Tag: Summer

Beyond Patience

a red and many petalled zinnia

Beyond Patience

If I knew another word for patience,
would it open me to the act?
Perhaps something that invokes the patience
in the zinnias after first central flower has died
and before the next buds are formed.
Something that speaks to the patience of winter
while the field is greening more deeply every day.
To be patient is to believe there is a moment
beyond now that will be better than now.  
So perhaps instead of patience, the word
I’m longing for is presence. The capacity
to be only here. Only now. Here in the garden
where the zinnia row is thick with leaves.
Here in the meadow where it’s warm and
the tall grass tickles my bare thighs. Now
in the week before my sweet girl arrives.
Ah, there it is, back to the anticipation.
Try again. Presence, as in now, in this moment
when swallows swoop and skate and swirl.
Now, when my breath opens in my chest,
opens like a zinnia, many petalled and red.

~ Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer ~


And here I am, again.
Inspired by this gift and its thoughtful discerning between patience and presence.
With the perfect photo as complement.
Simple. Elegant. Present with what is here now.
Only now.

Much love and kindest regards, dear friends.

Resist

“One of the most important things to have learned in life is that choosing joy in a world rife with reasons for despair is a counter-cultural act of courage and resistance, choosing it not despite the abounding sorrow we barely survive but because of it, because joy — like music, like love — is one of those entirely unnecessary miracles of consciousness that give meaning to survival with its bright allegiance to the most alive part of us.”

Maria Popova, The Marginalian, July 6, 2025

I would add that noticing beauty – in life’s imperfections and beyond -is, too, such a miracle of consciousness.

And so it was this past week when I en-joyed my now third annual, summer sojourn on Vancouver Island, visiting dear friends. My idea of paradise when we eat every meal outside in their “beyond gorgeous” garden – a labour of love this abundance of blossom, colour, bees, and butterflies. “Heaven on earth” is how I describe it, without a word of hyperbole.

the al fresco life

Prosecco and a picnic on the beach; pickleball with a food truck lunch and ice cream cones; cooking together as I shared some favourite pasta and appetizer recipes while sipping a gorgeous Italian red from Brindisi (note to self: track it down); and the perfect “next in my year’s worth of celebrating” birthday party – with candles on the lovingly-made chocolate torte, a talking circle among friends, meaningful gifts, and an orange balloon! A “time out of time” experience that filled my heart.

And in a matter of eighty minutes I was home, landing on my piece of prairie patchwork, greeted by my man and our dog. Resuming routines – pickleball on a very cold and windy Friday morning, walking in the river valley on a summertime hot and green Saturday morning, and celebrating our 45th wedding anniversary at one of YEG’s (and Canada’s) finest restaurants, leaving us to wonder why it had taken so long to return.

river valley boardwalk

Times grow darker south of the border. There is no denying the continued, utterly bewildering commitment to policies and practices devastating people. I like knowing that this week of choosing and celebrating joy, and love, and beauty, is my act of resistance. Like a stone dropped in the pond…the butterfly wings flapping…that dragonfly that landed on my chest and rested for several minutes… miracles of consciousness that matter.

…Everywhere I look there is tyranny.
Everywhere I look there is goodness.
This contradiction is killing me.
It is the only thing keeping me alive.

Abbey E. Murray, “Ode to the Grimy Breeze of an Underground Subway Platform“

Much love and kindest regards, dear friends. Resist!

PS – I’ve been irregular getting to this page and so have chosen to take a “pause” for a bit, posting as the mood strikes.

The Summer Day

Hermitage Pond, Edmonton, Alberta

The Summer Day

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean-
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don’t know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

– Mary Oliver –

A Couple of Covid Summer Days

Driving along a prairie east west highway, see
tawny hawks sit still and solemn on weathered wooden fence posts
gazing out over the sun yellow canola fields
bordered by green grass and blue sky.
While crows hop on the edges of pot-hole ponds,
and others soar on invisible cloudless slipstreams.

The linden tree we planted to replace the “sacred” grove of aspens,
(those four slender white trunks and limbs finally reached their natural end)
is now in full golden blossom, gives off that
subtle, yet distinguishable sweet fragrance
attracting big-bottomed bumblebees by the dozen.

This day I sit on the café patio of a favourite garden store.
The masked hostess initially said there’d be an hour wait,
then quickly waived it and me to the perfect table.
Such kindness these days so easily
brings me,
touches me,
moves me
to tears. Thankful for sunglasses. I can see out. She can’t see in.

Creamy globes of hydrangea, some in pots, others topiary trees.
Their petals flutter in a balmy breeze I’ve longed for ages to feel.

Piano muzak and signature water fountains, my aural companions.
Another day of cloudless blue soothing warmth.
Background melodies blur nearby conversations,
but accentuate my silent solitude.
Those familiar invite a slippery slope of remembering when

I was last here…lunch with friends,
Winter cold.
Swaddled in sweaters and down, toques, gloves and coats.
Warm in the glow of time shared.

Floating down the river as a teenager with my girlfriends, or
lounging on the air mattress in the cold quarry waters.
Music blasting from the boom box above.
Carefully passing the joint,
we be jammin’.

My spoon glides through
the layers of light whipped cream,
denser coconut cream,
then break though oven crisp pastry.
My raison d’etre this favourite dessert.

Pachelbel’s canon whispers, evokes
body memory to breathe slower, deeper.
And then, like that golden dragonfly I watch
my thoughts
lift and land lightly

a friend who lost her husband to suicide
another her brother
won’t linger too long here,
just enough for a steady pause and heartfelt prayer.

Finally a long awaited week of summer
where the yellow circle weather icons make it possible to plan

a picnic,
a patio visit,
an alfresco dinner with friends,
another day long road trip.

Slugs shrivel. Flowers flourish.
Farmers’ crops and home gardens ripen,
promising a bounty this week.Perspectives with Panache, 2020Hallelujah! Cohen’s chords now proclaim.
Bill received and paid.
Thanks be given.