BOUND BY THE BEAUTY

I haven't been participating in the poetry meme, One Single Impression, for a while, but I visit many blog friends who do, so I noticed that this week's prompt is "Reincarnation." As coincidence would have it, that's the subject of this post as well. I've been fortunate to live in some very incredible places in my life, always close to nature. The lyrics to Jane Siberry's song, "Bound by the Beauty" run through my head, when I think about all the beauty. I can't imagine what an afterlife would have to be like that I wouldn't still want to keep returning to the Earth. I wish that YouTube had a post of Siberry's song, or that I could embed an MP3 so you can listen to it, but you may have it on your iPod, or be able to access it through some service you belong to. I'll just put a link at the bottom, if you'd like a quick 30-second sample. This text of this post contains excerpts from the lyrics, mixed with photos from my current residence on Lake Erie's north shore, and my previous place in the Alberta foothills, west of Calgary.


I’m bound by the fire
I’m bound by the beauty
I’m bound by desire
I’m bound by the duty
I’m coming back in 500 years
and the first thing I’m gonna do
when I get back here is to see
these things that I love
and they’d better be here, better be here, better be here

First I’m going to find a forest
and stand there in the trees
and kiss the fragrant forest floor
and lie down in the leave
and listen to the birds sing
the sweetest sound you’ll ever hear
and everything the dappled
everything the birds, everything the earthness
everything the verdant, the verdant, the verdant
the verdant green



Then I’m going to find an open field
and lie down in the flowers
and then I’m going to find a guitar
and play play play for hours
and then I’m going to find a river
to see what kind of body in
and everything the granite, everything the kiss
everything the earthness
everything the verdant, the verdant, the verdant
the verdant dream


I’m bound by the beauty
I’m bound by desire
I’m bound to keep returning
I’m bound by the beauty of the light
the slightest change the constant rearrange of light upon the land
I’m bound by the beauty of the wind that blows across the earth
the unfetteredness the wheatness and through the flying hair
the slowness of the falling leaves across this warm November door
and the geese the flying southness the arms out evermore
I’m bound by the snow the soft fallingness
the everupward face...
the ever-upward face...
bound by the sunsets the rivers the music the beauty...


Bound By The Beauty listening LINK

MY AUTUMN RITUAL

I love the changes that autumn brings, the cooler temperatures, the colors shifting from the bright pinks and buttery yellows of the summer flowers to the rusts and burnt oranges of the leaves, as if summer had consumed itself with growing, and now it turning to colors that, while still beautiful, are counting down the days until the frosts. There’s a sweet melancholy about it, but also—perhaps because I was a student for a lot of years—there’s a feeling of a fresh start, of renewed optimism. When I lived in High Country, I would take more pleasure drives in autumn than at any other season, to take in the deep gold of the cottonwood leaves, the fading purples of the fireweed, and the crisp air carrying the sounds of the elk rut.

Along the north shore, the maple trees turn to flame, Virginia creeper vines go even deeper, into magenta, and the V’s of Canada geese are heard throughout the days. My autumn drives now take me past fields of faded cornstalks, waiting to be cut, and gnarled apple trees studded with a few overlooked fruit. The constant in both places is the autumn music I take along on my drives. I listen to everything from Berlioz to Enya to Don Henley, depending on my mood and the weather. Today, there’s a mild steady rain and not too much wind. The sky and the lake are almost the same pewter color, the waves accented by a few whitecaps. I’m heading out in a few minutes to run a couple of errands, and then take the long way home, and bringing the Don Henley CD with The Boys of Summer on it. I used to play that one a lot in bright autumn days in the foothills—so much it reminds me of one particular stretch of my old road. But in some ways that song is even more appropriate for here, beside the lake. Here are the lyrics to the first verse:

Nobody on the road
nobody on the beach
I feel it in the air
the summer's out of reach
Empty lake, empty streets,
the sun goes down alone
I'm drivin' by your house
Though I know you're not home

Since The Boys of Summer is a song about losing love, so it seems to fit the somber mood of the day. The photo was taken at the Point Pelee’s West Beach. You can almost hear the laughter echoing, see the ghosts of the picnic gear and umbrellas. The official video to this song, with its vintage footage, is a classic, too.



YouTube video posted by StuTTgartXpreSS

SKYWATCH FRIDAY - Not Quite a Chinook (Lake Erie)

During Alberta winters, mild Chinook winds can blow in from the B.C. coast and deliver a welcome break in the deep freeze. The signature form of these winds is the “arch” they make, sweeping across the entire sky, piling up the clouds and revealing beautiful spring-like blues and greens beneath. On Lake Erie, I’ve noticed that most of the storm lines run parallel to my view, but occasionally, they cut across on an angle that reminds me of home.




