Back from a Break

Observant readers might have noticed that I have been absent from stillvoicing for that last number of weeks. Some of you who know more of my life than others may have suspected that this is because of my broken elbow. This is, in fact, correct. My writing has been restricted by a broken elbow incurred the Saturday before Palm Sunday. I had surgery on Easter Sunday (all quiet in the hospital that day). I was in a cast for two and a half weeks after that. The cast disabled my ability to type but it did not impend my opportunities to learn, and so I share with you three important lessons acquired while in a restricted modality of life.

First lesson: go slow. The first bit of advice from my orthopedic surgeon to me after my surgery was “Don’t fall!” He repeated that after the removal of my cast. It was a fall that broke my elbow. While on a run I hit a patch of ice and took the full weight of my body on my right elbow. I am right dominate so the learning of going slow was nicely foisted upon me. But the good physician and my accident have commended that as a way of living. Going slow means savouring moments, and being present in the places you find yourself.

Second lesson: do less. Those of you who have broken bones or sustained other injuries know well that tasks done without any ado become impossible to do. And so, I had to learn to do less. But I had to learn to do less in a rather busy time. This happened at the end of term when marking was due. I tend to provide quite a lot of feedback on papers, which was now impossible without the ability to write or type. Instead, I made use of the audio file option on our online marking system. But the file only allows a five minute long file, and so I had to be succinct and direct in my comments. I had to do less, a practice that demanded doing what I did well. This, too, is a good life lesson, I think.

Third lesson: ask for help. I was unable to drive, and so my good wife became my chauffeuse extraordinaire. But she helped me with so much more, tying my shoes, making my meals, etc. Of course, she wasn’t the only person to help me out. Neighbours and colleagues helped me out with rides and this and that. Something as simple as having doors opened for me helped me to see that being helped is a way to affirm our common humanity and build relationships. Students, my hairdresser, and others helped me with coats, carrying things, and more. It is a humbling but humanizing thing to ask for help. I need to do this more, and I suspect most of us do.

Go slow, do less, and ask for help. These are things that my broken elbow said to me, and still says to me even while I have begun the slow process of healing. These are life lessons. I suspect I have heard these maxims before, but they have a certain gravitas now that is grounded in the source of the voice commending them: my body.

Encumbered Days

Yesterday slipped away,
a Saturday playing Sunday.
This holiday a time ruse, confusing
my sense of when. But then
again, maybe that’s what
days away are for: a foray
into time suspended,
time upended,
time queried.

They say that time is money,
but time is honey,
sticky, sweet, but when
the heat comes it runs
away from me, like
water off a duck’s
quack, an utter
lack now and
then it slows
me down.

One day time will simply slip away from me,
or you might say it “Happy Canada Day!” reminds
me to mind my days that aren’t only numbered
but also encumbered with bearing me, caring for me, and finally
at the end, closing my eyes.

Into the Night

I went for a walk one night
this last week, my mind caught
up in that space between
hard facts and fickle feelings,
even though I know that
facts aren’t really hard nor
are feelings fickle.

I stopped for a moment at
that sweet spot between
two streetlights, that holy
place where I shadowed
in both directions equally:
the me-ahead mirroring
the me-behind.

I thought that this might be
a parable about life, or maybe
I sign I could divine in these
peculiar times. But in the end
I decided that this was simply
a strangely satisfying sight, which
might be what I most need as
I step into the night.

Through Bovine Eyes

Through bovine eyes You
see me seeing You in cow;
in flea fleeing tail.

Subtle Hope

My running life is now on hold for a week or so. Some sort of a tear, or perhaps gordian knot, in my right leg muscle has sidelined me, although I am able to walk without pain. So yesterday instead of going for my Saturday ritual run of 10 km, I opted to walk to the market in downtown Kitchener. I go to the market irregularly but am always glad for it. In the winter local businesses and farmers have a place to sell in a warm place and in the summer the market grows and spills out on a parking lot. I grabbed some goose pate, chicken rouladen, Oktoberfest sausages, and Icelandic cod along with about 10 lbs of beets for making beet pickles. I was delighted by my purchases and the journey to and from downtown.

I do have to say that the trip home was more enjoyable than the trip to the market, even though my backpack was a bit heavier on return. I walked to the market down Weber Street, which is the same route I use when I drive to work. It is a street that approximates a highway – four lanes wide with people generally travelling far faster than the posted 50 km/h limit. It is always interesting to walk where I generally drive. I was reminded again that a good number of the homes on this route are under duress, and the racing of cars was sometimes a bit much. For the trip home, by contrast, I walked back on King Street. It is a two-lane street with lots of lights that slow down traffic. It feels a bit more humane, and it was interesting again to see a number of apartments being built: developers clearly imagine that this part of town – once a bit rough, has more of a future.

The only downside of the walk home was the Ottawa Street stretch, where a number of businesses had not cleared walkways, reminding me again that the world is not friendly to those in wheelchairs, or with walking challenges. Sidewalks that were cleared were stained white with salt – a trace of winter’s slow recession, in this month of March that takes up a liminal place between winter and spring. Dirty snow sits aside whitened asphalt while the lengthening sun wrestles with still artic air. Some days winter wins; some days spring succeeds.

I made it home in time to have my goose pate on rye bread, with Akvavit and a nice cold pilsener alongside of it while my wife and I chatted online with our daughter imbibing her breakfast in Vancouver. Her world is well into spring, while we wind our way through this month named after the Roman god of war. While winter and spring wrestle, I nestle into anything that affords me a little comfort – especially in light of the hard and dark news from Ukraine this week. Hope seems to be in short supply but does lift its head here and there in little acts of kindness, in subtle seasonal signs in this month that reminds me that transitions are not always easy: whether they be the birth of spring or the death of winter or the death and birth of a people.

