Fall

The sky is blue. Piercing blue, and the air is crisp and cold.

The backyard, resplendent in fall colours: red, yellow, orange. One tree is still almost entirely green, with the leaves on only the topmost branches turning blood red, each day, one by one. Another tree, in the neighbour's yard, is almost completely bare, save for a bird's nest that sways in the wind but stays secure.

Wet leaves blanket the yard, and the black-eyed Susans have lost their bloom. The bougainvillea branches, stringy and dry, stubbornly hold onto a few last fuchsia petals.

I should be planting tulip bulbs. And daffodils. I will be mad at myself next spring if I don't plant them now.

Instead I collect the last of the kale and a bowl full of green tomatoes. There wasn't enough sun for them to ripen on the vine. Google promises me they can be roasted or fried, turned into chutney, salsa or soup. I am skeptical, but willing to try.

My husband is putting away the patio furniture: piling up the chairs, dismantling the table, drying out the seat cushions. The deck looks much larger. We should have painted it this summer. It would have dried quickly in the heat. But now the worn out browns blend in with the turning leaves and speak gently with the memory of barbecue suppers and laughter with friends late into the night.

The sun through the glass feels warm and teases me into thinking it could still be summer, if I just close my eyes and believe.

Let me tell you about the men in my life

I can hardly believe this behaviour we are witnessing, the insults and revelations revealed daily, indeed with such alarming frequency that they risk becoming almost meaningless. Such venom and bile that spews forth from this awful being and the people who surround him. Why must we listen to his garbage, to give it credence or even the tiniest bit of attention? Who is he, with his billions? He may have great wealth in material but he lives in extreme poverty of spirit. His jowls quivering, his sausage fingers wagging, his tangy hair flapping -- he is so far removed from reality as to be a farce, a caricature of a certain kind of creature (I won't call him a man) that he deserves only to be ignored and rendered irrelevant.

He is the furthest away in action and temperament from all the men I have ever known, so far away as to be in an alternate universe, now hopefully careening towards a black hole to be sucked up in one great gasp and then forgotten.

The men in my life are good: Husband, sons, father, stepfather, father-in-law, brothers, brothers-in-law, uncles, cousins, nephews, ex-boyfriends, neighbours, coworkers and friends. They are respectful without being condescending, loving without being violent, protective without being patronizing, gentle without being weak, proud without feeling threatened.

I have never been threatened or felt unsafe or insulted by a man. I do know women who have been treated badly by men. I know it happens all too often, and I know it leaves lasting and painful damage. I simply am fortunate to have been treated well by the men in my life, so I also know that good men do exist and that it is possible to live and thrive in a world where women can shine without eclipsing or being eclipsed by men.

I want my sons to be proud of who they are, not shamed because of the behaviour of one jackass who should apologize, not only for his behaviour and not only to the women he has violated, but also to the men whose reputations he sullies by his own words and deeds.

The men in my life are good and decent people, and treat me as a good and decent person. For this I am not grateful -- it is as it should be! -- but rather I am cognizant that it is not the experience of every woman and so I must raise my daughter to expect it as her right, and my sons to emulate the very good men I know.

Lightning

lightning through the window
lights the sky and

brings to mind all the crevices
of darkness from where

we are born
and when we die

we die in darkness
and the light breaks through us

until we shine as lightning
through the window

The New Year is in September

One more day. One more day until bedtimes and awake times become more routine, until homework and studies dominate conversations, until Husband and I once again relinquish our status as Most Visible Adults in our children's lives.

The binders and pencils and pens and erasers and glue sticks and pencil crayons and markers and lined paper and liquid paper and sticky-white-holes-for-when-your-holed-paper-tears thingies and highlighters and calculators and stickies and knapsacks and lunch bags are bought (though not yet organized). Husband has begun assembly line lunch preparations for freezer sandwiches, and today I bulked up at the Bulk Barn with snacks and fillers. Thankfully everyone can take peanut butter and trail mix to school now that no one is in elementary school any longer.)

For the third year in a row, our three kids will be attending separate schools and this year two of them are at new ones. All three on public transportation, with the youngest the farthest to go. I want to ride with them, to walk into the school holding their hands still sticky with applesauce, to give them a hug as they trip over still-too-big and too-white running shoes with their impossibly big knapsacks weighing them down. There will be no glitter glue or popsicle-stick creations this year, but I know instead there will be debates and discussions about big issues and much puzzling over equations that I don't remember how to do. New schools, new teachers, new friends, new subjects, new goals, new ideas, new opportunities: this is the time of change.

It is September, much more the start of a new year than January.

It's not just the return to school, but also the obvious change in season that signals a shift in the universe and brings in me a feeling of joy and melancholy all mixed together. January from December? More of the same usually: cold, snow, weeks and months of winter to come, a brief hiatus for Christmas and New Year's celebrations, and then a quick return to routines. But August to September? The nights darken earlier, the mornings and evenings are cooler, the leaves on the trees carry a dullness in the green -- a green that almost seems brown -- with only a slight hint of the colours with which they will soon present their orchestral radiance in autumn.

The new crescent moon last night, a slice of silver in the quieting sky.

This is the time for change.

Summer Night

strains of an oboe, 

echoes of fireworks,

the buzzing of a fly

trapped on the inside of my window pane

the sounds of a summer night

waft through the screen

the breeze so soft,

holding on its breath the fragrance of petunia

leaves blackened against 

deep sea blue of sky, 

which is not the sea but is of the sea,

as the sea is of it, and on and on in perpetuity

Love, and be loved

Sometimes this world makes me weep
I tell my kids to be friendly,
To be generous
To be kind
To love
And to be confident that they are loved
Without judgement
Without fear
Without condemnation
To love, and be loved.

If there are to be tears,
Let them be tears of joy
In ecstasy
or in the quiet of the night
But let there not be
Shame or violence.
Just love, and be loved.

Is that too simplistic?

Yes.

It really is that simple.

Love, and be loved.

Breakthrough

Creativity involves breaking out of established patterns in order to look at things in a different way
--Edward de Bono

There is a man in Paris who is stuck in a concrete wall. Is he emerging from encasement or being held back? Is he escaping or calmly moving forward to his next destination? Is he being boxed in or breaking free?

I feel somewhat like this man these days, as I wait to learn what my next assignment at work will be. Our department has a necessarily convoluted approach to job placements. Being a rotational department, with people going out on postings to our embassies or returning from overseas over the summer, or simply moving on to a new challenge at headquarters, means a significant portion of our workforce is on the move every year, like a swarm of bees or a murmuration of starlings. Having reviewed a list of available positions posted in April, and having had numerous conversations with potential managers and colleagues, to strategize and theorize about what the best approach and best fit will be, we have submitted our top 5 preferences and we now await the judgement of an assignment committee whose members presumably have our best interests at heart. It is not an efficient process -- 12 weeks to run from start to finish in this current round. There are still weeks to go. And so we wait, floating and hovering, pushed this way and that by gusts of wind, not yet ready to land and still unaware of our journey or destination.

What am I looking for? I don't mind being busy, but I refuse to do crazy. I want to keep my head above water so I can be present at home and still leave time for writing, reading, listening, meditating, gardening, making wine, exercising (I must get back to exercising) -- while working with good people.

The smell of the fresh air after rain that wafts through my window, the washed-out grey of the clouds that still blanket the sky: I want to remain aware of these, without dulling my senses with the senseless beating and endless churn of forever trying to move forward while being held back. I am where I want to be. I have already broken through concrete and I have no interest in building myself back into it.