From Tao Lin

From "i will learn how to love a person and then i will teach you and then we will know":

... the effect of small children
is that they use declarative sentences and then look at your face
with an expression that says, 'you will never do enough
for the people you love'; i can feel the universe expanding
and it feels like no one is trying hard enough

It's true: Young children look up to those they love and trust with such an innocent sense of entitlement. They have the belief that if you love them, you would do everything possible to make them happy. They have such faith even before knowing what faith is. And it's not that they're spoiled; it's just a purity they possess, coupled with infinite adoration.

I'm in the process of backing up files and photos from a soon-to-be defunct website; it contains many photos of my travels, and it's always the ones of the children that I find the most beautiful.

I believe in karma, and in old frog princes

I'm a firm believer in the Golden Rule, and in karma. This morning, everything just seemed to work out beautifully, as though the universe was rewarding me for the little things I'd been doing, but rewarding me all in one go at that.

A couple of days ago, I received a call from a third-year English student at UBC. She was fundraising for the university, and we had fallen into an extended conversation about my favourite professor, Dr. B.  It turned out that this student had Dr. B for two of her courses. There I was, waxing poetic about how brilliant Dr. B was, how I loved her class, her insight, her willingness to debate and to flesh out every detail of a character or a text. After talking to the young student for about fifteen minutes, I just had to make a donation. Although I have next to no income right now, I just had to. When I hung up, part of me felt that I had been suckered into something that I hadn't prepared for. Yet, another part of me was glad that my donation perhaps made the evening a little brighter for the young student. I could hear my former self in her. She was struggling with what to pursue after finishing up her English degree, and was contemplating going into Education and becoming a teacher. She was exactly where I was eight years ago, full of enthusiasm, not yet jaded by experience, with the world seemingly at her feet.

This morning, I opened up my e-mail inbox to discover that WestJet had awarded me a travel credit toward a future plane ticket because they had cancelled my flight over Christmas, leading me to have to wait for five hours in the Vancouver airport. This unexpected surprise more than compensated me for that donation that I thought I couldn't really afford. I hadn't even complained at the airline counter that day when I arrived to the news that my flight had been cancelled. I took it all in stride, when other customers were fuming and screaming at the ticket agent. I received a meal voucher that day, and managed to have a marvellous breakfast while I waited and started my new vacation novel. This proves that sometimes, it's not the dog that barks the loudest that gets the most treats. Kindness and positivity go a long way.

What's more, I received confirmation from both grad schools this morning that my applications were complete. This meant that Dr. S had managed to save me by writing another letter in Brazil and sending it to Edmonton; this meant that the documents that I had feared would never make it to Halifax had somehow managed to make it after all.

I found a gift today too. I was searching for some important documents that I needed, and was slightly disgruntled at having to move boxes around and dig for the papers (I have yet to unpack my boxes from Inuvik). In the same box as the one where my important files were was a poetry book that my friend E had sent me last May. She had serendipitously found the book during a foray in an antique shop, and had thought of me. While perusing the volume in a small coffee shop, she had written me a letter, detailing her thoughts, her humdrum happenings, and what was restless and at ease in her heart. This was the perfect day to have found this most cherished gift once more, to sit and contemplate, to savour some poetry, the words of a stranger and their connection with my own soul, and the words of a friend and their gentle influence.

A quote from E, from that beautiful letter: You will find your prince charming some day V. You know the old saying -- you just have to kiss a few frogs along the way. Last May, I was still reeling from heartbreak, and was not truly believing those words, not truly believing that there's such a thing as healing. Now, I can smile and appreciate that wise advice with a different sentiment. As I had mentioned in my last post, I'm not searching frantically anymore, and am not waiting desperately to be found anymore.

And E's words were in turn inspired by a poem, from page seventy-three of the volume by Marnie Duff that she had sent me. I love this enough to type it all below:

That Old Subtle Affair

I've forgotten the code words
we used to kiss into the receiver,
to catch that one moment, or this other,
for our later touch to recall.

Let's tuck this one away, too,
with the others, 'til some soft future
night, when forgotten words will recollect
our memories. New again.

Someday, my old Frog-Prince, I'll roll
this gold ball over the mossy lip
of your well. Our old game.
And you, my love, will dive for it.