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Chinook photo from www.calgaryarea.com

CONVERGENCE OF DAYS

After several weeks of becalmed water, Lake Erie is stirring. Thursday a wild wind came roaring through, stripping the fern-like leaves off the honey locust tree, so it looks like someone shook out a big bag salad all over my front lawn and parking area. The wind itself came at an angle I hadn’t seen before, making whitecaps that rolled over perpendicular to the shore, with very little splashing onto the breakwall! It all seemed rather strange. Then last night, band after band of heavy thundershowers moved through the area, and I lay in bed in the dark with that Joni Mitchell song, Carey, going through my head: The wind is in from Africa, last night I couldn’t sleep. This morning, the fields behind the houses across the road are all flooded, but as I’m writing this, the sun is out, and a perfect amount of wind is blowing off the lake, refreshing everything—at least for now.

Tomorrow (in addition to being Fathers Day) is also the Summer Solstice. It’s an anniversary of sorts for me. It was June 21, 2005 (the solstice that day, too) that I got on the plane in Calgary with two large suitcases and two medium pet carriers (with two cats in each) bound for Windsor, Ontario, and my new little lake house. I’ve been very fortunate to live in some beautiful places, and while I still miss the West and the mountains, life with one of the Great Lakes at my backyard has a romance all its own. I’ve been delighted to share some of that with you out there in Blogland. The Cloud Messenger is nearly a year old, too (July 1st). So here I a few photos of my home in Alberta’s High Country, and my new one in Ontario—low country from the looks of all that standing water.

Gallery top to bottom: 1) flooded fields 2) Lake Erie afternoon storm 3) honey locust leaves 4) My acreage in High Country, view from the deck 5) view from the hill (click to enlarge)

SKYWATCH FRIDAY – Raven Swallows the Sun (Lake Erie)

I wrote this out for SWF last week, but didn’t get around to posting it, so now I have something for today, even though my friend is visiting and we're out and about all day. I'll stop by and see your skies this evening! The Raven in the photo used to sit atop the western-style gate at my home in the Rocky Mountain foothills, greeting all who came to visit, and no doubt amusing the real ravens. Now he sits on the patio railing and looks out at the lake, but so far no other ravens come to play; maybe one day… I took this photo when the sun was about to set, and was reflected in the raven's shiny black paint, making it appear that he'd 'swallowed the sun.'

Raven Notes
Ravens and humans go back a long time; for millennia even. Raven, a very widespread bird, has been a recurring subject of mythology, folklore, art and literature around the globe. In many indigenous cultures, including those of Scandinavia, ancient Ireland and Wales, Bhutan, North America, Siberia and northeast Asia, the Common Raven has been revered as a spiritual figure or god. Raven is known as a hero, a creator, a trickster, a friend and helper of humans. Along the northwestern coast of North America, Raven figure prominently among the stories of the First Nations people—the Haida, Tlingit, and Kwakiutls to name a few. The story of Raven swallowing the sun belongs to the Koriak people of Siberia.

The Raven and the Sun in Siberia: Among the Koriaks, Raven-Man swallows the sun because Big-Raven declines to give his daughter to him in marriage, whereupon the earth is plunged into darkness. Yine-a-neut, Big-Raven’s daughter, tickles the Raven-Man who swallowed the sun: he opens his mouth and sets the sun free. Pacific Coast: This corresponds to the episodes of the raven cycle of the Pacific coast, in which the Raven liberates the sun. From: http://collections.civilisations.ca/multimedia/3143/392/E2006-02648_02685_01.pdf -






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LOVE SONG TO A RIVER

I heard this on the satellite dish country station last night, and I understood the feelings behind if immediately. In fact, I had one of those “Gee I wish I’d written that” moments. There wasn’t any info on the screen, but I was pretty sure it was the late Roger Miller singing, so I jotted down a few lyrics, and tracked it down. Roger is probably best remember for his humorous country hits, like Chug-a-Lug, but he’s written some beautiful ballads and love songs, including this. Here, from the Amazon.com notes:

This unjustly forgotten masterpiece was in many ways the last great creative gasp for the late, great country songwriter-singer Roger Miller, who died in 1992. After he wrote countless country gems like "Invitation to the Blues," "King of the Road," and "Dang Me" during the 1950s and '60s, Miller's creative muse ran dry in the early 1970s. The drought continued until he made a remarkable comeback by penning the 20-song score and contributing vocals to the soundtrack of this 1985 Broadway adaptation of Mark Twain's literary classic. Big River still stands as a dazzling, heartwarming slice of musical Americana and the final crowning achievement in one of country music's most celebrated careers. --Bob Allen

