Garnet Light

I am twelve,
Loving summer camp
With its quests
Unexpected and new,
Its routines and scenes,
Moose Pond in the morning mist—
A wide lake in spite of its name—
The cloud wisps decorating Pleasant Mountain,
Honeymoon and Japanese Islands
Present unseen,
Loving summer camp especially this summer
Because I have a best friend,
Louise;
We explore, discuss, absorb
The Maine woods and our unfolding lives.

Excursions and camping trips
Are my pinnacle delight;
For some, we paddle across or down our lake;
For others, we ride, singing,
In the open wooden-gated back of a truck,
Sometimes to a distant lake or river
That will carry our canoes to our sleeping cove,
Other times to a single day’s new source of happiness.

As on the day we campers climb
Over the face of a garnet hillside
Collecting beauty from the center of the Earth.

I love rocks—geology has risen high
Among the fascinations
That will rise and fall and rise in new forms
Across the eras of my life.

I am jubilant
Tapping on the cliff
In the warm Maine sun,
Loosening treasures,
Small rocks sparkling with deep-red gems
To carry home with me at the end of summer
In a footlocker weighing three times
Its going-to-Maine weight.

Our home, drawing by Mason Hayek

Back home
I am snared in the unhappiness of junior high;
My Maine rocks join the granite boulders in our backyard.

As my years continue,
Rocks give way to new passions—
Folk music, the great apes, ice skating, literature—
I live a floating life,
Grasping the possibilities in view,
Leaving left-behind possibilities on the shores of memory.

I meet rapids
And create whirlpools where none are intended;
I flail against benevolent waters
Because they are not the waters I seek
Or believe I need to find.

After journeying to distant shores
Seeking elusive settling,
I return eventually to Delaware,
To our little white house.

Daddy shows me he has kept my loveliest garnet rock,
Stored safely against our sheltering home.

Now the garnet-filled rock carries in its crystals
Twelve-year-old me
Held among the eons its gems have shone
Within and on the surface
Of our miraculous Earth.

My rock carries within itself
Its ancient molten infancy
And refracts the Light
To bathe my ephemeral now
With insight outside of passing time.

The girl I was is not lost
But held inside of me;
The future I wanted but did not find
Forms strata in my knowing,
In the strength I have to share.

God’s garnets in my hand
Shine their peace-giving glow
On who I was,
Who I am,
And who I still can be.

Eve’s Footsteps

Were you walking by the water to watch the waves and the shore birds?
Were you worried, angry, lonely,
Peaceful, reflective, in love?
Where was Adam?
Did he help you with the cooking?
What did you long for in your life—
A pretty face?
Appreciation?
A kinder man?
Bright children?
A room of your own, or the 115,000 BC equivalent?
Likely the possibility of warmth, ample food, and shelter was sufficient dream.
I want to know
If you worried about dying,
If growing older was a curse or a relief,
If your children minded you,
If you asked yourself the point of living.
I wonder how you passed the time,
How you spoke and dressed,
What you thought about when you woke in the morning,
What kept you awake at night.
Were the myths already in place—
That you were created from Adam to be his,
That too much willfulness in a woman is dangerous to a man,
That women are weak and easily swayed by a glib tongue?
Did you bother to rebel?
Something of your physical self is in every woman, and every man, too,
But we women of 1,170 centuries later
Also share your eternity.
When we wander along the beach
Thronged with people, sullied by debris—
The ocean still grand and powerful—
You walk with us,
The solitary mother of all women,
The young girl at the beginning of time,
The woman who has seen all ages and carries us each inside of her.

Time

“I am illusory,
But yet you worship me;
I am real as a dream is real:
With meaning
But without substance.

“Why do you bow down to me
With fear and anxious hurrying?

“The Universe asks me to serve,
Not to rule,
To give moments, memories,
The years of your life.

“Walk with me
As I walk with you:
Gently,
Although unceasingly.

“If you slow your pace,
I will not drag or push you;
I will beckon, but patiently,
Cushioning the future with beauty
From the past you have known.”

Notre Dame de Paris Burned Today

Drawing by Mason Hayek

Notre Dame de Paris burned today,
France’s cathedral, the world’s cathedral,
And mine,
A place of the soul, the heart, my heart
Burning with the toppling spire,
Collapsing roof,
Melting glass,
And now-charred altar.

Parisians sang hymns
As ferocious flames
Flew embers of what had been
Across the City of Light,
Nearly extinguished tonight.

I was in Notre Dame de Paris
On a January Sunday—
The 2nd, according to my journal—
Forty-seven years ago;
The organ’s melodies and harmonies
Billowed into the vaulted roof,
Through the rose windows,
Along the flying buttresses,
Into the Paris evening,
And then a priest chanted Mass.

