Archive for September 2011
settling into unfamiliar
After three decades of work, I am retiring within the year. Another milestone. A new ‘way’ to settle into.
I remember when I made the transition into full-time employment. It was a huge change for me.
Previously, I had been a student, living at home. Suddenly, I was away from familiar places, in a new province, on my own.
Fortunately, I had solid back-up… my Mom and Dad were supportive and helped me whenever they could. I loved my apartment, my new friends, my responsibilities. Everything was new. I learned as I went, meeting each new experience as if it was a page being turned in a book.
This transition, my retirement, will be so different. I should be ahead of the change. I am settled. I know my home. I have my husband to steady me and my son to give me advice! I have a plan.
But the transition is still scary. For three decades, my work has structured my life, providing deadlines and places to be, people to see. I’ll have to establish a new daily routine. I’ll have to set goals and celebrate milestones. I’ll have to work a little harder to maintain my social contacts.
It will be like my first walks in the grey woods. In those days, I didn’t know the paths very well and worried about getting lost (even though I could hear the cars on the main road!). Sounds were strange, even frightening. I worried about wild animals.
But gradually I learned the ways of the grey woods. Every time I walked the paths, they became more familiar, and also more worn and easier to follow. I learned the sounds to expect and the animals and birds I would encounter. I learned the pitfalls. I learned to expect a gem on every walk… a fairy ring of mushrooms, a Pileated Woodpecker hammering at a tree trunk, a chorus of frogs from the ephemeral pools…
walk in the grey forest
~
I walk on unknown land
land I have not seen
but dreamed, the wary dream of intruder
where silence is fragile
snapped in two
by leaf fall
~
I step carefully
my disturbance less
than the exhalation of wind
or the mutter of moths
between moribund trees
~
this is ancient land
mossy logs, weary paths
where others may have walked
slanted cathedral light
lichened stones
~
the unknown watches me
crouched in a hollow
flattened to the bole of the oak
betrayed by a ripple on the vernal pool
by the rattle of beech leaf or birch bark paper
it will surely shake free of its leaf garment
rise from the forest floor
to chastise me
desecrator of place
~
even a careful step
is hard on hollow land
~
it will take time
to learn to walk here
to discover game trails in the half-light
to understand words unspoken
to know the dying trees
not as omen
but as part
of the forest
~
© Jane Tims 1998
pool at the base of the waterfall
Have you ever had trout nibble at your toes?
When I was a teenager, my family was fortunate to own a woods property with a brook and a substantial waterfall. We had a cabin there, built by my Dad.
The brook was wide and shallow, running through mixed woods. It was a torrent in the spring, but in summer it ran gently through the trees, bordered by mossy hummocks, accented with small pools and riffles.
I remember the first time I saw the waterfall. We were looking for a woods property and a farmer offered to show us some of his land. I was exploring a particular area, following the bank of the stream, when I first heard the roar of the falls and saw the bright froth of water through the trees. I couldn’t believe it when the owner said, without hesitation, we could have that lot for our cabin.
The falls were substantial, spilling about 15 feet over a dip in the shale substrate. They spread outward from the lip of the falls, creating a broad triangle of white, laid across the rock like a veil. The roar of the water falling was constant and intense.
'waterfall and pool'
At the base of the waterfall was a pool, waist deep. The water was headache cold, but once we became used to it, we could swim and cool off on a summer day. The pool was transparent as glass, and we could look down and watch the trout nibbling at our toes. In spite of the dramatic turn of my poem below, the trout were not voracious and their nibbles were butterfly kisses.
Meniscus
~
1.
~
mist and mosses
colour the air
where the waterfall leaps
green in the mumble of water
~
I stand waist deep
in the fall-fed pool
bubbles cling to my legs
to the hairs on the back of my knee
~
droplets of air above water are nothing
~
2.
