breathe with me

breathe with me
and hear me sigh.
your hands, love-
they know the way.
so let them lead you
to heaven's gate.

breathe with me
and hear me sigh,
poised to wait
through godly mist
for my soul's companion to,
at last,
enter.

this is not the first time, dear one.
nor will it be the last.

breathe with me and hear me sigh.
love's an everlasting breath,
and i am yours to take.

to know where we belong

The bread box is the only visible reminder that remains of her mother. With fading blue paint and the word ‘Bread’ in slightly crooked white letters across the front, it sits on the counter in expectation of the hands that crafted it. Only, they never come. They are floating somewhere in the sea of white, just beyond the pane of glass that separates heaven from earth, from what can be seen and heard from the unimaginable.
As she looks out into the wind and snow and the trees barely visible behind the white curtain of the storm, Mary Sarah is reminded of all the mornings, so much like this one, spent over breakfasts of toasted homemade bread and whatever jam was opened. As the wind tore in from the ocean, gathering strength and speed as it flew across the endless expanse of ice that merged into the horizon, they would sit at the table in their tiny kitchen, gathering warmth from the wood-stove, sipping hot tea and not speaking. They would bask in the silence that is only possible when two people are so connected that words lose their meaning and speech becomes unnecessary. The house would creak and groan as the wind hurled itself over and around where it had stood for generations, and yet the stillness of mother and child remained undisturbed.
Sometimes the radio would play one hundred year old fiddle tunes in between news of road conditions and school cancellations. Mary Sarah would wait in fervent expectation to hear that the school would be closed for the day, so she would not have to venture out with her father in their ancient tractor. Instead, she and her mother would plan a day of making bread and braiding rugs from old wool coats still hanging in the porch. Whatever time was left would be spent around the farm at her father’s side, repairing damage caused by the storm to fences and barn doors ripped off their hinges by the angry, sea-formed wind.

Her mother would sit with her prayer book until the day’s offerings had been made, then move to whatever task needed to be done. It may be putting the final touches on a quilt or knitting another pair of wool socks to keep her husband’s feet warm as he tramped over frozen fields to attend to whatever chore demanded of him that day. If there was school, she would give her daughter an apologetic smile and reach over and pat her hand to remind her to get going. Mary Sarah would reluctantly prepare for the ride with her father in their ancient tractor. He would drive her through the depths of snow along the long back road that connected them to the main street of their tiny village. With no heater, the ride would be long and cold and uncomfortable. Her father would drill her on the details of the MacMorrill family history. His people were of the first to settle their tiny coastal community, something that he made sure Mary Sarah did not forget. For him, there was nothing as important as knowing where one belonged.
As the tractor rambled awkwardly over drifts and icy potholes beneath the snow’s surface, he would recite the Lord’s Prayer in Gaelic and have her repeat it, interrupting her whenever she was off in her pronunciation. If there was time, they would sing one of the many sweet sounding songs, in the language of their ancestors, that he had taught her in her infancy. The sound of her soft soprano over her father’s deep baritone almost made up for the fact that soon she would be at school, where she did not have many friends and couldn’t wait for the day to end so she could return home.


But things are different now.

There are no quiet breakfasts of homemade bread and jam on stormy winter mornings.

No more heritage lessons and harmonies over the roar of the tractor as it plows through snow covering the road on which they live.

Her father has lost interest in everything, including her

Mary Sarah watches the snow swirl into angel-like creatures that hover in stillness for the briefest of moments until being swept away into nothingness by a sudden surge of wind. For an instant, she imagines herself being carried away to wherever heaven must surely exist, and where her mother now dwells. Mary Sarah is standing in the exact spot she was when she died, when a blood vessel in her brain suddenly burst and she was gone before she even hit the floor. It happened one afternoon in the early days of September. While she had been in school, her father had been finishing up the last load of hay with a few neighbouring farmers. They came in expecting to find her mother’s gentle smile and homemade soup, but were met with her lifeless body instead. At least, that’s how Mary Sarah thinks it went. No one would tell her. Certainly not her father, who retreated to a state of alcoholic depression before the coffin was even in the ground.

