Interconnectivity

Early this morning, as dawn
Creeps behind the clouded sky
A strange dreams of times past
Visits and leaves behind unease.

I wake to the breeze of my open
Window and the songs of 
A homeless woman who often
Spends the night in a doorstep
Down the way. She talks, yells
And then sings her inner ghosts
Into the greyness of the streets.

That done, she begins her day.

Passing my childrens' old school

School year is over
Leaving asphalt and kittens
Summer days abound.

Summer without sun screen

 

Oh those were the times, when we would spend all the days outdoors, in our swimsuits, running through sprinkles, eating popsciles, drinking endless glasses of sweet lemonade. 

We were red-brown-red-brown the summer long. Little did we know of sun screen, sugar highs or balanced diet. 

(This post is part of my "Growing Up & Growing Old" project.)

My family tree

The botanical encyclopedia has pages and pages of illustrations of trees with their branches, bark, leaves, and roots. I stare, fascinated at the variety of them, all the colours, shapes and sizes. 

Their root systems, exposed without soil covering, seem oddly, embarrassingly intimate. The exposed roots reveal how nature accommodates the different types of soil, the changing seasons, and the push and pull of the hemispheres.

Momentarily, I ponder the generation after generation of my ancestors who migrated from one country to another, driven on by strife. There were those with deep, narrow roots whose lives were brutally severed by famines or wars. There were my parents’ generation who cut their tethers and sought freedom, or adventure, and, on some rare occasions, wealth.

 
And here I am, a collection of grafts of all their wanderings. I stand tall with bamboo-like agility with roots that are spread wide but never will grow deep.

(This post is part of my "Growing Up & Growing Old" project.)  

Nightly battle

 

When sleep eludes me
I read murder mysteries
My eyes stay half closed.

Quiet hour

 

Ventilator swish
Quiet hour in Grenada
Dive in the pool. Splash.

(This post is part of my "Growing Up & Growing Old" project.)

These precious days of June

I rise in sunlight
I sleep and the sky is blue
Summers in the north.

Daily encounters with strangers

(Disclaimer: I speak German fluently, but with an accent.)

At the beginning...

Where do you come from?
Why are you here?
When are you going back?

The first question sparks an internal dialog: What should I answer... where I was born (Caracas), where I was raised (all over), where I am a citizen of (Canada), where I have lived the longest (Germany), where my heart feels most at home (Grenada)?

A few more years down the line...

Where do you come from?
Why are you here?
When are you going back?

My answer: Canada

A few decades have passed...

Where do you come from?
Why are you here?
When are you going back?

My answer: None of your f**king business. 

(Disclaimer: this is what I wish I could have said. It is what my friend, Hamed, used to say when some random person asked where he came from given the colour of his skin. I was both shocked and in awe when he told me that he responded such. As a passport carrying Canadian, I could not breech my etiquette.)

In the last years...

Where do you come from?
Why are you here?
When are you going back?

My answer: Lübeck... and I derive joy from their expressions of doubt.

(This post is part of my "Growing Up & Growing Old" project.)

Going out on the water

Strong winds blow today
I make a couscous salad
A boat trip with friends. 

Delicate woman

She was a woman of faith and entirely martyrial in carrying her grief. My grandmother was a delicate woman with her embroidery, lace-making, crocheting of quilts, and the constant knitting of winter mittens for all children in the church’s congregation. 

Underlying her endearing delicacy was a woman who kept a household of five running throughout the Depression and WWII. There were no amenities in their home. All laundry was done by hand. All bread was pummeled and baked daily before the family woke up in the morning. Once the loaf was out of the oven, she would put on her gloves, hat and coat and walk to the church for early morning mass.

(This post is part of my "Growing Up & Growing Old" project.)

Competitiveness

 

We have a small inner court terrace garden. It struggles to get the right amount of sunshine. Our neighbours planted some grass seeds a few weeks ago in one of the dark corners. Yesterday, I noticed that seemingly overnight a few tips of grass raised their heads out of the soil. Three brilliant green weeds also spouted with joyful celebration. Their brazenness and size overshadowing anything the grass was thinking of achieving. 

Safe harbour

I used to seek the wild oceans of passion
Never a North Star sighting,
No thoughts of treading with care,
Not a worry about my or my lover’s heart.
 
Then, at the birth of my son,
When my heart tore open and I finally
Amazingly knew love, from that
Moment on… I sought out
Safe harbours where I could gaze
Deep deep down to the bottom
Of the sea and marvel at the
Beauty, the wonder,
The love, the love, the love.

(This post is part of my "Growing Up & Growing Old" project.) 

Nostalgia

Living the life of Swallows and Amazons
The children’s books, summers sailing on
Lac St Louis and throughout the
Thousand Islands. For some reason,
Our parents did not bicker; this was as
Close as we got to experiencing
Domestic bliss. Butane stove sputtering,
Doing dishes in a sink with a manual
Water pump. What did we do with the
Garbage... probably not much good.
Today I am in a houseboat thousands
Of miles away and decades gone by
And I am as happy as I can be.

(This post is part of my "Growing Up & Growing Old" project.)  

Museum visit

 

Massive sandstone wall
With egyptian gods painting
Porter sits on chair.

Joyful anticipation

Fruit tea with honey
Waiting for friend to arrive
Bach strings flow gently

My precious Wian

It is possible

To see greatness in her eyes

My dearest Wian.

(Wian is my adopted granddaughter. She grows in leaps and bounds. But what is most fascinating is the beauty of her the candle that burns inside of her.)