Isle of Ancestors

Ancestor ancestor mine

Root of my trunk

Trunk of my branch

Branch of my leaf

How would I grow

How would I grow

And green and change

How would I go from now

To then

And stand ‘gainst the winds of time

The howling winds of time

To stand straight and tall as you did

And not let the winds strip

Me bare

Nor yet steal the sap from my veins

The life running in my veins

The blood from my life

Leaving me withered and dry

Not juicy and full

Leaving me bent and tired

Bent and tired and all sucked dry

From the winds of life and time

You have met this wind

Face on and lived thru it

Held straight and tall and fresh

Straight and fresh

And ready to stand more

All that came at you

With pride and dignity

And love

Child of child of mine

Leaf to my branch

Branch to my trunk

Trunk to my root

Gift of my love’s love

Love

Love is the answer

I loved and that was why

The winds which pulled at me

Never took me down

Never took me down nor

Sucked me dry

They did their best

But my love

Held me safe

Held me safe within

For tired is not lost

And pulled at is not down

And if the dry winds parch then

Pull sweet moisture from down deep

Sweet life from love

And all I did

I did for love

And consecrated it to

Life

The night was chilly and damp. The sunset was long past and the moon was well past full, barely enough to send a glint of silver across the waters of the bay. The tide was high and the water slapped against the piling of the quay, pushed by a slight chill breeze. It felt lonely and empty out here tonight. The vigor of the day was gone, and the magic of the sunset, leaving a dark and empty night. I shivered, both from the chill and the emptiness. I walked softly down the docks, afraid to make too much noise; this seemed to be the sort of night where you didn’t want to attract attention to yourself. It might be the unwanted kind. Finally I came to where the barges were lined up, the ferry women waiting to take their charges to the Isle of Ancestors. This was my destination tonight.

 The Song of the Deep was the first in line, so I didn’t have to go looking.  The ferry woman herself was unrecognizable, wrapped in a cloak as black as the sky was tonight. I stepped in and sat on the bench. Wordlessly, the ferry woman handed me a cloak much like her own. Gladly I wrapped it around myself, warmth against the damp chill wind off the water, and we began the journey to the Isle of Ancestors.  

 I was nervous about this and huddled inside the cloak still shivering, although no longer from the weather. I wasn’t sure what I was going to ask, or who I would see. I probably wouldn’t even recognize whoever it was.  I didn’t even know why I was so nervous. Finally I shook myself, took several deep breaths and concentrated on the sound the barge made as it went through the water. I just tried to stay in the moment and my nerves calmed. 

Before I thought it possible, the barge was grinding up on the shore of the island.I stood up and stepped onto the wet sand. I could see a grove of apple trees before me, and crossed the beach towards it. It was shining silver in the moonlight, and a small path wound away under the trees.  

The night did not feel empty here; it was thick with my ancestors who were clustered, waiting. Only one would come to meet with me, but they were all curious and gathered here to see me, the person I had become, and the person I had the potential to be. Their presence warmed me.  

As I walked the white ribbon of path, the crushed shells that formed it crunched under my feet and the apple leaves above me whispered to each other. A branch reached down and stroked my hair as I passed. The spirits drifted away, one by one, until I was left with the sense of just one accompanying me; it felt almost as if I were being led by the hand as though I were a little child. I treasured this feeling until I came to the mound and the door and then the loving spirit left me. I must enter alone. The torches at the entrance were the first light other than the moon that I had seen all night, and they hurt my eyes. 

I entered into the corridor. It smelled of earth and damp and a little bit of growing things- a bit musty, but not unpleasant. I could hear my footsteps echoing in the space. The red glow at the far end which had seemed so far away when I entered was right in front of me sooner than I expected. My stomach was all butterflies again and my palms were sweaty. I felt like I was a little girl again, standing in the hall at school for misbehaving and afraid the headmaster would come by and question me. 

I took a deep breath and stepped into the room. I could see someone standing with their back to me. Remembering my instructions, I walked clockwise around the hearth and sat on the bench across from my ancestor. I asked my question, received the answer and a small gift, and then was questioned in turn. The question gave me food for thought for a long time to come.  

I reached into my pocket and found a small box in it. I gave my gift, a small piece of myself with my love in it. Then I smiled and thanked my ancestor for the time and the pleasure of the meeting and walked the rest of the way around and left. 

The walk back to the barge was silent, except for my feet crunching the shells under foot. My ancestors still pressed close around me and gave me a feeling of being held and loved. It was with sadness that I left them when I reached the beach where the barge was waiting for me. The ferry woman, wrapped in her black cloak, was silent as we made our way back to Duwamish. I was silent, too, for my meeting had given me much to ponder. 