She had pieced together the story from bits of conversations she had heard between adults, at the parish hall after the funeral mass and then at their house when a few relatives and close friends had returned with them and stayed well into the night. Mary Sarah could not remember another time when their tiny kitchen had seen so many guests at once. A quiet couple, her parents rarely had people over, preferring to keep to themselves. They were an older pair who had married late in life and were not expecting to have any children until Mary Sarah happened.
And so it had always been just the three of them, belonging to each other and to their home.

She hears him cough from the next room. It is morning, but he will not move until well into the afternoon. Or so she assumes. When he wakes, he will reach for the bottle that sits half empty beside the faded chesterfield where he lays and slowly raise the bottom until the remains have trickled down his all too welcoming throat. Once, he spent a full two days just lying there, staring at the ceiling. Not knowing what else to do she laid down on the floor beside him, looking upwards and wondering what it was that held his stare. Maybe he too was wondering about heaven and where it had taken her. Was she there, hovering over them with them with her delicate smile? Could he see her? Is that why his eyes never shifted to look at his daughter, who was still living and unsure of where she now belongs?

Today, there will be no school. The radio tells her to be advised of the treacherous road conditions and lack of visibility. The storm is worsening now, the wind is hurling itself over the great expanse of the Atlantic , coming towards them at a ferocious speed. Though she would rather stay in and curl up with one of her mother’s favourite books away from where her father attempts to sleep off yet another losing battle with the drink, their very survival demands that she venture outside and tend to their herd of beef cattle that, come spring, will supply enough income to see them through another year’s worth of seasons.

As Mary Sarah prepares for the onslaught of cold and wind that will meet her as soon as she opens the door, she is once again reminded of how things have changed since her mother’s untimely death. Her father never missed a day in the barn, never neglected his herd and certainly never expected his eleven year old daughter to look out for signs of shipping fever and black leg. He was a tower of strength, with broad shoulders that have withstood decades of hard physical labour. Standing over six feet tall, he could unroot a fence post with one hand and lead an obstinate steer onto a cattle truck as if it was a dutiful and willing puppy dog.
Wishing she had even a little bit of her father’s physical prowess, Mary Sarah steps outside. Just as she anticipated, she is met with blinding snow caught up in an icy wind that renders her breathless. The door, with its handle still in her hand, is taken by the force of the storm and in one fluid motion pulls Mary Sarah with it, slamming against the side of the house. It takes all of her strength to pull it closed again.

She steadies herself against the wind as she begins the short walk to the cattle barn. Since it is coming from the direction of the sea, which is located just beyond the back side of the house, it soon sends Mary Sarah running as it pushes violently against her back.
Arms flailing, Mary Sarah is propelled straight ahead to the side of the barn. Her arms reach out to slide the bock of wood that keeps the door closed ahead so that she can pull the awkward plywood door towards her just enough to slip inside. If she had looked back from whence she came before accepting the safety that the barn offered, Mary Sarah would have been dismayed to realize that the house is no longer visible against the been descending upon them.

Once inside, Mary Sarah is overcome by an expected draft of bitterly cold air. Scanning the walls of the barn she soon discovers that one of the double doors that face the north end has been ripped away from the force of the wind. Most of the animals have congregated in the opposite corner of the pen, relying on each other for warmth against the cold cruelty of the weather. Unwilling to risk the chance of losing any of the herd to the elements, she must think quickly to solve the problem of the open door, before the animals become spooked by the wind and decide to bolt.
With the agility of a cat she jumps over the metal rods that stretch from one end of the pen to the other.

The manure is piled high as her father has ignored the need to scrape the floor’s surface on a regular basis. Trudging through it is not nearly as difficult as fighting the raging storm happening beyond the safety of the barn’s structure, though, and she welcomes the break. Petite like her mother, Mary Sarah is not built for such strenuous labour but ignores the warnings of her heaving chest. The risk of losing animals to the storm is too high. She will have to go back outside and search for something to use to block the open doorway.
This time, though, she is prepared for the force of what she will face and braces her small body for the onslaught of snow and wind and rain that will attempt to overpower her. If she can get around to the other side of the barn she can drag one of the old water barrels and use it to fool the herd into thinking the passageway
is blocked. Should they get spooked and run, they will assume that the way outside is unclear and simply circle back into the barn.
When she steps back outside and begins to make her way to where she knows the barrel stands, something in the distance catches her attention. In the brief moments when the wind is not quite as fierce and the snow not as blinding, her eyes are drawn to a heap lying on the ground. Every so often, there is a slight movement and Mary Sarah knows it can only be one thing.
Unaware of the danger caused by the blinding gust of snow that intermittently rips its way across the field where the cow lay, Mary Sarah lets go of the barn and attempts to make her way towards the shadowlike form that is slowly being covered. This time, her body must fight the oncoming wind that is determined to send her back for each progressing step she makes.