~
the soles of my feet
slide on the slate
search for softer
pockets of sand
~
trout kiss my ankles
~
I try to see
but the surface is silver
a dome reflected
of maple and sky
~
3.
~
a green leaf settles
a pine needle spins
striders press dents on the water
~
4.
~
I need to see the trout
I bend my face to the water
press on the skin
push through the meniscus
~
my nose is severed from my face
~
5.
~
I am the pond
~
I cannot move
I cannot breathe
my hands are numb
my heart squeezes within me
~
I cannot believe
the trout have taken
great gashes of leg
my toes are slashed by the slate
~
I look up through the water
its surface a circle of silver
~
6.
~
fish gnaw at my toes
bubbles grate at the back of my knee
tears under water are nothing
~
© Jane Tims 1992
pitfalls
If the space you occupy, your niche, has benefits to nourish, lift and sustain you, it also has its pitfalls, its dangers. Animals know this and their adaptations to their habitat are as much about avoiding danger as they are about obtaining food or shelter.
Think about the Groundhog family in the grey woods behind our house (see post ‘the location of our picnic table‘ August 20,2011, category ‘wild life’). The Groundhog’s tunnels are designed to provide shelter and food storage, but they are also designed for checking out the enemy and for quick escape.
Like the Groundhog, I try to prepare for the pitfalls. I have an emergency kit, including water and a flashlight, ready for severe storms, unexpected floods, and power outages. In spite of this, when our basement was flooded last December, I found I was poorly prepared and all I could do was concentrate on the small steps toward return to normalcy.
The path through the grey woods has its own pitfalls. When I go for walks I have to beware of fallen trees…
roots ready to grab an ankle…
branches reaching to poke an eye…
and the risks of not looking around, and missing something special and ephemeral…
pitfalls
~
soft places in the earth
hollows in the leaf layer
deadfalls to snag the surest ankle
roots that reach for the body
and chasms to claim it
~
gaps in the greyness of pine
spaces to spill sunlight
admit the riot of leaves
and the keys of the maple
~
holes in the layer of cloud
snags in the curtain
knots in floorboards
eyes in the blackness of night
~
flaws in the fabric
seams to part and peer through
paths we have crossed before
in other ways
~
© Jane Tims 2005
'red mushroom'
messages in stone
In my studies in history, no topic has engaged me like the use of stone to record our human endeavors. I have made a small study of the rune stones of Scandinavia, the stelae of Mesoamerica, and the petroglyphs of North America.
The majority of Scandinavian rune stones are found in Sweden (2,900 in Sweden, compared with 300 in Denmark, 50 in Norway and 33 on the Isle of Man).
These stones are upright or horizontal, frequently taller than two meters and marked by rune carvers with runes and various images. Rune stones are found scattered across the countryside and are mostly memorials, providing records of family relationships and history, community happenings and property ownership.
The majority of rune stones were made in the eleventh century, coinciding with the gradual conversion of the people of Scandinavia from pagan beliefs to Christianity. The transition took years, a merging of doctrine and practice from the two religions. The majority of rune stones show some religious symbolism, usually a blending of pagan and Christian ideas.
In the yard of an old church at Sigtuna, Uppland, is a rune stone once part of the Dominican cloister foundation.
rune stone U379 at Sigtuna churchyard (Source: Ojan, 2009, Wikimedia Commons)
The stone was raised by a guild of merchants to honor one of their members. The rune stone is carved with a ribbon of runes enclosing a simple pattée cross. The facimile (below) of the carvings on the rune stone is taken from:
http://www.ludd.luth.se/~frazze/history/mirror/viking_age/runes/nytt/rune_stone_index.shtml
facimile of carvings on rune stone U379
The Dominicans are a Christian Order of mendicant monks founded in the early thirteenth century. The monks are also called “black friars” because of their black cloaks.
The chant in the poem below is based on the Order for Compline in the Anglican Book of Common Prayer.
they too were brothers
(rune stone at the Dominican cloister, Sigtuna)
~
Frisa gildaR letu ræisa stæin Þennsa æftiR Þor [kil, gild] a sinn.
