The Nature of Us

Rising from the snowy ground in the midst of its tree-filled park in downtown Toronto, the Anglican Cathedral of Saint James stands, graceful and strong.  It is long since it was the tallest building in the city, but it still remains, holding itself in serene beauty; it is a bastion of peace in a busy metropolis.  Impervious to the cars passing by, the dogs scurrying at its feet and the crane, mere meters away, doing construction work on a neighbouring building, the Cathedral abides as it has for a century and more.  The bell tower comes to life to strike two o’clock, and I wonder if anyone else can hear it over the bustle of urban life, and whether they will stop to think about the marvel that is this simple beauty, in the midst of the city, dedicated to the Glory and Worship of God.

If only you knew
How high your song soars
Over mists and stormy seas
A clarion true

If you could perceive
The gem of your heart
The fire you’ve kindled
The gift of this tear

It is a blistering hot day and 8-year-old Cecilia—Cessa is helping her grandmother—her abuela—prepare a meal of coconut rice, shrimp and fried plantains. They are now making coconut milk from a mixture of small pieces of coconut and hot water and squeezing the mixture over a strainer into a bowl.

“Where is my mama?” Cessa asks as she presses the coconut with all the strength of her small fingers.

“What did your father tell you, Cessa my child?” Abuela gently asks.

“He told me that my mama is very sick,” Cecilia replies, her lips quivering. Abuela takes the coconut mixture from Cessa’s hands and gives it a lengthier squeeze and Cessa is surprised to see two more spoonfuls of coconut milk, when she thought it wasn’t possible for it to give anymore. Cessa marvels at how strong her grandmother is and hopes to be so one day as well.

The subject’s eye, like a naked button, cannot close. The postman did not know what it meant to be painted. He lived his life like a soldier: rigid and burdensome. The artist wished to capture someone unlike himself, but to his horror found, in the wild shadows of the postman’s beard, a longing he never knew. The painter thinks: I have never worn a uniform, but this fact does not free him. Who else but this man could refrain from fidgeting with his collar so long? The process of reproduction bewilders the subject. He rides on horses to deliver pieces of paper, some love letters even, but words are different. They build something. He never thought layers of colour could strip one down, as if the painting was not he, but the soul’s bones.

It’s so quiet in here that the only sounds are the soft tap of flies hitting the clean glass window from outside. It is a strange thing to listen to too closely; the thought of their soft little bodies unexpectedly crashing against the invisible barrier of glass. There are so many windows in this room that the longer I’m here the more rhythmic the sound becomes until it’s just part of the Silence. And I wonder in those days of blood how similar the sound must have become to the soldiers who heard the sounds of thousands dying under the fire of their guns and the slice of their machetes. After the first dozen or two wouldn’t it become just as common, just as muted? From up high we all just look like ants anyway, right? How much more important is the ant to the fly?

And it’s these thoughts that keep me from sitting in the Silence too long lest I forget how to hear.

A sacred thing
belongs inside an
igloo, even
underneath an igloo.
I’ve been digging for
these sacred things
but I live far away
from the igloos and
am hoping that
because I’m me
they’ll climb through
wells and oil pipes
and the mouths of
worms to find me
and my hands and
eyes and I will look
at them and belong
to them and be
happy. My thoughts,
the tunnels that these
sacred things have
burrowed in order to
find me here flood
sometimes, with
apprehension.
Sometimes with
blood.

The bright lights of this apartment home Twinkle like a candle in a cubby
Enough to draw the eye from afar
And make the stranger question why
These souls within rejoice
At the sight of one another

This piece is one in a series of responses to “What If…” that we are posting this week. You may find this one easier to digest by reading aloud.

Who can tell what kinds of thoughts swim beyond the eyes of four women conversing? Who can say where their minds travel in the brief moments that linger between spoken words? How can one ascertain the other’s secret musings, so secret that even they nearly forget what they’ve worked so tirelessly to keep hidden? Those hopes and aspirations, notions and impressions, doubts and anxieties, especially those of four women, are almost impossible to guess. Still, there is a shared, albeit silent, understanding between them. There is an unwritten treaty, signed and ratified by each, before entering into conversation. They sit, each with their own lives complete with joys and sufferings, and begin their visit.

This piece is one in a series of responses to “What If…” that we are posting this week.

If I could really know, like really, really know, that what is best for everyone is really what is best for me, then what would my choices begin to look like?

I didn’t want you to open your door to me. I didn’t want you to let me in. But as the golden late afternoon light faded to twilight in your apartment, you tested the sincerity of my intention by listening with patience and interest. I didn’t want you to ask me questions. How much easier it would have been had you smiled politely, said thanks but no thanks, not interested thanks, sorry, please and thank you, have a nice day, goodbye, all the best. The social niceties come thoughtlessly, easily, rolling off the tongue without thought or attention. But your questions call me to be thoughtful, you see, which happens to be far more uncomfortable.

This piece is one in a series of responses to “What If…” that we are posting this week.

If I could see the invisible energy that connects us all, then what would my morning be like and then my afternoon and evening?

Morning

When the sun rises I arise and turn my face towards
Both the sun out my window and the Sun of Truth
Conscious that millions across a city, a province, a time zone
Are also arising-however tentatively-from a night of slumber
Off of straw beds, mats, wooden beds, queen size canopy beds
Some from the cold comfort of a bed of heedlessness
I tearfully think about all of those who are beginning to awaken
And pray that they when they open their eyes, they will be able to
Perceive the Majestic Sun glimmering and radiating heat
Which all can feel however faintly and can learn to reflect
And I pray that these dear ones who are an integral part of me
Will learn to reflect the Sun according to their own pattern