There's snow on the ground still, after the gigantic snowfall over the holidays. And there was a small sprinkling of fresh crystals from yesterday. It is, indeed, a most perfect day. After the initial excitement from those e-mails this morning, I settled into a quiet, deep, peaceful calm. It is where I am now. I am grateful for this state, and for this day, and for not just believing, but knowing that the universe is in balance after all.

The photo below is of the snow that had accumulated earlier in the month, that had turned the world into a sepia wonderland:

Ode to today

This is an ode to today,
To the day that followed a sleepless night,
To an awakening to unexpected joy,
To the clouds that were burned away by the heat of the sun,
To revisiting an old haunt,
To walking the old campus,
To admiring the changes,
To things that stayed the same,
To taking tests in a hushed room,
To Betty, the invigilator who so clearly loved people,
To having more people who smile and love,
To a $2.75 slice of pizza after all these years,
To the boy who gave up his seat on the bus,
To the two hockey fans (one Oilers, one Canucks) who stopped to talk to me,
To a beloved cat at my feet,
To seeing someone from a new perspective,
To seeing myself with fresh eyes,
To today,
To my day.

Today, I went back to UBC to take my tests for the Public Service Commission, for several positions that I had applied for (as a back-up plan).  Arrived there at 7:20 in the morning, and had a gruelling 6 hours of tests. I thought it would ruin my Saturday, but Betty, a woman who supervised the exams, made them a pleasure to take. No, she didn't give away any responses, but she helped in a way infinitely better: She had a radiance about her that calmed all the nervous test-takers down. This was a woman who loved her job, who loved people, who believed in kindness. When a few stragglers came in late, one of the other administrators was ready to toss them out in a huff, but Betty, in her gentle, soft-spoken ways, made it all better. And no one was annoyed or embarrassed in the process.  And she supplied us all with sharpened pencils with such flourish that I felt like a kid receiving a magic wand. From then on, the day just got better. Can't beat a giant cookie out of the vending machine, or the best $2.75 slice of pizza, still the same as how I remember it from years ago. I passed by the beautiful library again, walked old paths but saw new sights. Reconnected with important people, who allow my flights of fancy, but who ground me, and make it so easy for me to love them. I feel different today. I feel more myself, more alive, just more....

Not quite wordless

It's been two weeks since I've come back from my vacation in Cabo.  There are so many things I want to write about, but the words just aren't flowing.  So, instead of continuing my tedious attempts to describe the whole experience, I've pared my imperfect sentences down into a haiku -- because sometimes, sparsity is best.  It leaves ample space for emotions.

Thunderous crashes
against smouldering desert
free me from myself.

Only silence

This is the picture of silence,
this glow of warmth in the winter air.
The gnarled branches reach out and up,
and I impart them with a questioning
that emanates from within myself.
If these trees had faces,
they would be turned upward –
their lips would be slightly parted,
on the verge of a word,
but only breath would come.
Syllables, utterances –
they’re all too minute
to contain what lies within. 
And so,
the shadows of branches
entangle on the wall,
on this little square of orange,
and only silence is here.

Because I can laugh

Here I am, in Yellowknife, enjoying my well-deserved (in my opinion anyway) spring break.  I know I've disappeared for a quite a while, but will try to make up for it through some frenzied writing in the next couple of days.  There's much to write about -- my sweetie's recent visit, new realizations, an impending roadtrip....  I've hooked into someone's unsecured wireless network, and it has proven to be weak and unreliable.  I'll try my best to post my entries.  For now, here's a humble offering about my current state of mind:

Because I can laugh,
The weight of the world seems less daunting.
I can imagine the blue skies behind the overcast fish-belly clouds.
I can love solitude as much as I love company.

Because I can laugh,
I can appreciate a fairy-airy dust particle in the sunlight.
I can be lonely and be all right at the same time.
I know that “home” is a state of mind.

Because I can laugh,
I can perhaps make one moment of your day less worrisome.
You may catch a bit of my spirit,
And finally see the me behind the questioning looks.

Because I can laugh….
I have the world,
And all its contradictions.
I have me,
And have built a home,
Have turned spirit into voice,
Into word,
Into story.