The Frisian guild brothers let raise this stone after Torkel, their guild brother.
– inscription on the rune stone at the cloister
~
~
solemn
we, black friars, stride
stone to stone
the measured step
of Compline
~
lighten our darkness
protect us
from perils of night
~
beside the singular stone
our voices waver
pause on the syllable
explore the octave
and the chant moves on
~
relief of a quiet night
perfect end to imperfect day
fearless expectation
of the grave
~
they too were brothers
to him, Torkel
we, Frisa, raise
this stone
ribbon of runes
cut by Torbjörn
the cross by his blade
~
brighten our darkness
hide us beneath
the shadow of thy wings
~
God bless him and keep him
Guđ hialpi and hans
~
© Jane Tims 2005
not a rune stone, of course, but a grave marker in a New Brunswick cemetery
my ideal niche
I have a picture of the late Tasha Tudor, the children’s author and illustrator, standing in her hermit’s weeds, clutching an armload of branches for the woodstove. Her lined face and straightforward relationship with nature exactly describe my wished-for niche.
I imagine myself as living with the land, growing all my own vegetables, foraging for food I cannot grow, living off the ‘grid’ with solar panels and wood fires, pumping my water from a dug well, patching my roof with pitch from the spruce trees… you are getting the picture. I do few of these things. My garden is pitiful, no sensible fish would attach to my line, and I have to keep a few litres of water in containers in case my electricity-dependant water pump succumbs to a power outage.
The niche I actually occupy is satisfactory when measured by many standards. It falls short of my ideal, but I am not willing to sacrifice. Even in the simple matter of the woodstove, I have only achieved partial success. We have pleasant fires in the autumn when the days are getting cold. But in winter, I rely on electricity to keep me warm.
wood gathered for winter
If my ideal niche is not possible, I do find joy in the bits I have achieved. I think of my successful row of beans, my healthy crop of mint, my knitting of socks in winter, and my walks in the grey woods, as a ‘close approximation’ of my ideal. I admit that I would like to leave my cosy electricity-dependant niche, and acknowledgement frees me to stay.
'Odd Socks' ... I knit them all winter...
I accept the truth … the ideal niche is a difficult goal. It takes determination and stamina to achieve.
a close approximation
~
Dolbear’s Law states: the number of chirps a cricket makes in fifteen seconds, plus forty, is a close approximation of the temperature on a summer night
~
warm September evening
I sit on the stoop consider
the timid wind chime the silent screen door
the unmetered patter of rain
~
soothing after a month of dry
~
the rain picks a song
over stones on the river
dolce vivace
dolce
vivace
~
where does my mantra take me?
~
away, to the songs of a summer night
at the back door on the concrete step
where crickets sing from cracks in the sidewalk
~
strung together patio lanterns
notes from a Spanish guitar
the insect refrain
~
behind me light from the kitchen
potatoes at boil the voice of my sister
the tap of her shoe
~
beside me the metal rail rings at my touch
cool on a night so hot and so dry
the pavement cracks
~
out in the yard the insect chorus
~
dolce
vivace
~
molto vivace
~
chirps
too quick
to count
~
Published as: ‘threshold’, Spring 1997, Pottersfield Portfolio 17 (3)
(revised)
© Jane Tims
'summer night at the back door'
returning to the shore
Each summer we try to include a visit to the seashore in our vacation plans. This year we explored the coast of Maine and discovered Acadia National Park. Last year, we followed the South Shore of Nova Scotia, stopping at its many public beaches and byways.
The seashore is a magical place. One of the beaches we visited in 2010 was Crescent Beach, near Lunenburg. At the far end of the two kilometre long beach was an outcrop of calcareous rock. This rock had been eroded and pitted by wave action over the millennia. At one spot, the erosion had worn a small hole in the rock, just big enough to put my finger through. For that moment, I was wearing the whole earth as a ring on my finger!!
wearing the world on my finger!
