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Sunday, April 26, 2020

Disaster

How bad does it have to get

for us to term it a disaster?

How much that is precious to us

must disappear

before we acknowledge

a disaster?

Is it all relative?

My disaster is your bump in the road?

 

The things that have flown away

or been spirited far from me,

these things I miss.

But their loss has been no disaster.

I tuck losses into the pockets

of my heart

where they remain hidden

yet still with me.

Thus, no disaster.

 

Refusing to honor disaster by name

removes its power to appall

and thus to paralyze.

 

Here's my advice

(remember that I am a list-making Capricorn

who thrives on activity):

ignore the terminology

and apply your considerable talents

to the nitty-gritty of doing.

 

 

Copyright © Ann Tudor
Musings blog: http://www.scenesfromthejourney.blogspot.com
Audible.Ca: go to https://www.audible.ca and search for Ann Tudor
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Sunday, April 19, 2020

A Tulip for Darkness

It stands tall, singular

in height as well as colour.

I don't remember buying it,

so it must have been a sport,

or a squirrel-delivered import,

and now it stands

tall and white

among the reds

(for red is the only tulip I buy).

 

At night—those dark and still-too-long

spring nights—

the reds close up

and dissolve into the blackness.

Alone this tall, white goblet glows

returning to us the brilliant light

of that day's sun.

We see it from behind our closed window.

It stands sentinel

marking the territory

reminding us of brighter nights to come.

 

And by then the petals of this white tulip

will be scattered on the dark earth,

its duty done,

its strength gone underground.

 

 

Copyright © 2020 Ann Tudor
Musings blog: http://www.scenesfromthejourney.blogspot.com
Audible.Ca: go to https://www.audible.ca and search for Ann Tudor
Audible.Com: go to https://www.audible.com and search for Ann Tudor




 

Sunday, April 12, 2020

The Ruckus

I'm not very community-minded. You can probably trace this back to the time when young people were forming communes that involved shared kitchens and endless group meetings for decision-making. I opted out of the whole idea of community.

 

Imagine my surprise, then, at the new development in our neighbourhood. Every night at 7:30 we take part in the ruckus of pot-banging to celebrate and encourage those working on the front lines of this pandemic. That's the origin story, and I believe it. But our ruckus has taken on a life of its own. Like the carved figures on a Swiss barometer, at 7:30 our doors open and we all step outside to see our neighbours. Pots and pans, pot lids, wooden spoons, metal spoons—we bang with vigour, smiling at each other. Rightly or wrongly, DinoVino WineScribe and I amble up and down the street, always keeping our distance, of course. Most people (probably following a rule that we missed) remain standing on their porches or balconies.

 

The first week, I banged a large stainless steel mixing bowl with a wooden spoon, and the noise was satisfying. The spoon broke after three nights and I replaced it with a large metal spoon. Energized by the commonality—and by the opportunity to see and wave at so many people we know and love, we do a follow-the-leader up as far as the curve in the street, then march back to our beginning.

 

We look up at the 25-story condo behind our street to see and faintly hear people on their balconies banging pots. A quarter-turn away shows us the residents of the eight-story condo on their own balconies. We open our arms wide to greet them and to be sure they know that we see them.

 

One night, rather than a stainless steel mixing bowl I took out my large drum. When I use it in the house, it sounds like a soft, persistent heartbeat. But during the ruckus it speaks with its outside voice, pretending to be a big bass drum, and we have 76 trombones all over again. The boom-BOOM, boom-BOOM, grounds the lighter sounds of the pots and pans.

 

We hope this ruckus improves the morale of the front-line workers even though they can't hear us. But it has given me—and the whole street—a sense of community and shared love during these extraordinary times.

 

After five minutes, as if by an invisible signal, we all drift back into our houses, to our Scrabble games, our Netflix, our books. Another day is over. Months from now, when this coronavirus has receded, we will be able to meet, laugh, talk, hug, and contemplate the mystery of community.

 

 
Cpyright © 2020 Ann Tudor
Musings blog: http://www.scenesfromthejourney.blogspot.com
Audible.Ca: go to https://www.audible.ca and search for Ann Tudor
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Sunday, April 5, 2020

The Solution

I have a body, but I am not my body.

I have a mind, but I am not my mind.

I have emotions, but I am not my emotions.

 

We've all heard this before. Well, I can say it, but the obvious question then stumps me: if all of the above is true, then what (or who) am I?

 

The me I cannot locate is hovering, I'm sure, just out of reach. My feeble stabs at meditation are in vain. I'd need a barge pole—or a more modern, urban equivalent--to touch that just-out-of-reach part that is, by all accounts, the true me.

 

My sainted mother used to say, on occasion, that she'd "put us in a bag and shake us up", apparently hoping that a good bag-shaking would sort the six of us out once and for all.

 

So there I have my answer. Everything goes in the bag: body, higher self, mind, soul, emotions, and that elusive true self. And I'll shake them up together and then empty the bag onto a brilliant silken cloth. What will I find? Will a good shaking sort out those baffling parts of me? I can't wait to see what will happen. Excuse me while I go look for a bag.

 

 

 

Copyright © 2020 Ann Tudor
Musings blog: http://www.scenesfromthejourney.blogspot.com
Audible.Ca: go to https://www.audible.ca and search for Ann Tudor
Audible.Com: go to https://www.audible.com and search for Ann Tudor