It's a feeling, not just a place

Sometimes someone gets it right. Sometimes someone understands that it's the feeling of the place, not the physical or even geographical rhythms. Writer Lisa Moore got it right in this article I'm pleased to share with you here.

Rock, Dreams and Desire

Musical moments No.1

Please allow me to share some musical eloquence from a trio who hails from my city. The group is The Once. The name means " I'll get to it". In Newfoundland and Labrador, if you say "da once" it means you'll get around to doing something in your own time, or maybe not at all.

This amazing group of musicians would be classed as folk artists. They sing/play traditional songs, and write in traditional fashion. There are other links to find and play their music. But this radio concert, performed in Chicago June 16, is a prime example of why they are winning respect all over the world.

When you click on the link, scroll down to Folkstage: Live in the Levin Music Performance Studio 
to get the connection to listen. I'd love to know how much you enjoyed this.

http://www.wfmt.com/main.taf?p=4%2C5%2C14

So many fine musicians in the world. It's my pleasure to share just some of those from Newfoundland and Labrador.

Leave a tip

If you had a bucket list
What would it entail?
All the things you thought you missed?
All the things you failed?

If you could just leave a tip
A wish, or some advice
A coin to toss, a switch to flip
A way to break the ice

What would you say to those seek
a way to look within?
Who cannot even take a peek
at what they could have been.

I know I make excuses when
life slaps me on the wrist
if I could only find a pen
I'd write a bucket list.

Singing at the edge

Atop a cliff at the easternmost point of North America there is a set of old army bunkers, with tunnels cut through rock to chambers that once housed soldiers on lookout and defence during World War Two.
The acoustics in the hewn rock chambers are otherworldly.
If you've ever enjoyed singing in a stairwell, or an empty church, then you've only had a taste of how it feels to sing in the bunkers.
For a time, I was fortunate enough to have some good friends who were talented singers. One of the real joys of that time was getting together to make music.

Singing in the kitchen was fun. We took it out and sang at some pubs, more fun. Even better, it was food for heart and soul.

At the end of that period things in our lives began to change. My best friend was moving away. Another was starting a new job and couldn't get together with us anymore. Without these friends, our singing would not be the same. It was the end of something very special.

We decided to go to the edge of the continent to sing in the bunkers, knowing our opportunity might not come again for a very long time. We chose an a capella song recorded by Sinead O'Connor called "In This Heart." and a gaelic song called Mo Run Geal Dileas.

It was a bittersweet day as we walked the boardwalk to the cliffs overlooking Cape Spear, but it was auspicious in more ways than one. On the way we had seen the fleet-footed Cape Spear foxes, a rare sight, and the first and only time I've seen them in all my visits. It seemed like a marker of sorts, an exclamation point at the beginning of a sentence.

We filed into the bunker, feeling a little nervous,  and laughing at ourselves. There were a few people about, but they were climbing the rocky trails, looking for whales and icebergs (I believe both were out of season).

We stood in the largest bunker, with dank and dripping walls. Beer glass was strewn about the floor, a testament to someone's party the night before. We turned to face the ocean, looking down the barrel of a long cannon pointed towards Britain. The cerulean sky was framed by rough hewn stone, with rivulets of calcium and rust etched against the sides. The dank stone chamber was graced with an ocean breeze. We could feel the presence of ghosts, the spirits of the hill and the nameless pagan gods and godesses that must inhabit such a magical place. The edge of the island, the edge of the continent, the edge of the land and the edge of the sky. And all of us on the cusp of change.

We sang, and as the sound swelled to fill the tunnels, I could feel every hair on my body standing straight up. I felt the spirits stop to listen. In the back of my mind I wondered what people climbing the hills would think, with this haunting harmony issuing from the hills, echoing across the cliffs only to be washed away by the roaring waves.

As we sang, a new harmony came echoing through the tunnel, a male voice, anchoring the female chorus. We didn't stop singing until the song was over. As the last notes died away, we heard footsteps coming down the tunnel. Our guest singer was involved in the Nova Scotia folk festival. He invited us to come sing there and to record our songs on the spot in a mobile recording studio he had parked in a nearby lot. Although we could not due to other committments, it was a lovely end to our bunker excursion.

We left the hill that day happy that we'd made the trip, and sad because things would never be the same. But the memory of those breathtaking, hair-raising, exquisite moments is a treasure that warms me and still brings a tear when I think of it.

"In this heart lies for you
A lark born only for you
Who sings only to you"

Hare and gone

There are times when natures stages an event that leaves you gasping in awe. It often happens in surprising circumstances, in unlikely situations and without warning. Each one witnessed is a gift to be held in esteem and treated with the wonder and respect it deserves.