Feeling right

I've technically lived by myself for over eight months now. However, with my August spent at my parents', and numerous house guests in the fall, I've been living by myself for only about three and a half months. Occasionally, I still think it would be nice to have a roommate again. Then, I would not feel as though I'm gradually becoming one of those crazy pet owners who coddle their pets and talk to them incessantly. But, there are also lots and lots of advantages to being by myself. I truly value the time I have in solitude. There's no one to compete with over the favourite spot on the couch, no one to fight with for shower-time. I can leave the sink full of dishes without feeling guilty. I can vacuum only when I feel like it. (My place is actually remarkably clean, when I don't have anyone to clean up after except for myself. I sometimes leave dishes unwashed just because I can, but never to the point of grossness. And I tend to vacuum more now that I live by myself – I see it as one of my only forms of exercise.) My washing machine now doubles up as my clothes-hamper, and I run the load whenever it gets full. (I know, I know, I should sort my laundry, but I don't.) I can walk around in my underwear, and I do, with increasing frequency, usually between my bedroom and the dryer, which has doubled-up as clothing storage. (Now you understand why I always look unkempt, with the wrinkles in my clothes. I call it my “natural” look.) I can play badly on the piano without fear of disturbing a poor slumbering soul.

I find that I've been more emotional when I'm here by myself. And it's not necessarily bad. Yes, I've found myself crying over little things, but, I think there's “good” crying too. Today, when I was reading some poetry, I started tearing up as I read Cummings's “i carry your heart with me.” I remember the first time I read that poem: I had thought it was so corny and sappy, really quite laughable. I had always loved Cummings, but not that particular poem. Today, however, it has transformed into an expression of a love that is so complete and beautiful. (I'm beginning to worry about what is happening, whether I'm buckling to the pressures of conventionality. At this rate, I might even begin to like Valentine's Day, which I had sworn never to do.) And then, there are those times when I laugh at nothing too – like the time I snapped seemingly hundreds of photos of my shadow on the wall, when the sun came back and streamed through the windows in torrents of gold. I made silly shadow puppets and talked in stupid little voices. I spun myself around in erratic circles, watching the dust particles in the light, as I had done when I was a little girl. I could do that only when I live by myself. It's a shame, really, that we guard ourselves and don't let tears and laughter flow freely when others are around. It's a shame that, in the presence of others, we always feel that we must be able to explain our emotions, and if we can't, then we better not show those emotions. It would be good to be able to cry and laugh, for no reason other than it feels right. 

Poetry is...

Another meme from the blogosphere:

What's the first poem you remember reading/hearing/reacting to?
I remember reading Sylvia Plath's “Poppies in October.” I was at a bookstore, and was flipping through a poetry anthology, when my eyes happened to scan that particular page. Plath's words forced me to read that short poem from start to finish right then and there. Although I was terrified by the images, those words held me captive. I was also in awe. I had often felt such terrible beauty, such fragility in the world. The closing lines seemed to emanate from my very soul, reflect my own questioning:

O my God, what am I
That these late mouths should cry open
In a forest of frost, in a dawn of cornflowers.

I was forced to memorize (name of poem) in school and....
The first poem I remember having to memorize in school was E.E. Cummings's “Hist Whist.” I loved the way my tongue formed those ghostly sounds, like the snapping of branches on a dark, misty night. ( I just looked it up on the internet, and I have no idea how I could have had that memorized at age seven.) I loved memorizing poems, and had memorized quite a few on my own accord through the years. Parts of T.S. Eliot's “Little Gidding,” multiple poems by Theodore Roethke, and others by Cummings are among my favourites.

I read / don't read poetry because....
I adore poetry. I am reminded of E.M. Forster's epigraph for Howards End: “Only connect....” My beliefs and feelings seem to gain conviction when I find them reflected in others, and nowhere can I find such connection than in poetry. It links me with humanity across time and geography. I could safely say that not a day goes by when I don't read, recite, or think about poetry.

