In Praise of the Potato Pollinator

 

I've been writing a lot of poetry this year. Apparently, once I stopped writing articles and columns, a vein of creative writing opened up. Interesting... and enjoyable. 

It means that every ponder, every phrase, every word has the potential to form a poem. Like the following, formed just as the dog and I were a couple of hundred metres from home at the end of our walk this morning. 

It started with a title -- In Praise of Bumblebees -- followed by the first line -- Dear Bumble --

By the time I fed the pets and sat down with my first cup of coffee, the poem's opening lines had wandered off but I just started writing. Normally, my poetry is spiritual, and serious, so it was nice to write something fun. 

I don't have a photo of a bumblebee at a dandelion but this photo of mine, of the fireweed in late August, shows the bumblebee in flight which is very cool. 

IN PRAISE OF THE POTATO POLLINATOR
 
Dear bumblebee
dear large body
dear small wings
dear mystery
 
how you fly
how you lift
what looks bulky and cumbersome
with those papyrean wings
paper and weight
 
as if there is a lightness
inside you
a sense of divine purpose
that levitates you and propels you
forward
into the flowering world
even though that flight
seems impossible
 
It is a miracle
every day
commonplace
ordinary
yet so
extra ordinary
 
for you
king of the dandelions
fuzzy lion of all the flying insects
you
are the great agricultural pollinator
the one who gives us
tomatoes and peppers
blueberries and strawberries
 
the only one who pollinates potatoes
 
without you
dear bumblebee
dear flying mystery masterpiece
dear miracle
 
we would not have
French-fried potatoes
 
So we thank you
dear bumblebee
for the miracle of
turning potatoes
into
fries

~ Sara Jewell  

Rainy Day in Rural Nova Scotia

 

Absolutely nothing makes me happier than a rainy day. Yesterday's sunshine had me twitching to plant gardens, but I know better -- our clay ground is still too cold -- yet the whole time I was inside working, I felt guilty that I wasn't outside planting. 

Rain is much easier. Only one option with rain. Stay inside and write and read! 

I must say, however, about gardening that moving the greenhouse, pictured to the right of the chicken coop, remains the best thing we ever did -- at least in the last ten years. Digging the pond, which you get just get a hint of at the top of the picture, is a close second, especially when the Canada geese hatch out their goslings. 

I'm in and out of the greenhouse now at least twice a day. I'm hardening off the annuals I bought, and talking to the perennials I'm waiting to plant - Lily of the Valley! First time ever. Why do I bother to say, "No more gardens!" There always seems to be a spot that needs plants and flowers, and I'm happy to oblige. 

The greenhouse is a very relaxing space, even as crowded as it is with shelving and bags of soil and planters waiting to be fill. And reams of chicken wire used to keep the chickens out of the gardens! They can scratch a garden bed to death, let me tell you. The greenhouse is warm and quiet and, I don't know why, but soothing. It's just a space, but at the edge of the field, and filled with plants and gardeny things, it feels like a little house of hope of possibilities. 

Let's hope the two sunflower seedlings I dug up from the garden under Mother's balcony feel the same way, and keep growing. 

Ospreys Return

 

Not sure how I feel about two ospreys claiming the nest this year. 

Those of you who are loyal followers of this blog know the last few years have not been kind to the ospreys. Those of you who follow this blog and read my book will know these ospreys have been constant throughout my life in rural Nova Scotia; they claimed the nest the summer after Dwayne and I married. 

The last time babies fledged from this nest was the summer of 2017. In each of the following two years, one of the parents disappeared and the babies perished, as eggs then the following as young birds dying in the nest in the heat of July. The grief from that was excruciating; these birds are like family to us and to see them suffering, and being unable to help, was horrible.  

Also, eagles have moved in across the river so the ospreys may fish elsewhere and someone near us has a fish pond. Did he shoot one or both of our ospreys? (This is illegal; ospreys are protected migratory birds.) 

The eagles also prey on the fledglings; in August of 2015, all three not-yet-flying fledglings were picked off by an eagle. 

Oh my heart.

I never thought I cry at the sight of the ospreys returning to the nest. It was always a moment of relief and joy. They're back! It was good for our hearts; now we are filled with dread. 

Last year, ospreys checked out the nest but did not stay. We thought we were "safe" this year, figured with no babies, there was no one to come back, but this morning, one osprey is sitting on the nest and the other is bringing in sticks. 

We need a summer of the ospreys like the one I wrote about in my book; we need to hear them calling to each other and watch them bringing in fish and celebrate the babies flying. We desperately need to experience the joy of those first ten years with these beloved neighbours. But we are fearful, for them and for ourselves. We need their success this year; we can't handle more tragedy.

