Waiting

How I love
this huge, steadfast tree,
witness to much of my miniature life,
how she waves,
gently or fiercely eager, her arms
a sway of possibility and passion.

Although for now she is perfectly still;
she wants to hear the birds sing.
I listen too, as I sit here,
waiting for something, it seems –
a rainbow perhaps,
or answers to impossible questions.
I smile,
and secretly wave back.

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Winter

Winter – (sonnet)

How sad and pale the tree is looking now
her faded skin, dry bones that now pierce through
and shiver every twig along the bough
as if she dreads what now may be her due.
Does she grieve the loss of summer’s face
when filled with life she whispered with the breeze,
or simply bow her head with gentle grace
to brilliance that waits beneath to ease
our aching hearts, for all, it seems, is dead.
There is no rush, the earth will slowly move
her way through darkness, new seeds to be fed
and once again her certainty will prove
that season’s change has come for reasons known,
embryonic life already sown.

Time to Sing

The tall tree at the
bottom of the garden
is no longer depressed;
I think the birds are
giving her hope.
So very long has she been
winter-sad, standing limp
wearing only grey
unable to raise a smile
or jump for joy
the way she knows she can.

Then this morning
as the sun broke loose and
the birds arrived like Heinz 57
singing all at once and
miraculously in tune,
the happy tree in her
opera-singer white frills
bowed to her audience of one,
joined the song and
now she can’t stop.

I have no sense of pitch
but I am singing with them anyway;
you may hear us sing our way
through summer,
and perhaps even beyond
if we remain aware that
even on the darkest days
the song will always be there;
all we have to do is remember to sing.

 

April 2014 265

Song of Compassion

How weary the tree looked today.

as if a dull ache in

every chilled, naked arm,

joyous acceptance of change

worn thin;

(we all have our moments, well I do).

And then a small bird

carrying a huge song landed,

and so accurately too,

on wafer thin branch,

sang its even bigger heart out

long enough to feel a

sway of pleasure

under its tiny feet

and away it flew,

hope restored.

The Tree, Heraclitus and Me

 From where I sit at home my gaze falls every day upon the same tree in the garden.  It has been a focal point for thoughts, reflections, doubts and fears, my coffee companion and a calm source of inspiration for the beginnings of many poems, which leads me to wonder where I would be without all that surrounds me in my particular corner of the natural world, its beauty and how it speaks to me. The tree appears like an old sage, calm, stoical and accepting no matter what; I could learn much if I took more notice. It weathers storms as well as scorching sun without expectation or judgement, and today it is telling me in its own gentle way that very soon all will change, and it will be okay.

I don’t like change, but as we know it is the one constant in life. I researched the origin of these wise words; they were said by Heraclitus, a Greek philosopher pre Socrates; he lived 500 years BC. I think he and the tree in my garden would make a good team.

So, how do I manage this constant of change in the context of my illness and its pernicious nature as it steals more and more from me? I think, sometimes, not very well, although this may be a little harsh (tendency to berate myself lingers), until I remind myself or receive a reminder from elsewhere that tomorrow’s bit hasn’t been stolen yet, so why dwell on something that hasn’t happened.

Life’s journey takes us along many different roads; some of them we can feel are unwanted and, for me, Multiple Sclerosis is one of them. Along this frightening path so far I have stumbled over stones and tree stumps of disbelief, denial, grief and despair many times. Some of those tumbles have been headlong. I have sustained heavy bumps and bruises, most of them very distressing, but maybe necessary, to bring me to awareness within that I never thought was accessible, of coming to know myself with all my imperfections and faults, learning to acknowledge them without judgement, rather like the tree. As time passes, hopefully what I continue to learn will gift to me some wisdom to reflect on all I have accomplished in the past and to celebrate it so, rather than bemoan the fact that those things are no longer possible for me to do.  I am presented with daily challenges (we all are), and I can either use these as opportunities for growth or see them as an obstacle in my way; the choice is mine.

The road is long. As a friend of mine says, who has travelled alongside the debilitating effects of MS for many years, “We do what we can till we can no longer do it, and then we find something else we can do”. The key for me is to keep on finding, and feel a sense of peace and contentment with it despite the changes, a new satisfying place to arrive at. I visualise a purple hillside strewn with heather where I can allow myself time to simply be, and admire the ever changing view of my part of the natural world.

Today the wind blows wild. Leaves are falling up instead of down; a few branches are broken, others have snapped and fallen to the ground. The tree stands tall, roots grounded firmly in equanimity.

 Image

Wendy L. Macdonald

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