A poem I'm likely to think about when asked about a favourite poem is....
I have so many favourite poems, that it's hard to choose. Plath's poems fill me with awe and dread in equal proportions. Roethke's comfort and calm me. Cummings's make my heart skip a beat. However, I must “cheat” and say that Rainer Maria Rilke's Duino Elegies contains every emotion possible. (I say that I'm “cheating” because the elegies are really a collection of ten poems.) I do wish though that I didn't have to read Rilke in translation. As much as I try to find the most authoritative translation, the one closest to meaning and feeling to Rilke's original, I'm afraid that my reading would never be complete. One more reason for me to take up German. (My first reason for wanting to learn German was so that I could read a beautiful art book I had picked up at Musee d'Orsay in Paris. In my frenzied raid of the gift shop, I had grabbed the German version instead of the English. I know, it's a silly reason for wanting to learn a whole new language, but you have not seen me pore over the book for hours at a time.)

I write / don't write poetry, but....
I used to write a lot more poetry, but now I hardly ever do. My journals used to be full of poetry, but somehow, the poet in me is lost. She's wandering the world, trying to find her way home. In the meantime, she's busy observing the world, taking both literal and mental snapshots and saving them.

My experience with reading poetry differs from my experience with reading other types of literature....
There are certain poems that I return to time and time again because I feel as though I need them. I feel as though reading them somehow makes my blood flow through my veins, makes me complete. While fiction often makes me see my world differently, or confirms my values and beliefs, poetry validates my voice, my being.

I find poetry...
...everywhere. In different forms, it is in the laughter of a friend, in music, in painting, in the land and in the sky.

The last time I heard poetry....
I have the best job in the world. I discover new poems all the time, and try them on my students. Admittedly, the last poetry unit I designed for my class met with more complaints than anything. However, I just started Macbeth today with my students, and the response was unanimous: They loved it. To hear the bard's poetry issue from these northern adolescents so far removed in time and space from Elizabethan England had me on cloud nine. My students themselves are also poets in their own right, even as they complain about having to read and analyze poems. They love reading me their work, and I love hearing it all.

I think poetry is like....
Poetry is like the mysterious force that makes our hearts beat, that makes us dance, sing, live. It's as inexplicable as life and love. It just is....

I am so weary....

My heart has been heavy of late. I should have no reason for this moodiness – I'm relaxed, with minimal commitments. Inuvik has been beautiful, with the sun blazing and the greenery lush and soft. However, my time off has given me time to think outside of this sheltered world in which I live. I've picked an awful week to start tuning in to the outside world once more.

Headlines from the past couple of days:

• N. Korea has more missiles, U.S. says

• Shiite Leader in Pakistan Killed

• Militants Hit Nigeria Oil Facilities

• 16 Killed in Rebel Clash with Sri Lanka

And, this afternoon, I read an article/letter written by a civilian in Beirut. She described sitting in a cafe, in the silence of the coffee-machines (the city had been without power for three days). They were getting used to the sounds of the Israeli air-raids. The airport bombings had moved past the runways to the main buildings. Parts of the suburbs, roads leading out of the city, tunnels, and bridges had likewise been annihilated. What hurt her the most was to see all the postwar reconstruction, built out of the sweat and sacrifice of the people (built in spite of the corruption of the government that hung over their daily lives), blown to smithereens. She expressed, “I am tired of spending days and nights waiting not to die from a shell, on target or astray. Watching poor people bludgeoned, homeless and preparing to mourn. I am so weary....”

Sitting here in the comforts of my home in Inuvik, looking at that piece of blue sky through the open window, I am weary too. I am aching in my privileged world for the pain of those too numb to cry for themselves. What makes me deserving of this life, and not one in Beirut or Jaffna or Pyongyang?

In my web-browsing, I stumbled upon a black-and-white photo taken in Baddeck, Nova Scotia, in 1908. It is of Alexander Graham Bell flying a huge wheel-kite out on an open field. Bell had envisioned creating a kite-like machine that humans could fly in. The time and world depicted in the photo looked to me to be so full of possibility and genuine inquiry bred out of innocence. Look at what we've become now. The young man I've been tutoring expressed to me a few days ago that he felt as though World War Three would start sometime soon. What makes anyone think that it hasn't already begun?

Perhaps the danger of this day and age goes beyond the advance of arms and the frightening new potential to annihilate. Perhaps it's in the individual indifference/helplessness that exists in each of us.