Neither can their species.

These aren't great photos. I was using my cell phone because it was handy and I couldn't get close because I didn't want to disturb them. They're not used to us. 

A Poem: COVIDeer

Photo courtesy of  Shaun Whalen - thanks, Shaun! 

COVIDeer

She grazes close to the house

on her own

feeding on the new spring grass

She eats

ears flicking

then picks up her head, looks around

listens

her ears unmoving

She bends again

eats another mouthful

then again

her head comes up and she looks around

a sound spooks her

and she runs across the low end of the field

behind the chicken coop and the shed

but she’s not running fast

just enough

just in case

She pauses along the far side of the yard

where the grass is growing long and green already

bends down to eat

walks forward

stands and looks around 

for the longest time

walks

and eats

and listens

and looks

Her journey is moments

relaxed grazing

to nourish her body

total alertness

to keep herself safe

graceful and watchful

in equal measure

Ears and eyes tuned to the world 

what was that?

do I need to pay attention?

do I need to run?

or stand quietly?

am I safe here?

And I think

she is

us

our pandemic journey is moments

tweets and posts and videos

watching numbers rise and fall

walking alone

staying close to home

but ever vigilant

for danger

listening

observing

do I comment?

or stay quiet?

gracious and malicious

in equal measure

A virus stalks us

hunting us down

in the air

without a sound

Our eyes and ears are tuned to the world

are we safe here?

We are

the deer

~ SJ, April 26, 2021

Dad's Couch

 Once my husband's parents had moved out of their house -- forced by ailment and age to leave and never return -- Dwayne's conversations with them often included a mention of belongings. 

Dwayne always wanted the dining room table but his father insisted the sideboard, lovely but large, had to go with it, and we don't have room or need of that sideboard. So Dwayne let that go. Even though his father died last summer, Dwayne still honoured his wish. 

I was looking for a curio cabinet and his mother's would have suited but it's still full of seventy years of ... curios... so we bought one ourselves (and it has the rounded glass sides I prefer). 

After his brother passed away suddenly, in January, the future of the old farmhouse changed quickly. Funny how plans bandied about as ideas and dreams, as "some day", drop into high gear forward when someone dies. All of a sudden, the plans for a grandson to renovate the farmhouse and move in with his family are taking place now, rather than in a few years. This is happening because Dwayne's sister-in-law is all alone on the property. 

So there was a visit to the old house, Dwayne and I, to pick out things we wanted. Dwayne looked at a lot of things and I'd say, "Do you want this?" but ultimately he'd put it down and say, "No, I don't want it."

This befuddled me; I'm all about trinkets and tokens and memorabilia -- for the memories, for the connection. Still, I put his dad's wallet and some notepads with his dad's name on them in my pocket. I have my father's wallet; I felt Dwayne (now the only living son) should keep his own father's wallet, too. 

Last fall, we got rid of the couch after we installed a fireplace insert; we couldn't have the couch blocking the fireplace and I didn't want the big picture window blocked either. So I spent the winter trying to figure out what to do and I settled on the idea of a daybed, something we could sleep on but wouldn't block the window. At the time, I suggested bringing over the daybed from his parents' kitchen, but Dwayne quickly nixed that idea. 

Until it worked away at him. Until one day he said, "Let's use the daybed from the house." 

It's old; it's VINTAGE. And it's shorter and narrower than a modern daybed so thankfully, the original mattress is still in good shape -- they built things to last back then, didn't they? -- so we have the whole ensemble in our house now. My intention all along has been to cover it in blankets and pillows, and I keep adding them. 

Every so often, Dwayne lies down on "Dad's couch" and has a nap. Just like his father did in the kitchen of the house Dwayne grew up in. A lifetime ago. 

I have his father's wallet. He has his father's daybed. Memories and connections reminding us of who we are and who we came from. 

A Poem: Words To Speak

Memorial - Photo by Robert Short, from cbc.ca website

WORDS TO SPEAK

by Sara Jewell

I keep coming back to a set of words spoken 

by a woman in Ottawa in October 2014

as Corporal Nathan Cirillo 

lay bleeding to death beneath our national war memorial

after being shot by a lone gunman on a rampage

Barbara Winters was walking to work

when she heard the shots

when she ran towards the danger

when she lay down alongside Corporal Cirillo 

and whispered to him, over and over,  

“You are loved. You are brave. You are good.”