I've been lucky to have witnessed some amazing shows of nature considering I've been city bound most of my life. This one comes to the surface of memory readily.

Picture an early morning drive to work, in the middle of the city. Cutting through a backstreet with a few woods lots, my husband and I drive up a hill to see a hawk swoop down on a snowshoe hare racing across the road ahead. The hare makes a frenzied leap in an effort to gain the cover of bushes alongside the road. It is oblivious to us, as is the raptor.

The bird extends its claws, and with wings beating in slow motion, plucks up the struggling hare in mid leap. Working hard to gain height, the hawk, with kicking rabbit clutched tight, rises right in front of the hood of the car, eye level and closer than I ever thought I could be to such a tableau.

We watch as the desperate hare almost works its way free, but its struggles weaken. The hawk grapples with it a moment longer as it gains height. We see the hare give up, perhaps accepting its fate, perhaps with a vital organ pierced by a wickedly sharp claw. The hawk swoops into a patch of forest behind a well manicured garden and disappears.

It took only seconds, but felt like minutes. There seemed to be all the time in the world to notice things like the way the Red tailed hawk's feathers tipped and curved as it controlled its strike. Its markings were first blurred with speed but at the strike it seemed to stop mid air, and then you could see the speckles and darker rings at the tip of its wings, a ruffle of feathers at its neck pulsed slightly. It was many shades of brown, ranging from a dun colour to a rich warm rust. Some hints of ochre. It made no sound except a rush of air, which I should not have heard in the car, but perhaps my imagination supplied that detail.

There was time to see the expression in the hare's eyes, note the contrast of the white soft fur of its underbelly against the coarser, slightly darker hair on its back. See how its legs dangled, futile and helpless.

The scene was deadly and beautiful at the same time, like so much of nature's wonders tend to be. We stopped in the middle of the road with the sun just over the horizon behind us. We turned to each other and in one breath exclaimed, "Amazing!"

About 4-5 seconds had passed.

Good things in small packages

Here's a collection of moments: Locking eyes with your babies and feeling the connection, utter trust and unquestioning devotion flowing back and forth between you. Knowing you would die to protect that. Many nuggets to string into a necklace I can wear with pride and lace with hope.

Falling in love with books

Even in kindergarten I had freedom that kids today seldom enjoy. I rode the city bus to school by myself (it was pretty safe in those days). By Grade 1, I had been all over the city by bus countless times and discovered some things ... like the downtown library.

I loved to read, so much so that I made an almost daily trip down the hill from my school (a 15-minute walk) to the downtown library. There I would pick up several books, and grab the bus home. It didn't take long before I had consumed most of the books the librarians considered age appropriate in the children's library. I really wanted something else. It was pretty simple stuff, and so at about seven years old, I started going to the adult library.

One of first books I took out was Jack London's "Call of the Wild." It seemed very thick. No colourful pictures. A few pen sketches of a dog and a wolf.  I was a bit wary of it, but I took it home. I started to read. 

I don't know how long I was reading, I only know I was drawn into the story. I didn't know all the words, but I figured them out from context. Somewhere I vaguely remember carrying the book to the supper table, fibbing to my mother that my homework was done. Don't know what I had for supper. Don't remember going back to my room. The words morphed into powerful feelings and pictures. My heart and mind were totally invested in the story, and it felt like watching a wonderful movie in my head. I could see each character vividly. I read into the night, the whole book. Couldn't stop.  I laughed, held my breath at the suspense, jumped as surprise plots, and at the end I cried and cried. When I stopped crying, I knew I had to have more books like that.

Jack London taught me what a real book could be. He also enriched my vocabulary and made me a fearless reader. So, I thank you, Mr. London, for that amazing story. It tipped the balance and made me not only want to read, but also to write. 

A few years ago, I decided I wanted to write a book — just one of the things on my bucket list. So I did. It's not published, and may never be. I just wanted to know I could do it, and I did. It helped me see that sometimes we can stretch ourselves to reach places we didn't think we could go.

I thank Jack London for that, too. 

About "Call of the Wild" by Jack London

Terra Nova Stars

I promised to talk about Terra Nova stars.
The time is 40 years ago. I am 18, just broke up with the boy I started dating at 15. We were still friends. We played in a band together. For three years my world consisted of that circle of friends, my guy, and the boys in the band. Everyone thought we would marry. We both knew we wouldn't. So some things changed, and some stayed the same. All this is the backdrop to where I stepped out of the groove that was my world then.

I went to college to learn graphic design. I kept one foot in my old life, and one foot in my new life.

I joined a group of volunteers who ran a crisis line and drop-in centre for students. I was young enough to think I had advice to give. I was trying to be mature. I wanted to do good. I was more than a little full of myself.

