposed<br />My structures unreliable<br />My evolution is<br />A work in progress<br />Never solitary<br />As Earth<br />I<br />You<br />We <br />Move on</span>Trish Vansonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06339117247112860583noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7808600376831575419.post-15099497406826003462018-10-08T21:50:00.000-04:002018-10-27T21:36:38.941-04:00Poetry: Sitting in the Park<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Sometimes a poem can mark a moment in time. On Sept 12 I was sitting in the park while the kids in my care played joyfully. I was free to pull out my notebook and take note of the moment.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /><br />Last night<br />As I walked<br />Crickets sang<br />A cool weather song<br />Today <br />Remnants of a cool breeze<br />Caress me<br />While a hot sun<br />Heats my back<br />Cicadas hum<br />High in the trees<br />While traffic roars past<br />Relentless waves<br />Of noise pollution<br />Before me an idyllic scene<br />Sunny, green, vibrant<br />Behind me that roar<br />A strong reminder<br />Earth’s tolerance<br />Of harm upon harm<br />Will end</span>Trish Vansonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06339117247112860583noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7808600376831575419.post-18323539183343116812018-10-04T21:51:00.000-04:002018-10-27T21:37:20.781-04:00An Update: Poetry<h2 style="text-align: center;">
</h2>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">An update is long overdue. My writing has changed and I feel like I, myself, have changed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />I stopped working on my novel, A Beautiful End. My life is very busy, so novel revisions are difficult to fit in. But I didn’t stop writing. I wrote more poems. And in the process I have become more confident in my poetry writing and more ready to share some poems. I recognize that poetry writing is an important part of my life and every bit as valid as novel writing.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />I have looked back on my novel writing and pondered on my lack of desire to pursue revisions. In my last two novels I’ve tried to imagine what it might be like to live in the near future of ongoing climate changes. My novels consider a possible future that is constantly changing. And despite my willingness to address these possibilities head-on, changes are happening more rapidly than I could imagine. It seems like no amounts of revision could fit my novel in its entirety to a more likely reality than I had imagined.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />In my poetry, I live in the present, stopping only to consider how future possibilities impact us right now. This is how I am living my life right now: in the moment, as much as I can.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />In light of that, it is my intention to post more poems on my blog. For me, poetry writing is a deeply personal process, and it doesn’t allow for frivolity. In other words, my poems come from my heart and from my inner wisdom.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />Many of my poems reflect my process of learning how to live in a world that is in so much change. They are particularly about learning how to accept the acceleration in changes to our planet that can no longer be halted.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />I hope you enjoy my poems. I hope they touch your heart and in some small way help you to find your own way in these troubling times.</span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">For today, I wish to share a little poem I jotted down while in the park. I have promised myself to explore the concept of death, that it might not be limited to the big scary picture of a human suffering on a death bed. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<h4>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">A Fleeting Visit</span></h4>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br />An insect lit down<br />On my arm<br />Revealed its delicate beauty<br />Yellow-jointed brown legs<br />Transparent veined wings<br />Compound eyes<br />Then flitted away<br />A death to me<br />Such a fleeting visit<br />Here and gone</span>Trish Vansonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06339117247112860583noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7808600376831575419.post-88428380370871190022018-01-19T14:07:00.001-05:002018-01-19T14:07:27.084-05:00A Short Update on "A Beautiful End"I’ve been eager to post an update on my progress with my novel, A Beautiful End. I started a blog post last October, just before the start of the 2017 month of writing with nanowrimo.org, but life was too busy. November started and I got on with the task of writing that I had assigned myself. December was it’s usual self, monopolized by things Christmas. In January I returned to writing, to finish November’s task. It is done, and now the blog post is finally being written.<br /><br />I veered away from the expectations of NaNoWriMo this past November. The idea is to write a new novel and to just write like crazy and never look back until the month is over. It is a very effective way to get a big chunk of writing done and to fall into the creative flow. But this time I wrote slowly and thoughtfully. I rewrote the first part of A Beautiful End. This was a new experience for me, to write the same story over again. From my perspective, it was a great success! I wrote a better story, even though the plot was essentially the same, and I improved my writing ability as I went along. It was just the right thing for me.<br />
<br />
Next steps include doing revisions on this first part, based on anything I find and then based on feedback from readers. I’m looking forward to the moment when I can present my novel to the world as a finished project! Trish Vansonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06339117247112860583noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7808600376831575419.post-3816033356737768452017-12-01T14:08:00.000-05:002018-10-27T21:37:52.398-04:00Poetry: This Autumn Farewell<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-CV_33P4gQng/WiGnmXir9EI/AAAAAAAAGXw/v7kqNIUnEt4A0TMPG0tvDP3zJ2RhG9BwQCLcBGAs/s1600/Farewell%2BLeaf.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-CV_33P4gQng/WiGnmXir9EI/AAAAAAAAGXw/v7kqNIUnEt4A0TMPG0tvDP3zJ2RhG9BwQCLcBGAs/s320/Farewell%2BLeaf.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">This Autumn Farewell<br /><br />Amid the dull browns of<br />Climate changed autumn<br />Brilliant beauty<br />Lay at my feet<br />No longer trapped<br />On its branch<br /><br />A month and another<br />Warm days<br />Despite autumn's light<br />Wintry days<br />Before their time<br />Strong winds<br />Time and again<br />Whipped the leaf<br />At long last<br />Forced its release<br />Defied the tree’s grip<br /><br />Bright red veins <br />Shone in the sun<br />Its leaving<br />Announced<br /><br />Amid the dull tones of<br />Climate changed autumn<br />This brilliant leaf<br />Shouts its farewell<br />Bids us enter<br />Endless winter of<br />Extinction</span></blockquote>
Trish Vansonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06339117247112860583noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7808600376831575419.post-65813542683844654062017-04-29T22:42:00.000-04:002017-04-29T22:42:45.633-04:00In Honour of Beta ReadersI have been making many changes to <i>A Beautiful End</i>. The credit for many of these changes goes to other people. They say it takes a village to raise a child. It also takes a village to raise a novel. I birthed the novel, but it’s the feedback from beta readers that is helping to make the novel into the story it needs to be.<br />
<br />
I have had some very helpful input from three readers so far. Countless mistakes have been pointed out. I had no idea there were so many, although as a percentage of the total words, it’s probably not that much. But what really amazes me is the ideas and questions I have received from them that help me to make really important changes to the story. They knew just what information to give me, what questions to ask, and each of them had their own contributions.<br />
<br />
One of the comments I received propelled me to consider adding some to a section of the novel. I spent most of April writing poetry instead of working on revisions, by participating in Camp NaNoWriMo (campnanowrimo.org). I used it to set my own goal for the number of lines of poetry. I wrote an amazing 1208 lines, which was a total of 42 poems. Out of those, eight poems that could possibly be used in my novel. I expect to choose five or six of them. I can’t tell you how I will use them, because that would spoil the fun of reading it. I do believe they will enhance the story and be more than just “filler”. The good news is that the first readers enjoyed my story enough that I can ask them to reread the part with the poems so they can confirm for me whether the story is improved by them.<br />
<br />
I am now working on my third revision of <i>A Beautiful End</i>. This revision will include changes suggested by my third beta reader as well as the work needed to incorporate the poems. There are more readers who have comments coming, so I expect further revisions.<br />
<br />
I am so looking forward to completing the process and having my novel ready to share with the world!Trish Vansonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06339117247112860583noreply@blogger.com0