When she reaches her destination Mary Sarah, with a sinking stomach, realizes she is indeed right. The cow had escaped through the opened doorway and, from the shock of what met her when she reached the open field, was sent into labour. Falling to her knees, Mary Sarah makes her way to the back end of the suffering animal, using her hands to feel for the calf. Relief floods over her as she is able to grab a hold of the front hooves, which tells her at least it is facing the right way. The mother’s breath, though, is coming slower and slower. If the calf is not born soon both mother and child will be lost.
Wishing she had paid more attention during other births on the farm Mary Sarah resigns herself to the fact that she is all alone and responsible for bringing this life into the world, regardless of the turmoil that surrounds them at the moment. Moving to a sitting position, she uses her weight as leverage to pull the calf all the way out of its mother, surprised at the ease at which it comes closer to her with every pull.

She knows, though, that the exposure to such extreme conditions will surely continue to threaten the calf’s life once it is fully born. What’s more, its mother will have to be coaxed to a standing position and led back to the barn to nurse its offspring if there is to be any hope of its survival. How she will do this Mary Sarah does not know, but there is no time to think for the calf is almost completely exposed. One final pull and…
There!

Exhausted, Mary Sarah falls backwards with the newborn still in her arms. Suddenly she is aware that they are lying on a frozen field in a heap of snow that is being fired at them with tremendous force as the wind refuses to die down. She can feel the calf’s wet fur quickly turning to ice, and knows she must get up and get them both to the safety of the barn or they will surely perish.

Her strength escapes her and she is tempted to simply lie there and let the storm pass over them, ignoring the danger this decision would surely bring. She imagines her mother leaving this earth and entering heaven with all the other angels and saints, her new place of belonging. For the briefest of moments, she thinks she sees her, with her sweet, serene smile and waves of red hair, streaked with gray, framing her face. With her eyes closed, Mary Sarah begins to recite the Our Father in Gaelic, just as her father taught her, hoping for some kind of miracle in this sea of icy emptiness created by Mother Nature.

Just as she begins to feel herself drifting into sleep, Mary Sarah is
lifted from the ground and carried away. Against the wind and passed angels of snow, the strength of his imposing strides is no match for the wrath of the storm. Once inside, he lays her on the faded chesterfield and disappears into the whiteness that has suddenly become unearthly.

When he returns, he is her father once more.

“Mother and child are fine”, he whispers. “Go back to sleep”.

And proceeds to sing her a song in the old language as sleep finally overcomes her.

They are back to where they belong. Father, Mother and Child.

the owl

i met an owl outside my window.

who, who are you to stay gone so long?

i've been drifting in eyes like the waters of my dreams,

don't wake me. please, don't wake me.

the night is long but so is its ending.

his words, they soothe and mend,

a cerebral cure for an unquiet mind.

day will come. day will come.

the owl hears me too, i know.

Spruce Boards and Love

It begins in a moment. In this moment, my soul is reborn into the physical world from an alternate life that is neither ending nor beginning, but somewhere along the way from 'here' to 'there'. Yet I can't really say, for there are no words to describe the experience of being reborn, for who among us can really remember it? There is no memory, there are only reminders. The reminders are songs, and the music that carries them. Music transcends time, and proves to me that so do I. It is divine and it is my true home.