The group decided to take a trip to Terra Nova. Someone knew someone with a house and some property there.  The trip was to forge bonds, talk about how we could do the best job we could do with our crisis line and just get away. It involved a long, twisting and turning road trip to a tiny community where there was no electricity, no phones, and the train tracks seemed to be only thing that anchored the place to the world. There was still a train then. It ran by twice a day, with a long whistle and its percussive, clattering rhythm. It seldom stopped.

It was fall, and the community was centred in the midst of a different landscape than the one I was used to on my rocky coast with scrub evergreens, myrtle and moss. I grew up in the city, but spent my summers in a fishing village on an unforgiving coast. There were no sandy beaches. Terra Nova was nothing like my previous rural experiences. This community was lush with deciduous trees, flaming birch, red maples, rowan and larch. The air was cool enough to make your skin tingle but not so cold you had to bundle in winter clothes. I remember the air tasting different, earthier. We were farther from the coast, and the ocean influence was diluted by the smell of forest, fresh cut wood, and wood smoke from cast iron stoves. A blanket of brilliant leaves covered woods paths.

By candle and lamplight we set up our gear, having wasted the waning light exploring our surroundings. It was a big yellow house, with mostly empty rooms. A carpenter's table and a huge stove dominated the large kitchen. There was an indoor pump from an artesian well. Even as we settled in, I could feel the house's curiosity about us. City kids, fumbling with oil lamps. Do-gooder hippies checking out camp stoves and rustling up wood to feed the old wood stove that heated the house. There was a large clearing in the back of the house, a shed to one side. As the twilight blue turned to navy velvet, several of us went out with a flashlight to find more wood.

Navy turned to black. There were no lights around us. We sat on the ground and turned off the flashlight. To our surprise we could see clearly as our eyes adjusted. Starlight painted the trees and grass with a luminescence, edges outlined. It was a moonless night. We lay back on the grass. And looked up. Wordless.

And this is where and when the stars of Terra Nova made an indelible mark on me. Gazing into that sky, for the first time in my life I truly comprehended that the sky was not like a blanket with pinpricks of light. It was not a ceiling. It was absolutely infinite. Layers of stars stretched back further and further into dimensions that I began to realize I would never comprehend. I was sucked into the sky, into layer after infinite layer until I could see that I was less than a mote in the universe. I was less than the angel on the head of a pin. I was smaller than the smallest particle. The only thing holding me to the ground was a thin layer of gas and the embrace of Mother Earth. A stark realization struck. Very little was stopping me from flying into space. I was mesmerized. I couldn't tear myself away for a very long time.
And I was listening hard.

I cannot explain the music I heard that night, only that perhaps it was the voices of a quadrillion stars, a celestial choir. Or perhaps it came from the Earth itself. But that night I slept deeply, dreaming I was stretched across the universe, and I could touch anywhere. It was a dream that came to me many times over the years. I hope it will come again.

About "the town of Terra Nova"
"Photos of Terra Nova"

I was wondering how many people take time to savour moments in their lives that are special. I know I'm guilty of letting myself be overwhelmed by the business of life, and get lost in that jungle. 

I often ask myself why I'm such a pessimist, and how I became so cynical. I wonder when I lost faith in my ability to be joyful. If I turn to point blame, I can only look in the mirror. After all, I am the choices I made.

Today, while lying in bed in that state between sleep and wakefulness, I caught myself thinking of a very special moment when I was 18. It galvanized me to think of other moments, trolling the river of time to find those nuggets. As I collected them, I realized I was rich in joyful moments, moments of wonder, moments of merriment, moments of passion. I had just buried them in a vault to which I had mislaid the combination. I moved to rearranged some baggage, found the combination and opened the vault.

I sat up, went to my desk and began writing them down: 

Terra Nova Stars

Lake Ontario day

My best friend's wedding

A perfect music jam in a friend's kitchen

An incredible boat trip with a retired Canadian MP

My son playing on the steps wrapped up in a pretend world

Falling in love with books

My mother dancing a jig in her kitchen

Singing in the choir ...

The list kept going on until it filled pages. And I knew I had only touched the surface. There were many more nuggets to be found, savoured, and invited back into my busy, busy life. 

I am sharing the nuggets, one at a time, as I find them. They're not in any particular order. They are not round, or square or oval.They are not finished. They are rough, and full of pock marks, indentations. They are covered with sand, or moss or loam. Some will shine and glisten with water droplets. Some will be hoary with frost. They may smell like a beach or a bunker on a hill, make you cry like an onion or giggle like a tickle. Some will be satisfying. Some will leave you wanting more. They will all be honest. They will all be real. They will all be gold.

I will start at the first on the list. Stay tuned for Terra Nova Stars.