Today we remember and honour and mourn 

the first anniversary of the mass killings in rural Nova Scotia

that took 22 people –

parents, spouses, children, siblings, neighbours, friends, colleagues – 

loved ones

cherished ones – 

from their families and communities 

We remember those who rushed out of the safety of their homes 

and lost their lives trying to help, to save:

“You are loved. You are brave. You are good.” 

We remember those whose little peace of heaven 

fuelled roaring flames that reached towards the stars:

“You are loved. You are brave. You are good.”

We remember those who started their day 

with a walk or a drive to work but did not return home:

“You are loved. You are brave. You are good.”

We remember Constable Heidi Stevenson 

who lost her life confronting evil masquerading as good:

“You are loved. You are brave. You are good.”

If those are words we speak to the dying, 

what words do we speak to the survivors, 

those who lived and worked through that terror? 

those who live with the loss of people they loved?

We honour the police officers and firefighters and paramedics 

who ran toward the danger because it is their work: 

“You are loved. You are brave. You are good.” 

We honour the leaders – municipal and spiritual –

who offered comfort and support with their own broken hearts:

“You are loved. You are brave. You are good.”

 

We honour the families and neighbours and friends

who seek answers that will never change what happened:

“You are loved. You are brave. You are good.”

We mourn with them as we remember: 

You are loved. You are brave. You are good. 

You are not alone. 

Those are the only words there are

then

now 

There are no other words 

for their grief

for their disbelief

for their despair, their rage, their if-onlys

There are no other words

for their loss

for their isolation

for their memories, their wishes, their what-ifs

We can only lay down alongside them today 

as they bleed from reopened wounds

and whisper over and over, 

“You are loved. You are brave. You are good. 

We are here. We are strong.

You are not alone.”

In memory of:

Tom Bagley – Kristen Beaton – Jamie Blair – Greg Blair – Joy Bond – Peter Bond – Corrie Ellison – Gina Goulet – Dawn Madsen Gulenchyn – Frank Gulenchyn – Lillian Hyslop – Alanna Jenkins – Lisa McCully – Sean McLeod – Heather O’Brien – Jolene Oliver – Heidi Stevenson – Emily Tuck – Aaron Tuck – E. Joanne Thomas – Joey Webber – John Zahl 

April 18 & 19, 2020

Hallelujah! I sold a book!

 I've been a lay worship leader since 2013, and since 2015, I've been working almost every Sunday at the United Church in Oxford, Nova Scotia. 

It's work I enjoy doing, and seem to have an aptitude for, as it uses my training in teaching, broadcasting and journalism, and my skills in researching, planning, writing and presenting. I have never aspired to be more than a lay worship leader, never wanted to become a minister. What I enjoy doing is creating worship services -- planning the words and music for worship -- and that's what I'm satisfied doing. 

So it's interesting that this church I serve has a huge stained glass window at the front of the church, over the choir loft, that features a traditional (and rather fancy) Jesus Christ in the centre, while all the people around him are modern to the time of the window's creation, likely the 1940s. (If you look at most stained glass windows in the churches, they usually depict Jesus during his lifetime.) It's rather remarkable to have this modern stained glass depiction of men and women and children as labourers and managers and parents, etc. (There's no diversity, of course; everyone, including Jesus, is white and falling into traditional gender roles).

My point is: There is a writer in the stained glass window. A journalist. Someone struggling to write a novel. Someone rewriting their memoir for the fifth time. I've always felt this was "a sign" I was in the right place doing the right work. 

And once you hear my news, you may agree. 

Because I have sold my second book. After four years of pitching a memoir, a collection of essays and a novel, after four years writing and editing and submitting, after four years of not hearing back or getting rejected, I sold a book in a month. In one year, I did the work, pitched the idea and sold the book. 

! 

Last year, from January to June, I did a sermon series called "The Alphabet of Faith". 26 Sundays, 26 letters. 

And next year, those 26 sermons will be published as 26 essays in a book called "The Alphabet of Faith". It will be published by Wood Lake Books, a Canadian publisher based in British Columbia who has been publishing books about faith for over 70 years. They are a progressive Christian publisher which is why my second book and I are a great fit. I'm really looking forward to this new publishing experience. 

I'm delighted. I'm relieved. I'm excited. I'm apprehensive. This is really going to put my spiritual writing out there in the world in a way I've never been brave and daring enough to do. But there's no point in holding back or being scared -- I've made enough mistakes in the past ten years that I've learned important lessons (double-checking EVERYTHING being one of them!) so I'm going to head out onto this new path with trust and joy and total confidence I can do this. And more. 

Amen to that!