My father had a record collection that he had taken with him when he and my mother moved to Nova Scotia in 1975 from Quincy, Massachusetts. He listen to The Yardbirds, The Doors, The Rolling Stones, Otis Redding, Chuck Berry, Santana and most of the more popular bands of that era. When I was two (1984) our family television broke and, since there was no way to replace it immediately my three older brothers (aged 9,7, and 5) took to listening to Dad's records as a means of entertainment. He would come home from work to find them hopping around the living room to the sounds of Eric Clapton and Carlos Santana. Though I have no memory of this, I know that these were the sounds of my environment, and I am where as a child I always wanted to be - with my brothers. So there I am, before time in its linear form has grabbed a hold of my consciousness.

My early exposure to music, I think, helps explain the existence of a memory I have. Somewhere in time I am four years old and sitting on the floor in the room my brothers shared, where the family's only 'boom box' was kept. In it there is a tape that I keep rewinding so I can hear a song. This time it belongs to my mother, who has always sung in our church's choir. The tape is one that she has been given and the song is "Children of the Light", and it is the voices of children and it is so beautiful that I have to hear it again. And so I play it over and over, and as I grow and continue to move through this life it continues to play until it becomes the soundtrack of my soul, only I am not aware of this until thsi very moment, for there are other things that happen and take me away from this joy but, blessed friend that Time is, she allows me to go back and start again with this awareness, and so I do. And so I am.

I am six, and in school. My teacher brings us next door where we join the Grade 2s (I am in Grade 1) so we can practice for the Spring Concert. We will sing "Inch by Inch, Row by Row", and I am sitting and I can feel the hard scratchiness of the floor as I steady myself with one hand, sharing the words with a friend. In my mind, though, the lyrics take me to the garden in our yard at home, where I live with my dad as we plant rows of seeds and watch them grow, all summer long. He hands me the seeds and I know what to do, and we are as silent as the trees that surround us. How does this song know? I am not sure. Mrs. Beaton sits at her keyboard and, for a moment, as always, Time is still. My heart is at home.

I am eight, and we are driving from Cape Breton to upstate New York for my uncle's wedding. There is another brother on the scene now, and I am outnumbered 4 to 1. Not terrible odds, but not exactly great either. My oldest brother has control of the radio. He is fifteen and of course unsure of himself, but knows that music helps. He is not sure why, but he knows it helps. He has a friend he sits with at the back of the school bus who has long fluffy hair and names of heavy metal bands scratched into the back of his faded jean vest that he cut the arms off because he must have just felt like it. There are names like AC/DC and Anthrax, Metallica and Black Sabbath. My dad is driving, and they are talking about music, about what is good and what is not, and they both wished the radio station back home would 'turn up the good and turn down the suck', or something like that (Fubar). Finally they find a station they both like and it plays "Walk on the Wild Side" by Lou Reed and "Into the Great Wide Open" by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers and everyone is happy. Time is telling us something through these sounds that surround us, and for an eternity, we listen. We are still listening and loving, and it is continuous and beautiful and it never ends. It's as if those songs are on repeat, and no one wants to press stop. Not now, not ever. Time is blessed.

I am eleven and I see my first movie 'in theatre'. It is called 'The Lion King' and I am glad I am eleven and can process everything that is happening, and I thank Time for her infinite wisdom that kept me away for all those years. The music, more than anything, stays with me. "The Circle of Life" is perhaps the most profound piece of wisdom any of us can be given, and even better if we have the awareness to accept it as such. I didn't then but Time, again, has allowed me to go back and see it all again. And so that's the way it always was, and so that's the way it will always be. first compact disc I ever owned was the soundtrack to that film, and like every other song I have heard before or since, has become the soundtrack to this wonderful life that I find myself moving through.

By now, 1993, the family has graduated from its one lonely boom box and advanced to the technology of the day - my parents buy a stereo system with a five disc CD player, tape deck, tuner and radio, with speakers encased in faux wood, but still beautiful. When my parents aren't home, and even when they are, my brothers crank the Rolling Stones or Led Zeppelin, The Red Hot Chili Peppers, The Band, The Doors, or whatever they felt like hearing. The house shakes with the vibrations I feel every time I hear "Satisfaction" or "Kashmere". I tell you, there is nothing more comforting than music moving through walls made of spruce boards that have been aged with love, another generous gift that Time has bestowed upon me. And with me. Through me. Around me. I am there right now, and so are you. Are you happy to be here? I am. Continue with me, Friend. I am not quite done yet.