RIVER IN THE RAIN (condensed lyrics)

River in the rain
Sometimes at night you look like a long white train
Winding your way away somewhere
River I love you don't you care

If you're on the run winding some place
Just trying to find the sun
Whether the sunshine, whether the rain
River I love you just the same

But sometimes in a time of trouble
When you're out of hand
And your muddy bubbles roll across my floor
Carryin' away the things I treasure
Hell, there ain't no way to measure
Why I love you more than I did the day before

River in the rain
Sometimes at night you look like a long white train
Winding your way away from me
River, I've never seen the sea



And here’s a YouTube recording of Roger singing it. All of us who love nature, be it rivers or mountains, the bald prairie or the salt sea, no matter if it’s where we live, or long to be, will feel this touch their hearts, I’m sure.







Video by YT member chargertom
Photo of the Alberta flood of '05 by A. Penner

LAKE ERIE FREEZE-OUT

The cold continues. Today the sun is out, but there's also a stiff breeze, so the few degrees of gain we've made on the thermometer are more than canceled out by the wind chill factor. Trees and bushes that don't get direct sunlight are still wearing yesterday's hoarfrost, and the exposed drifts are being carved anew by the steady wind. Birds are still crowding the feeders, but after they feed for a while they retire to a sheltered bush at my neighbor's house, that offers some sun and some protection from the wind. I can't imagine what it must be like to be out all day and all night with just a layer of feathers and down against these elements.

Out on the lake, there's almost nothing to be seen as the wind blows the loose snow around. Only the closest ridge of piled-up ice is visible in the near distance. (The raven used to sit on the top of my entrance gate to my old place in the foothills.) Moments after I took this, the wind increased and everything but the raven and the now-ghostly tree disappeared.


My little front porch is enclosed but unheated - really more of a mud-room. The windows are thickly frosted; the sun won't be making any dancing rainbows on the walls today. I checked the forecast this morning, and we should be up to the freezing point later next week. Zero Celsius/32 Fahrenheit is going to feel like spring!

SKYWATCH FRIDAY - Bright and Cold

An Alberta Clipper blew in from the west last night last night, and we woke up this morning to minus 22 degrees Celsius, or about minus 3 Fahrenheit. Either way you look at it, that's pretty (insert expletive of choice) chilly. At least it's not windy. But minus 22 is nowhere near my personal "best" for winter. That record was set when I was living in the Alberta foothills, and experienced straight temps of minus 40C (at minus 40 degrees, Celsius and Fahrenheit meet) quite regularly there. Add in the wind chill and the temps there can just about fall off the charts. So if I keep in mind how cold I have been, perhaps today's temperature here on Lake Erie's north shore won't seem so bad. Nah, who am I kidding, it's still cold!




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MORE NEW VISITORS AT MY FEEDERS

The last two days I’ve had some old friends come to visit – Pine Siskins and Common Redpolls. Since I first got to know these birds when I was living out west, that’s kind of how I think of them, but a quick check of the field guide shows that they are indeed found across almost the entire continent. That got me to looking at some of my other favorite western winter birds. Both the Red- and the White-winged Crossbills, as well as the Evening Grosbeak look to be generally a bit further north, but it’s not completely out of the question to see them here, I suppose. It doesn’t look good for the Gray-crowned Rosy finches, though. To see them here would be a rare, call-the-bird-hotline event!



I tried to snap a few shots of the Redpolls through my window this morning, but it’s so dark and snowy that mostly what I got was reflection, but I found a perfect shot of a male at a website called 50birds.com – which I will definitely explore more later on. There are so many birds I grew to know and love in the mountain years, ravens, magpies, mountain chickadees, rufous hummingbirds… But then again, I longed for cardinals and red-bellied woodpeckers when I was there, so I guess it all evens out.

SKIN (OSI)

power, protection
small white beaded doeskin bag
raven medicine












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ONE SINGLE IMPRESSION
Raven photo taken near Anchor D Ranch, west of Turner Valley, in the Alberta foothills

FROM THE VAULTS

Even though the sun is out and it's very mild today, I have winter fatigue. I'm tired of gray shots of water and ice and fog! So, I'm dipping back into some photos taken a few years ago when I still lived in High Country (Alberta) for some color as well as fun!


How to save on rope: tie the tail of the horse behind to the halter of the one in front...

This fellow would take his string of horses a ways down the road, turn around and come right back. I never did figure out why. Exercise? Some kind of training?





The reason I was late...