Beauty Becomes

They are glorious, these slivers
of ice cycling down from
our roof, mixing
sky blue hues with
high noon sun in
a bit of alchemy, now
delivering gold, now
silver, now diamonds
in the trough
of eave.

I gasp at this beauty,
knowing that it will not last,
and this is its appeal to me
in these days that slip, that drip away.

I find comfort in
knowing that beauty, too,
empties itself and takes forms
transient, impermanent, finite –
that beauty becomes
just like me.

Fullness in Many Forms

I may be awake, deep
in the night, but
Mother sleeps. Now
is not the time of her labour,
nor does she launder, bake, tinker – no
she is soporific and her sabbath
settles me. She slumbers silently
although she shifts as the snow drifts
her blanket here now, there then.

Yet I can feel the
power of her rest. Beneath
this sparkling quilt spring
germinates while the perfect empty
space of each tree allows
my eyes to see that fullness
comes in many forms. I
gasp at the thought that
every flower, blade of grass, perennial
is resting, filling, readying while
my pen scratches at the wonder of
Mother and mothering’s many ways.

The Breath We Are

“Did you remember to breathe?”

This was the question asked by my on-line yoga instructor after having my having held a pose for a bit. I had to think. And the answer was no. I had held my breath. Yoga has invited me to think more about breath in yoga and beyond. Last fall, I recall doing a chin up and realizing I was holding my breath while raising my body. I intentionally tried to breath out going down and to breath in lifting my body. I found that I had more strength that way.

It isn’t only yogis who know the power of breath. I recall my wife, trained in kinesiology, trying to convince me to breath while pushing weights years ago. So, I ask myself, why am I inclined to hold my breath when it is not in my interest?

Breath, of course, represents so much than air moving in and out of our lungs. Breath points us to life, freedom, connectivity, etc. And so, in times of trial it seems sensible to hold tightly to these things. When life is trying, we try want to get a grip on what is valuable, meaningful, and dear to us.

But yoga reminds me that the breath cannot be held – at least not indefinitely, and the power of breath is found in receiving and releasing it both. Breath’s power is in its movement and the same is true for those things it represents. Life cannot be held in if it is to be life-giving. Freedom cannot empower if it is not shared. Connections are not strengthened save by doing what connection does: reaching out again and again.

Of course, holding your breath makes sense when under water, and in times of danger we might be inclined to hunker down and avoid both taking in and reaching out. But yoga and more are teaching me that I find strength not by holding out but by leaning into possibilities as they present themselves.

It is not, of course, accidental that God is identified with breath in sacred texts, where the divine self is not to held to be a good to be sequestered. God is Spirit, who shares and releases the divine self into us so that we can be the spirit we are and the breath we breathe by receiving and releasing both.

Tiller We Meet Again

When we bought Santa Maria, our 24 foot Mirage sailboat, some 12 years ago or so, her tiller was a mess. The previous owners had not cared for it in any way, and the teak had deep cracks and chips. During the first year she was on the hard I sanded the tiller, and filled the cracks and chips, and varnished it more times than I could count. It actually came up looking quite good, which was quite a win for me since my wife is the woodworker in our household – although I have to admit that she oversaw my efforts.

The tiller is in need of repair again. I spent the other night sanding it and had this lovely sense of connecting to Santa Maria, some 70 kms away from my basement. The tiller brought me closer to the boat and wondered why.

Of course, the tiller itself is an aide de memoire. But there is more. It wasn’t just that I remembered moments on the boat, but I felt a connection to the boat. It might be, in part, the physicality of the work. The boat is a place where I most feel away from office work where I am generally in my head in spades. The boat allows me to get back in my body in a profound way: sensing the play of the wind, and feeling the roll of the waves. My skin, in particular, is acutely aware with the feel of the sun and the spray of waves, the textures of lines and sails, and temperature of the cushions in the cockpit radiating heat or cold.

As I was working on the tiller I thought a bit about this being a non-digital activity, although I was listening to music via my phone while doing so. I generally am suspicious of anti-tech rants but find that a balance of tech, and not, in life generally enables me to find some sense of peace and joy in life. I am reminded of Randy Woodley’s excellent book – Shalom and the Community of Creation: An Indigenous Vision ¬– in which he connects the Indigenous value of harmony and balance to the biblical concept of Shalom, which affirms a kind of wholeness that is instantiated in Torah-living and in the Way of the Reign of God.

I think the joy of sailing is so intense because it affords me another way to balance the kind of work I do day in and day out. We live in a culture in which we value growth and exponential increase. But there is a joy of inestimable value in finding balance in life: body and mind; rest and activity; play and work; and community and solitude.

I am so glad to know that Santa Maria is again, even in the winter, helping me to find a little balance, and with this, a deep joy.

Trust the Process

The snake plant family ensconced in my office,
those indefatigable swords of St. George,
are dying. Dracaena trifasciata may be famed
for its tolerance but this blade has dulled and is
melting away before my very eyes.
Two brave stock are holding forth,
and so I asked them for advice about
well-being. They told me to chill;
to trust the process;
to eat well, sleep generously;
to breath deeply when I run, do yoga and
think about life. These leaves lessoned me
on the value of reaching for the sky, of
remaining grounded, of attending to
the present. They also suggested I
might not water them so frequently.