I was twenty-two that evening
And had craved French and France
At least since I’d been nine,
And there I was:
Paris and her cathedral
Welcomed me to a world
Where desires turned into possibilities,
And then became true.

I wrote in my journal that 2 janvier 1972,
“C’est les fois comme ceci quand je voudrais être catholique.”
And this week I will turn Catholic,
Five days after Notre Dame has burned.

Perhaps from a city, a world, of prayers,
The walls and towers of our cathedral
Still stand;
I hear the organ has been saved,
And some of the art,
Perhaps a rose window;
Already hope has returned:
Notre Dame de Paris
Will one day again be whole,
Not as it was,
But remembered, honored,
Resurrected.

I, too, am not as I was,
But I carry my weeks in Paris,
My visit in Notre Dame,
Within me as I make my way,
Burned and illuminated,
Through time.

Just as the first flames ate into the spire,
I finished my turn as the day’s leader
For our French literature class
Of lifelong learners whose love
For the language and culture
Still burns,
Lighting our aging lives.

And above my bureau
Hangs my father’s drawing
Of Notre Dame de Paris
Beyond the Pont Neuf.

Seeking Divinity

God is the Light in the oneness of being,
In you, in me,
In the rays of the Sun piercing evening clouds,
Moon reaching out to Jupiter,
Sycamore standing against the sky,
And homeless woman begging sustenance;
In the squirrel patting soil on his acorn,
Fly harassing the picnic,
Horse running free in the field,
And poacher killing elephants for ivory;
In families fleeing their bomb-wracked city
And tyrants unleashing their scorn.

God is the Light in the oneness of being,
In the child who is frightened of guns in his school
And the cowards who hide behind guns,
In gorillas, whales, and wolves,
In a wood-thrush trill and the coo of a dove,
In the killer who’s cruelly taken a life
And those aping virtue demanding his,
In destructive storms and stinging hornets,
Majestic rivers and ancient trees—
Those ruined and those that remain—
Whole countries nearly forsaken,
And an elderly couple in love.

God is the Light in the oneness of being,
Though smothered by cruelty and hate.

Winds of Change?

The whirlwind swirls:
I ride the coiling winds
Around the hollow core;
Flying off frequently
Into nettles on the verge
Or quicksand by the water,
I am, at other moments,
In magic-seeming meadows
Redolent with flowers
Riotous in scent and color
Decorating loneliness
Rather than serenity.

Rousing, I throw myself
Again into the vortex,
Rejoin the reassuring buffeting,
The enveloping pleasures
And constricting turmoil.

Having lost my perpetually sought path,
My road to meaning
Hidden in the tumult,
I ricochet through possibilities,
Jostle against necessities,
And trail beckoning
Attractions and distractions
Through another day, another month,
Through all my years.

So far.

Learning from Mary

A dove stood peace in a tree by the lot where I’d parked my car,
And a partner dove held watch and comfort
Over the place where I met my friend.

And now we are visiting the beautiful convent,
Learning from Mary in our elder years,
Opening to God’s invitation to give, to do, to become.

Last Sunday I was welcomed to the Church,
The church of my new parish—
Where I thought I could never belong, fit in—
In a ceremony that once was oil to my water,
A little-known language, customs,
And ways of seeing Creation.

I, we, one can worship everywhere;
The congregation has shown me welcome;
And so I join a community of kind people
With whom I share love and the wish
To give love, kindness, hope,
To one another and the world.

And we sing hymns!
The music holds Creation;
Our notes link spirits and minds
Around the room,
Across time
To the beginning of the world,
To the beginning of my world,
When it and I were whole
And still becoming.

I have walked away from the Quaker meeting
That once joined hands, song, and ministry with the three of us
And other loved souls
With whom we gathered eagerly
Each Sunday
And special days between.

I’ve lost the sense of oneness with those
Who gather in the old meetinghouse
That remains full of memories
But no longer of belonging.

I feel that belonging here,
Among the Franciscan sisters,
Among the dear parishioners
In the church once foreign
That is now the place I sing hymns
And join hands in greeting.

I do not need to deny or distance
Who I have been and am
To enter a new spiritual home
As I go on seeking.

The Church, the church, the history,
Even the creeds, doctrines, and rituals,
Give a setting for building on what is within.

They can be an invitation,
A set of possibilities,
A place for new becoming
Rather than demanding
What and how to be.

The Rite of Welcoming embraced
My heart, my spirit and emotions
Filling with astonishment
For such extravagant concern for me—
One who is inclined, unless performing,
To escape disturbing.