The other magical aspect of the seashore is its changeability. In 2009, we followed the Eastern Shore of Nova Scotia and made our second visit to Tor Bay, near Larry’s River. When you stand on the beach at Tor Bay, the energy of the ocean and the drama of the wave action occupies all of your senses, all of ‘self’. The drama had also changed the beachscape significantly between our two visits, shortening its depth and exposing rocks I had not seen on our first visit.
It was as though we were not in the same place at all, but remembering a fable about a beach we had once known. No matter how hard we tried, we could never return to the same beach we had visited before.
fable
~
1.
~
stone
eroded
~
the fragments
layered by water
forged by fire
thrust and folded
into
stone
~
2.
~
this morning
the moon is real
sculpted in wavefoam
smooth as a pebble
random in the clatter
~
real
not a fable of moon
~
the rocks are folded
half-buried in sand
~
on the shore
an igneous man
in his lap a puddle of water
salt crystals
and stars
~
a quartz river
seams his forehead
~
real
not a fable of river
~
3.
~
I place quartz stones
too heavy for the gulls
to gather
~
these stones will shine
in darkness
a long line leading home
~
4.
~
I choose small stones
with smooth and shine
~
stones like eggshell
or potatoes pushed
into ground
~
pearl buttons
turned by a clumsy hand
rice pelting the window
lanterns shining in the dark
~
5.
~
at midnight
I run to the shore
the white pebbles
gather me to the moonlight
a dotted line
on the asphalt road
~
6.
~
the pebbles do not
wait for me
they fade
and scatter
roll over and over
lost
among so many
common stones
~
the wave edge
unravels behind me
~
7.
~
the path home is a fable
not real
~
in my lap is a pool
salt water
and stars
~
© Jane Tims 1998
Crescent Beach near Lunenburg, Nova Scotia
autumn along the brook
Behind our house, in the grey woods, is a narrow little brook. It is not much to look at but I like its simplicity. This brook has steep sides (a cross-section like a ‘U’) and grassy banks, and it creates charming little riffles over fallen logs. Until this moment, I have never realised … we have not given this brook a name!
I walked to the brook last Monday evening, to see how high the water was and to look for signs of the changing season.
Autumn is showing its color everywhere. Some of the ferns have turned yellow with the first frost…
There are fallen red maple leaves on the trail and in the brook…
And the berries of Bunchberry (Cornus canadensis L.) are brilliant red…
- ‘red berries’
end of summer
~
on the path along the brook
one leaf bleeds into water
in town the walks are stony
chaff of linden, seeds
dry ditches overflow with flowers
~
I shrug
(no matter
summer is ended)
~
yellow rattle
pods and grasses
rehearse an incantation
wind sulks in corners of the shed
warmth and sun
paint the orange of pumpkins
knit winter mittens
~
I gather signs of autumn
asters, windfalls, flocks of red wings
frantic in the alders
acorns, hollow galls from oak
~
Orion peeks above the trees
time forgotten, found
and summer with rain never ends
~
I ask for rain
(arms loaded with everlasting)
~
© Jane Tims 2010
'oak leaves and acorns'
the color of niche
What are the color characteristics of niche? Are humans the only species to prefer certain colors for their spaces?
Other species also have color preferences. The best example I know is the preference of insects for color in their interactions with plants. Some insect pollinators, for example, prefer certain colors over others. Bumble bees have been shown to prefer the color purple. Also, flowers appearing monochromatic to us may be perceived quite differently by insects since they also see in the ultraviolet range of the spectrum. Some flowers, such as the yellow Evening-Primrose (Oenothera biennis L.), have ‘runway markers’ on their petals, to help insect pollinators to find their way to the nectar-producing parts of the plant.