Again, in the words of Rilke:

And suddenly, in this tiresome nowhere, suddenly
in this indescribable place where the pure Too-Little
mysteriously changes – springs around
into an empty Too-Much.
Where the staggering bill
adds up to zero.

Our Translated World

“We're not comfortably at home in our translated world.” These words from Rilke's Duino Elegies have struck home. All of our interactions are negotiations/translations between the mind and the heart, between ourselves and others, between ourselves and nature, and between the layers within ourselves. These negotiations are fragile and tenuous at best. The end of June is fast-approaching. My circle here will once again need re-organization. Never have I felt as though I do indeed live in a “translated world” as right now.

There have been numerous kindnesses done unto me these past few days that have made me feel less forlorn. A friend was thoughtful enough to assemble a huge bag of freebies from the petroleum show for me, in case I didn't get the chance to attend. A stranger notarized a document for me free of charge even though I caught him when he was busy working with customers. Another wonderful friend taught me how to cook an incredible meal.

I've been busy these past couple of weeks with wrapping up with the Brownies, having our last hurrah. I've also been enjoying several barbeques and get-togethers with friends. I can't wait until the Boot Lake trail is accessible; when we checked yesterday evening, we discovered that part of the trail was flooded still. Whenever I walk that trail, I feel less “translated.” I feel more at home, more at peace.

Watched the movie Shopgirl last week in my new TV room, and it has been on my mind, particularly in keeping with Rilke's sentiments. Everyone has such a sad yearning and tenderness and such vulnerability; however, instead of seeing all those qualities as linkages, we stand infinitely apart still. I think that this is one movie that might leave many viewers completely dissatisfied. The protagonist doesn't necessarily end up with the “right” man, because perhaps the point is that everyone has the potential to be equally right/wrong. I see myself reflected in all three of the characters.

Sometimes, by watching or reading about others' separateness, and by acknowledging it, we ironically feel less alone. Other than Shopgirl and Rilke's poetry, here are several more texts (in all senses of the word) that have helped me recently:

- Amitav Ghosh's The Hungry Tide (inspired my rediscovery of Rilke)
- the poetry of the clouds (along with the music of the leaves)
- Shyam Selvadurai's Funny Boy (has provided more healing than any self-help book ever could)
- Chopin's Nocturnes (particularly when shared with someone who has the same musical yearnings)

Ode to Innocence

My weekend camping trip went very well. My shoulders and back are aching from the sunburns, and my arms and legs are itching from the numerous mosquito bites, but I had a great time. Nature seemed to have sprung alive overnight. It was on Thursday that I had started to notice the green leaves and buds on the tree outside my deck. By the time I came back from the camp, the tree was lush and vibrant.

There were three dogs in the tent with us, and the largest one kept wandering over to my side and slobbering on my sleeping bag. There was also a baby in our midst, and a five-year-old as well. The five-year-old had been largely silent in the year that I had known him, but he was chatty throughout the whole camping trip. He completely made my weekend. I found myself enjoying those little interactions with him ever so much more than those with other adults.

Rosy-cheeked and sleepy-eyed,
He slithers his hands along the skipping rope --
“It's a fire-hose!
It's an octopus!”
His giggles echo green and golden,
rustling in the wind,
up into the wispiness of the clouds.
“Did you know that
some people think that Jesus
is a girl?!”
Nonchalantly,
matter-of-factly,
he looks at me
and my soul reflects back
his innocence --
and in that brief moment,
I believe.

He laughs again,
at my seriousness perhaps,
and the miracles his voice holds
ripple through the still air.
I float up in the wings of his laugh,
look down at this small piece
of the wide wide world,
and know that all is fine and well.

The Heaving World

The Mackenzie has been flowing, clear of ice, since Monday. Last weekend, I had gone down by the river and watched the ice-jam. It was incredible to see the tonnes of ice and debris drifting slowly toward the ocean. I felt that I was bearing witness to something monumental, something so much greater than my little self. The world was heaving, bidding the long months of winter goodbye. Soon, the pink and purple wildflowers will dot the gravel roadside. They are the true sign that summer is upon us, that my year of teaching is almost over. Had my first barbecue of the year on Monday, although the day was grey and cold. My friend and I fired up the wood barbecue, although I must admit that my part in the venture was reduced to merely crumpling up some paper lunch bags and stuffing them in.