After my more than sixty years in Quakerism,
After the deep gifts of spirit, wisdom, and leading
My parents gave our Meeting,
My leaving was met with little notice;
Can I be wrong to walk into newfound warmth?

Sitting on the sofa one afternoon,
Reading and relishing the day,
I felt a hand on my shoulder;
Sweet Mother sings to me at night,
And both my dear ones knock
To say, “We are still at home together”;
Settings change, but not the essence of souls.

And the great blue heron points her toes in flight;
The Moon waxes and wanes
Even in a sky of absent stars;
New friends link arms
With friends who have gone on,
And love glows in the center,
Expanding like sunrise
To enfold us all.

Namaste

Originally written 12/15/18; revised 1/29/19

The Night Sky

Taurus, including Hyades and Pleiades, by Daddy
Constellation Taurus, including the Hyades and Pleiades, photo by Mason Hayek

The Moon still rises,
Majestic and comforting;
Sometimes a planet shines
In the otherwise empty dark.

But we have stepped away from the Universe,
From Orion and Cassiopeia,
The Big Dipper,
The North Star;
We have fallen into shadows
Along the Milky Way.

Let us bathe in the Light
We continue to see
And so rekindle our own;
Shining together
We illuminate the night,
Revealing galaxies
Far into God’s Creation.

Evening Mass, All Saints’ Day

Meeting view
Sunday Window, quick sketch by Mason Hayek

The church tonight was and was not my church;
I am making my home there,
Even as corners and entire rooms
Remain unknown,
Not yet my dwelling place.
A kind acquaintance greeted me
In my now-familiar pew
Before the organ told of time for quiet
And the small procession gathered.
I knew the crucifix rose
In the dark beyond the window;
Jesus as he lived inspires me,
As failingly as I follow,
More than Jesus as he died.
The priest spoke to us of speaking up
For right as we understand,
Of nurturing the saint within.
I loved singing the hymns:
Hymns and a sermon, a homily,
These are church enough for me,
Along with friends,
Who are my sanctuary.

North Country August

Maine Morning
Maine Morning, by Mason Hayek

For me, August is a month of change.  It is a time of coming to the world and growing older, of awakening to sun-filled hot, blue mornings filled with blossoming, burgeoning life.  And also for me, August is a month of meeting loss and death.

I was born in August, and on the August day that I marked fifty-five years of life, my infinitely dear father died.  In the years I lived in the North Country—in Maine and in New York near the Canadian border—August was a time of transition for Nature, too.  Wind stirred the lakes, a few leaves turned red before their time, and most nights called for warm blankets and flannel nightgowns.

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August sky

In “North Country August,” autumn tunes up its season of change.  In this poem, I welcome the coming of autumn’s pared-down beauty.  I will never cease grieving my losses, above all my parents and other dear ones who have gone on ahead.  Yet while I struggle to keep the confident outlook of the poem’s last stanza, I vow to embrace its peace and optimism, as best I can.

North Country August

A large brown duck with orange feet stands on a log by the creek
And then swims upstream against the current.
In the smooth water, a perfect duck looks back at her.
Crows call between the dead trees of the swamp.
Reeds and low brambles hold an early fall dryness,
While the scraggly petunias in window boxes still remember spring.
A monarch butterfly tastes purple phlox.
Chattering chickadees fly in to feed on sunflower seeds.
The sky is clear, but the mountains are lost in haze.
The Earth waits for change.

Along the fence roses bloom, with buds forming
As if the month were still July.
Would I want to live in July forever?
August is Earth’s send-off to subtler days ahead.
How lovely it will be to sleep soundly under my blanket.
Already the Sun is setting earlier,
With evenings that give more time for reflection,
Fewer demands to be out doing.

One glorious fall morning, the snow geese will fill the sky
From horizon to horizon.
Then snow crystals will sparkle in cold December air,
And mists will rise until the lake is frozen.
The first reawakening will be the birds on a March morning.
Ice will boom in the warming Sun,
And the seagulls will congregate on the flows by the ferry channel in glorious reunion.
The silent flight of herons, with their long dancers’ legs, will herald summer,
Spread before us once again.

I was born in August.
Each year of my life closes then.
But as my season of birth,
August is the beginning for what is still to come.
My spring will not return in this life.
Yet I choose not to see August as summer’s end.
It shall be my passage into vivid autumn colors,
My transformation into the clarity of September’s blue skies.
I shall warm myself in the cool evenings by my own fires
And by the fires of losses turned into memories
And regrets into experience.
I will, like the roses of autumn, bloom in beauty and tranquility
With no thought of the frost to come.

Butterflies 1

“North Country August” also appears in my book A Woman in Time.