(From Psalm 131)
Lord, my heart is not haughty:
Of course, I had the advantage of birth: born in Springside,
voted least haughty hamlet in Saskatchewan.
Nor my eyes lofty:
One pretty much follows the other: farming town, curling rink,
proud of our blizzards, which kept us from taking the Yellowhead
to Yorkton — massive, unpredictable city.
Neither do I exercise myself in great matters:
Except one day I packed a bologna sandwich and rode my horse, Chummy,
hard, all the way to my cousin’s farm by the Whitesand River dam.
Later, Chummy, dying of colic, my uncle in mercy put him away,
leaving me stung and hollow, a puddle of regret, my adolescent presumption
causing the death of something I loved, something that large.
Or in things too high for me:
Like this ghost-pale moon,
weeping light over gopher-pocked pastures,
bringing cool June drizzle, brooding sloughs, and pain
that strains theodicy, and no arithmetic that joy will come in the morning.
Surely I have behaved and quieted myself:
I’m quiet, but it’s false to say it was of my own agency,
as truthfully, it’s growing old that’s quieted me,
it’s loss that’s taught me,
surrender to the Mystery.
As a child that is weaned of its mother:
From provinces away, my mother watched, heard news,
and loved me still — down all these galloping years,
she was always just across the room.
My soul is even as a weaned child:
Rogue child steps out the front door into the giant blue.
Seasons of sidereal dreams, mottled mist, leveling winds,
and the leavening light of a thousand sundowns: his habit now,
to bend a creaking knee, bow a greying head,
wipe his dimming eyes and trust the night.
I’m always elevated reading your work. The imagery and personalization here resonates so deeply. Thank you. I recognize the last lines as my own.
Thank you, Joyce. Truly appreciate this.
So lovely. I had to laugh at (least) haughty SK hamlet… and then I went into my own dream time prompted by yours, with my bday and my mom’s death day. It’s a time for lingering wisps of thought and memories that wash over reviving us with now.
Thank you, Valary, for adding to that loveliness to this post. A birthday and a grief day, always, it seems, these things are linked.
Love these reflections Steve … you do so often remind me of our dad …
Thanks, Liz! I count that an honour.
beautiful
Thank you Ananda.
I don’t always comment, but always read. And am always better off after. This one is a gem.
Thank you, Tiffany. Truly appreciate that.
Thanks, Steve, I loved these reflections of our homeland (home + land)!
However, one correction: Springside is officially rated as a town, which in SK puts it two levels up from hamlet! Being un-haughty might require a little more effort!
Nevertheless, a touching ending to this piece!
Thanks, Sam, of course, Springside would have been a hamlet at one point. Plus, I liked the alliteration. 🙂
I read this the morning I was writing my son a letter for his 38th birthday. Not a newsy letter but one speaking to his heart. I shared your words —
From provinces away, my mother watched, heard news,
and loved me still — down all these galloping years,
she was always just across the room —
We have lived provinces away from one another for over 20 years, yet we both know I will always be “just across the room “.
Thank you for giving my mother heart true expression.
Thank you so much for this, Valerie. So glad you wrote about the connection you found. And happy birthday to your son!