Cattle always have the right of way. You just slow your car down to barely a creep and gradually, very gradually, you make your way through, but not without getting a little slimed!





Some Beltie (Belted Galloway) cows.

My travels regularly took me by this pasture, and I always looked forward to seeing these guys. This one's for you, Eddy!

FOUR STRONG WINDS and a FUNERAL

Sunday was the worst, with round-the-clock 60 km/40 mile-per-hour blasts off the lake. The wind took the lilac bush in its teeth and shook it like a rag toy, then slung the birdfeeder into the yard, where it skittered across the crusted snow. This morning I picked up the pieces, and determined it was repairable with some wire and duct tape.

All day Sunday a mixed group of smaller birds tucked themselves away on some bushes in the corner of my neighbor’s house, keeping as much out of the wind as possible. A brown-streaked Cooper’s hawk kept hanging around, counting on its very presence to frighten the birds into flight, and thus becoming a meal for the quick-winged accipiter, but if it caught anything on the wing, any showers of feathers would have been whisked away before they could tell their story.

This morning I discovered one small casualty – a beautiful little female redwing blackbird among the lilac suckers. No sign of predation; nothing disturbed. Perhaps she was old, or ill, or maybe the night was just too cold and she succumbed to hypothermia – something that takes many birds each winter. I’ve left her there, perfectly laid out as she was, for her confreres come and pay their respects. And they do; here’s how I know:

Once when I was driving in the Alberta foothills, a flock of goldfinches flew in front of the truck I was behind. I could see what had happened (you never tailgate on those dust-choked backroads if you want to breathe) and gently braked. A female had been hit and dropped straight into the dirt. Instantly, a bright black-and-yellow male turned, flew back to her and perched on her lifeless body. A few other goldfinches gathered at the roadside, waiting for news. He cocked his head, shifted his tiny weight a few times on his slender feet until he had assured himself of whatever it was he sought regarding her, and then they all flew off. Before leaving myself, I scooped up her still-warm body and laid her in some of the weeds she’d loved in life.

WINTER ALONG THE NORTH SHORE, and a SUMMER MEMORY

The photo of the bearded warning sign (more “spraycicles”) was taken at Mersea Beach, after that big storm blew itself out. It blew so hard icicles couldn't even hang straight down. I don’t think anyone would risk scrambling over the groyne rocks on that ice! Yesterday was bright and sunny, and the temperature rose a few welcome degrees. Then last night a chilly winter rain moved in. I stuck my head and camera out the patio door this morning to catch the “kwins” (another word I made up, for those pattering raindrop circles) dancing on the table.


The big river stone on the edge of the picture is also from Alberta. It’s one of the few rocks I brought with me that don’t have holes in them. A dear friend of mine gave it to me from her garden when she had to move. She spent so many hours creating the most amazing rock garden, full of interesting plants and stones and homemade hangings and chimes – all delightfully and artfully designed. We each took a souvenir with us to remind us of all the good times we’d had sitting in the sun there, laughing and solving the problems of the world. I took this rock, which had always been a favorite of mine. I call it the Jupiter Rock, because of it’s color and patterns.

I’m sure that neat old house and lovingly tended garden are part of a string of condos by now, and the Jupiter Rock is currently anchoring the patio table against the winter gales; I haven't quite found the perfect summer spot for it here yet, but looking at it this morning in the low winter daylight, I could almost feel the heat of the sun again.

THE WATER CYCLE

I tooks these photos a few years ago when I was still living on the acreage in the Alberta foothills. My place was 10 ½ acres mostly in poplar and spruce woods, with some native short grass pastures that had never been turned. It was on a hill overlooking an unpopulated valley, with the mountain peaks just beyond. I had my own well and a pump down by the barn; you can see it in the first photo. One hot spring day I after I’d filled the stock tank, I just stood for a moment and let the cool water run over my hands. For a moment I had a kind of epiphany, envisioning the flow of rain, racing down the mountains, soaking into the land, filling the underground aquifer beneath my feet, rising up through the pump, and finally the water traveling across my skin before splashing back down onto the dry earth. Later that day, I saw what I call heliospouts (officially, crespuscular rays). When I was a kid we used to say it was the "sun drawing water" as if the rays were huge straws that the sun used to take up the moisture from the land, in order to have it fall again as rain. And I remembered the feel of the cool water on my hands, and I felt that for a moment I had been just as much a part of the water cycle as the grass and the rain and the rocks.

SKYWATCH – “EMBERS OF THE DAY”

This is the view from the place I lived prior to moving here to Lake Erie. It’s the foothills SW of Calgary, Alberta.






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