I've rediscovered Rilke's poetry this past week, and it has helped me through some disquieting turmoil, both in and out of work. Through our separateness, our urge to be seen and heard binds us together:

Despite everything, as if they were things,
people walk right by, and so they must sing.

And one hears good music there.

I've also gone around and taken pictures of the town, including the inside of the North Mart, of the produce and the dairy sections. (Note the $12.99 cauliflower and the $7.99 milk on almost-empty shelves.)

It's almost as though I'm preparing myself to leave Inuvik, and want to remember everything that has encompassed this whole experience. The new Mackenzie hotel is slated to open in a couple of weeks. It'll be a welcome addition and will be a new distraction for a month at least.

Africa will have to wait until next year. I'm not prepared to go on a trip based on a last-minute whim (although I've obsessed about it for years). I need to do more research and some long and careful planning. As of now, it seems as though Seoul is the way to go.

Self-Portrait

This is not a photo of nothing.
It’s the sky under which everything happens –
Under which I feel small.

It captures March 25, 2006,
The day that started under a blanket of clouds.
It captures 6:41 pm,
The moment when I felt the compulsion
To burst forth,
To mark the clearing away of the clouds,
To mark the clearing away of all that is muddled.

This is a self-portrait;
This is my vision of the world,
Of the world in me,
Of me in the world.

For Someone Out There

Earlier this past week, I received some horrible news about someone that I care about. I was numb, and the tears just would not come -- so I wrote a poem. It's not life-altering or monumental, but maybe, just maybe, by putting it out into the world, my thoughts will reach where they need to go:

Twelve years ago
My world morphed from a black-and-white morality
To Technicolour –
The world spun, the familiar became a blur
And I was lost

My beliefs became empty shells
That rang with falsity
Though I voiced them with a newfound articulation

Your hair was wild then:
An untamable innocence
I know that you lived in colour
Even back then
Years before I would come to know and love you

Three days ago
News of you
Came crashing, crushing me

In my Technicolour world
No tears fell from the menacing blend of hues

I see that you have found your own black-and-white
Only that your version speaks not of clarity
Or of morality
Or of vehemence for or against something

Yours is a grey lifelessness
Where the primary colours of youth
Have faded, melded, transformed
Weathered by the forces of uncaring

Meanwhile, my Technicolour world
Has allowed me to remember you
To retreat into a memory of you
To an imagined future of you
Where the glint in your eyes
Survives

Credo

I assigned my girls the task of writing a "credo poem," so I took the opportunity to do my own:

I believe in the goodness in people,
The potential in new born babies
The power of dreams and aspirations,
The importance of individuality,
The faith and trust in yourself,
In love, in others, in life.

But the world doesn’t owe us anything if we don’t try.

And I believe in laughing when all else fails,
In loving everybody sincerely,
In the quiet beauty that exists,
Unexpected, unnoticed, unsung.

And I believe in looking at the world
As though you’re seeing it for the first time every day.

Here's a photo of a deserted beach on the north shore of Prince Edward Island, where I travelled to last summer. Coming upon an inukshuk there delighted me to no end, and reminded me of the small, unexpected things that are there for anyone to discover, if only we look and appreciate them.

here's to opening and upward

here's to opening and upward, to leaf and to sap
and to your(in my arms flowering so new)
self whose eyes smell of the sound of rain

and here's to silent certainly mountains;and to
a disappearing poet of always,snow
and to morning;and to morning's beautiful friend
twilight(and a first dream called ocean)and

let must or if be damned with whomever's afraid
down with ought with because with every brain
which thinks it thinks,nor dares to feel(but up with joy;and up
with laughing and drunkenness)

here's to one undiscoverable guess
of whose mad skill each world of blood is made
(whose fatal songs are moving in the moon

-- e. e. cummings

Found this poem a few days ago -- gives me goosebumps. It's my new mantra in life. To hell with all reason, obligation, and fear. Love the randomness of life. Love the way small insignificant things give us tingles of awe and wonder. Sad thing is, I thought I had found someone "whose eyes smell of the sound of rain," but he turned out to be someone very different. So, opening and upward I go through this disillusionment.