When we reached the bay, the sun was just sending pink streaks onto the horizon, and as I stepped out onto the quay, it edged into the sky. I handed the ferry woman back the cloak she had given me to wear, and, breaking the silence for the first time, thanked her. She smiled, her weathered face crackling into happy lines, and said she could tell things had gone well. I fingered the new token I carried in my pocket and said that yes, things had gone well.

I went to see her and she was so pleased,

But immediately asked about you,

Let’s face it, I was a poor substitute,

Who made excuses on your behalf;

‘ Me and our Bet, we hate these places,

Hospitals,’ she said, ‘I’ve spent my life

Trying to stay away from them.’

I nodded,

She would have loved to see you.

Tired but laughing, flushed face,

Colour too high, too red, heart

Playing up - you weren’t to know,

None of us could

How bad things were,

I truly hope she too had no idea;

She was lovely; soft, sentimental,

Cried easily - your favourite sister,

You adored her - but you would not visit,

Could not, even for her, overcome that fear;

Told me later you wanted to remember her

As she was when you last met;

The irony -  you last met

At your brother’s funeral - so sad that day

But you both still laughed even in your loss

Kept each other going, made others smile.

I  knew and had always understood

You would do anything to avoid grief;

In my car driving to the service

I played Carols from Christchurch, exquisite

Christmas hymn, ‘In the Bleak Mid-Winter’

And I heard you sob, desperate hot tears

As your anguished heart wept and broke, 

We all know what you’re like, we’d always known.

But - in truth she would have loved to see you,

In that hospital before Christmas,

Her favourite sister;

I saw the yearning in her eyes

For you to be there,

To chat and laugh, share her fears,

Beg for reassurance, joke, feel happy;

She’d been near to going home

Had a temporary setback,

But you could have plumped her pillows,

Held her hand, laughed, smiled, kissed goodnight;

You see that time was not about you,

Not about your fear, your dread

It was about Aunt Jean,

Your little sister, who wanted to see you

But never got the chance

Did not get the choice,

Not knowing, when I smiled byebye,

Before the week was out

That she would die.

Jan

photo by Troubadour (c)

I’ve been with you
this past week, every day
we’ve talked together
walked the old pathways
dreamed old dreams
finding the direction you made for me
by your short living, mine has stretched
so much further and in, I trust,
where you would have me be

Thank you, my dear one
for the gifts you gave:  Remembering
your courage when the witch that wasn’t invited took so much:  your childhood sight
the schooling that you loved
your homeland’s gentle hedges
the wild waves of the northern sea
your mother’s farewell
your sister’s kindly touch

Against such odds you kept
the  hand of the White One’s gift
our heritage?
tenderness
the love you showed each day to our lady mother
the way you mended cuts  children collect
the pride you showed in our accomplishments
freedom to learn, to  go on learning
the memory of your courage in the painful days of your long illness
my prayer, to have your spirit close.
Stay with me , Dad

Cronelogical November 2006

Emigrants

Old men plough while sons grow cold
under the mountain

Prairie wheat fields murmuring golden and rich in the days
before harvest
the smell of grass—long hay newly mown dry crunching
under our running
We counted our days in puffs of old-man dandelions knew our
distances in the long rows of telephone poles.

At the base of the poles We put our ears to wood that trembled
messages of the great world
wind on our shoulders, telling, listening, and we knew that the time of our leaving would be soon.

The winds of migration were everywhere—in the v-line of ducks
and the wide sweep of Canada geese
We heard at dusk the calling and in the morning packed,
our bags growing fat with things we could not leave, memories of a hundred days of
our mothers

Must have been back there somewhere,
don’t you think?

A Card from Dad

The other day
while searching
for something unrelated,
I stopped to look at pictures
made so long ago,
and there I found,
a postcard from Dad.

Among long forgotten images
of Mum and Dad,
and me
when I was small,
eight as I recall,
was
a sepia picture postcard
from Dad.
On the front,
a picture of
the First and Last House
on that glorious British Isle.

On the back,
the writing faded,
was the message.
Dear Vi, it read,
I’m sending this inside Mum’s letter
because I do not want it spoiled.
Keep it for a souvenir of me,
Love, Dad.

Seeing,
holding,
and reading its message now
after so many years have passed,
means more to me, I think,
than it did
when I was eight.

My Dad … he was my pal,
and though he never said
he loved me,
never hugged me,
I knew I was his buddy,
but was I not his daughter, too?

Those simple words
across the years
tell me that,
despite his silence,
he loved this child,
but couldn’t voice the words
that would have meant so much.

Two years later
and far too young,
he was taken,
ravaged by
the cancer that took his mind
and made him crazy.

Now that I am old,
his words are strong
and clear.
I am his daughter,
always was—
Love from Dad

Vi Jones
©February 5, 2006