Eventually I leave my physical home for a new home, for University. I have my own dinky little CD player now and a measly collection of albums, but they are mine. I have Joni Mitchell and Lou Reed, Deana Carter and Janis Joplin, Bob Marley and TLC. I am as unsure of myself as anyone has ever been, not knowing anything but feeling everything all at once. I dream of writing and falling in love, but most of all I want to lighten their burden. My parents are struggling and it is hard to watch, hard to feel and hard to process in a way that is manageable. I leave, not really knowing what to say to the new people I must meet, thinking surely they will not be interested in anything I have to say? I leave, equipped with the music that holds the secrets of my very existence. At least I know THIS.

Here is where Time continues to be Kind. What else can Time be? I make friends through my music. They sit on my bed and we listen, they pour over the titles and they are excited because they have the same, or something similar. I find myself talking, something I do not expect. I assume that I would just stay quiet and watch, as I have always done. Time, though, has other ideas, and so I let her lead me. She is my guide and so I follow Her. She is knowing and so am I, for we can never be disconnected. Life is beautiful. And so is Death.

She leads me to a boy. A beautiful, brilliant boy who sits down and speaks his truth so honestly that I can not help but fall in love. He is unafraid of his voice, and there I sit paralyzed with fear because even though I have all these friends and am getting better at letting people know me I keep most of myself hidden. I file myself away and don't realize it until this very moment, when I hear his words and his voice goes right to my soul. Time tells me that I've heard it before, and she tells me to know more. I want to know more.

He likes me because I like Bob Marley and Jimi Hendrix. I tell how The Cure reminds me of my oldest brother and he listens, and it is beautiful to be heard. He plays and sound of his fingers moving across the fret board teaches me something new about music, which teaches me something about Time. Time is Life in the acoustic guitar, and the vibrations are glorious. I am home in a room made possible by spruce boards and love. And so I love him for taking me there. And he loves me. But Time has a plan. It is not what you think. It is much better. A profound gift. There is lots to know about love, you know. Time knows, and so do I, but only because I let Her teach me.

There is pain. He tells me stories and I feel the impact of their truth. My soul hurts. How? I know. A soul hurts because it doesn't know. Sometimes,it just doesn't know beauty and joy. It cannot find comfort and so it starts to fade, but the light never dies. the light can never die because as much as it knows of pain it knows that it can exist beyond it. Souls can withstand the bruises and travel to new and tremendous places. They can just go, and leave the sorrow behind. Souls can fly, look back, and wonder. Wonder at their own power. A power granted by Time, for Time and of Time. Out of Love. A musical love. Love is musical. He teaches me this, he who feels forgotten by it completely and it is a miracle. He teaches me about Love and I love him for it.

We are friends and I am blessed. He has to go, though. His Time and my Time are the same, but different. We separate but we will find each other again. My brother, I miss you. Can I tell you how I miss you? I miss your joy. I miss your presence. I miss the music you make, I miss your words. We will meet again though, Friend. If not in this life then in another one, for ours is a friendly bond that can't be broken. Forgive me? I forgive you. I will find you in song. Don't worry Love, I will find you in song. Time will make sure of it.

He leaves, and my soul hurts. It hurts for the souls of children who find themselves in pain after Time has played a seemingly cruel joke on them. It hurts because they will only only pain. How can I help them know more? To see beyond the sorrow and find joy, to one day say to Time Thank You for being so Kind. What can I do? WHAT CAN I DO? I have to do something. I something I can do. For them. For me. For him. For everyone. For souls existing right now. It is up to me. IT IS UP TO ME.

I think I stop the music, but it keeps going. It is going in my mind so fast that I can't hear it. It isn't frightening, but it has to stop. I call home and ask for help. And Time helps my mother know what to do. I meet her, and we ride together for an eternity. I see them all, and they are waiting for me. Famous families who make music, the future King of the entire world. It should be my dad, he's the real king. What an unjust world, not making my dad king. Where are you taking me? I don't want to go. I want to talk Bono first, please. You fucking morons, you know nothing. I have all the answers, just listen to me. Andrew, go get Michael. Go listen to the songs, you know the ones. Listen, and you will know. Smoke a joint, and you will know. You will know. You will know. You will know.

