Forty-four years ago, Sig and I, with Beckey, our first of seven dogs, all English Setters except for one (Sassy, an English Pointer “rescued” from a divorce wreck shortly after our arrival, and soon to become Beckey’s inseparable friend) drove into Edmonton after four days’ traversing Canada from southern Ontario. I’ve written several times here about that journey and this anniversary. Today, I’ve chosen to share the poem I wrote last year.
EPIPHANY
January, the first month in a new year,
its early days bringing an undercurrent of unease.
For decades, I’ve managed to find a way across its threshold. But this time,
I’ve felt its days darken, weigh heavy with melancholy.
A bone-deep sadness, its source finally becoming clearer.
Epiphany. When centuries ago, legend spoke of three wise men
following a star, carrying gifts for a newborn king. When forty-three years ago,
our arrival on this prairie province we made home. And decades before,
the sudden death of my young, adopted, never-known grandmother,
her passing shrouded in secrecy, leaving behind her toddler child,
my mother, now holding tenuously to her own life.
Epiphany. Dawning stark cold and bright, like this winter’s belated arrival,
that two-thousand-year-old desert shining star, when I realize my body’s
primal response to grief touching and traversing maternal bloodlines.
Embodied. Wordless. Anxiety rendering them, now me – the daughter
of my young, adopted mother, born to bring her happiness – highly sensitive
and self-doubting.
Today, holding vigil for my mother, wondering
whether the 70th wedding anniversary celebration for which we’d booked our flights
would instead become her funeral, I’ve had plenty of time to think.
To see my family’s patterns and dynamics, know the stories and our secrets, the roles and rules, our shames and triumphs. What made me and entrapped me. What I’ve worked long
to understand, unravel, to reclaim and make my life for me.
Distance too, a boon, though long double-edged, has given me space and perspective,
helping me navigate life’s complex and liminal terrains.
Now nearing seventy years myself, I’ve been naming the crossing of another threshold
into this hard, next life chapter an “eldering landscape.” Here, in a world on fire, in drought,
and in war, death and illness, failing health and memory, dashed dreams and diminished capacity become its leitmotif.
Epiphany. When claiming myself amidst ancestral loss and unapologetic grief
becomes an even deeper expression of love for my life and this world.
(Spacing and line breaks have been altered to fit the page.)
Touched by its prescience.
Grateful there was no funeral.
Aware I am resolutely traversing the eldering landscape.
Much love and kindest regards, dear friends.
A Wabi Sabi Life 