- Evening- Primrose (Oenothera biennis L.) Under uptra-violet light, the central area of the inner petals shows dark ‘runway markers’… if you look closely, you can see some vein-like variation in the yellow of the inner petals
Knowing about color-preference in insects can help us to spend more time in the out-of-doors. Science has shown us that mosquitoes prefer black or other dark colors over lighter colors. Greens, yellows and white are the colors to wear to reduce your attractiveness to mosquitoes.
An early paper on color preference of insects is A.S. Packard, 1903, ‘Color Preference in Insects’, Journal of the New York Entomological Society 11: 132-137. This paper is over one hundred years old but has charming anecdotes of the color preferences of houseflies, butterflies, moths and other insects. It is available on-line at:
http://www.jstor.org/stable/25003044
In the article, Packard reports mosquitoes are attracted to navy-blue, dark red and reddish brown.
My favorite color is definitely green, followed closely by orange. I also find I associate these colors strongly with the seasons: autumn with orange, summer with green. Although I would not select red as a favorite color, I notice my house, not at all color-coordinated, has definite red accents in almost every room.
What is the preferred color of your niche?
Chinese lanterns (Physalis alkekengi L.) from a friend's garden... also called Bladder cherry or Japanese lantern
orange peel
~
orchard bees
wings of monarch or viceroy
citrus oil, flames spurted in dark
weightlessness of Chinese lanterns, evolution of green
~
jack-o-lantern grin on the compost heap
taste and root-thread trace of carrot
pumpkins on the vine
~
furniture polish stain
on an empty page
~
nothing rhymes
with orange
~
© Jane Tims 2011
a trail through grey woods
In our grey woods, an old trail follows the top of the slope, between the trees. It takes constant care to keep it free for walking. The spruce are old and every winter takes down a new raft of trees. My husband works at it constantly, cutting a way through the fallen logs and filling the hollows with wood chips.
When I walk there, I always find something I haven’t noticed before. Yesterday I made three discoveries:
A maple seedling sprouting in the cut surface of a maple tree felled for firewood…
A pair of bracket fungi on a fallen birch log (notice the shadows of fern leaf on the surface of the fungi)…
And various other types of fungi, sprung up after the rain…
In each case, the discovery was about hope – life from death, new growth from decay.
The woods have so many lessons to teach… I only need to slow down and look closely to learn.
slow walk in the woods
~
1.
more to woods
than a path between trees
slow pace
check perspective
~
2.
discover texture on trunk
scar and indentation
detail in the duff upset
by careless feet
~
note how light scatters
through pollen and powder
now sifts slantwise, shadow
on brackets of fungi
light from lichen
chandeliers
~
3.
slow beat and breath
match the stealth of forest, realise
branches gather rain
an hour before they weep
~
© Jane Tims 2005
crossing the river #2
In the 1970s, when my husband and I had only known each other for about a month, we were stranded for three hours on a ferry that quit half way across the river. The ferryman just shrugged, said he’d be back, and rowed away in the lifeboat.
We were desperate. For an hour, we skipped stones across the water. I don’t believe there was a single stone or pebble or grain of sand left on the ferry deck! We talked, of course, and probably found out how much we had in common. We’ve been together for almost 33 years.
When the ferryman returned, he brought some sandwiches his wife had made for us and the news we would have to wait two more hours for the Coast Guard to come up the river from Saint John to tow us to the shore.
Needless to say, we were eventually rescued. And I have never experienced a ferry breakdown again.
some of these would be excellent for skipping
skipping stones
~
collect your stones
select for flat and smooth
stones with knowledge
embedded flight and float
pile your stones
~
hold your hand
like this, curl your finger
round the stone, flat curve against
your palm, coddled
cover of a book
you never want to end
~
swoop back
arm and index finger
parallel to shore, release
count
the
skips
the way
water
flirts
with edge
of skim
and
sinking
stone
~
concentric rings
connect and scatter
~
select another stone
~
© Jane Tims 2011
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