I wake up, and I know. I knwo I am in a hospital, and it is white all over. The ceiling, the walls, the floors, the sheets. I am surrounded by white, and it hurts my eyes. There is a nurse, now. Telling me to shower. I go through the motions, not understanding. I can't understand anything. And I am numb. What is happening? My thoughts feel like someone else's. I can't recognize them. I have memories of what may have happened, but my mind will not let me process them. How did I get here? And how do I get out? Not too fast, Time says. Slow down, Time says. You're moving through me too fast, Time says. It is not the speed at which you are meant to travel, dear one. You need to stop. Go home, and I will reveal it all to you. Go home, and simply be. Be in the rooms made possible by spruce boards and Love. Walk down the road that has always led you home, and will continue to lead you to Life and Love and Joy and all that I have made for you. Go home, and listen. Listen to the hymns of your childhood, the music of your soul. Listen, and be free.

You are bipolar, they tell me. You had what we call a manic episode, they say. Watch this video. See? This is YOU. This is who you are now. Don't worry, though. We have pills. You need to take them. Lithium will be your saving word, or all will be lost to you. Forever. Too much for you? It will take time. In time, you will understand. In time, you will see. Your parents are terrified, but they shouldn't be. We know. We have your answers. Trust us.

Time sends me a true saviour. She sends me Father. He prays, and I feel her presence. She is with me, she is with us. We three of us know. We three of us have the same truth, and it is not this one. It is not this fallacious label the world has flung at me because it does not understand Time, and it does not understand Love. Father knows, though. And Father believes. And so he prays, and I am comforted. He reveals a truth that my soul has always known and will continue to know. And now I know. Somewhere, someone is playing the guitar. She plays Amazing Grace and the beauty in the sounds reinforces my healing. We sit, her and I and the others, the other forgotten souls who know too much of the world that the world has become uncomfortable with their knowledge. We sit, and we listen. The music is magic. The music is Love. The music is Time. The music is Life.

She knows, and so do I. I leave this place for home and stay for an eternity. The world says I stayed for four years, and now I am here. I am here, and I am free. I am Life and I am Love and I am Joy and I am content to stay here. To move through Time at a pace that has already been predetermined by my soul. It tells me how to move and where to go, it takes me to places of profound beauty that leave me weeping. It brings me to friends that it has known for thousands of years. It tells me to teach. Teach what you know.

Teach what you know.

Life is Time and Time is Life and we are all Eternal. Music tells us this.

Eternal Life is upon us, Friends. Music is alive.

We Choose

I chose a tree
or did She choose me -
weeping in the silence that knows no end
we dwell in gladness,
Her and I,
for this moment that brought us to this one shared place.
We shake hands,
and hers are weathered -
yet there is something clean, and good, and pure beneath the wisdom of her years.
She knows the secrets of each man's soul.
We choose each other.
We choose.

You were there

Were you there when Morning broke my Mind wide open?
(I cleaned up the mess, remember? By way, you ruined my new shoes)

I know. And I am sorry.

Were you when Day told Morning to tell my mind to stay behind a while?
(I was behind the curtains, remember? They fluttered. You wondered why, there was no window open)

I know. I was so tired.

Were you there when Sound took over for Day before Morning?
(I was the one who turned the music on when you hit the wrong button, kept it going when you refused to listen)

I know. Pressing stop mindlessly. Now I remember.

Were you there when Night came around Morning when my Mind believed Time was changed forever, when thoughts kept crashing?
(I started the madness, dear one)

I know.

(You are Welcome)

where trees meet sky

today i thought of taking a walk with God where trees meet sky, and it all happened before i even opened my eyes.

and when they opened, they were weeping, because we were holding hands and I was speaking of where I'd been and where I wanted to go. And I got nothing but knowing smiles from the only One who Knows It All, who drew the map into my very soul.

And I heard the words: "Speak. Listen. And see how the door swings both ways in the same motion".

The door of perception.

Together, we sang the hymns of my childhood, and we are still singing.

We are still singing...