Tired of same old endings in which hopes are slaughtered and tragedy and insanity win.
Raised by the bottle, learned to set standards low – still afraid of heights – have fallen as the ground beneath my aspirations crumbled – a certainly under alcohol’s rule.
Tired of same old endings in which self is battered by indifference and ego loses the battle for control.
Mother’s denial a coping mechanism negating children’s need, obliterating safety, disregarding long-term damage; even in older years, when we tried to get her out, were powerless against his manipulation, his eternal imprinting.
Tired of same old endings in which the heroine, resources spent succumbs to the madness, suicides.
Want to believe in a future, greener, hopeful, in which relationships are fulfilling, and life goals are supported; in which encouragement is not the ploy of deviousness, and personal best is rewarded, sustained.
Tired of same old endings haunting my dreaming hours unforgotten in waking dreams.
Is it the robin whose morning song so sharp and crisp awakens me in this enchanted place, or the warble of Juncos whose hooded faces delight as they forage between the dried, curled aftermath of a cold Winter, now pushed aside by new life sprouting? The absence of raindrops on tin roof offers promise that the sun might appear today, the buds on the oak trees as anxious as I for the warmth.
I raise the window shades to reveal the lush green of Douglas firs, the walls that divide us from our neighbours: nomads like us in the quest to commune with a simpler way of life. We are metal boxes tucked within green pockets, quiet souls hushed by the grandeur of the forest we currently call home, reticent to disturb the wildlife that also grazes here – squirrel, fox, and rumours of cougar. Occasionally bear. We are skirted on one side by marsh, a lush welcoming for geese and goldeneyes; and on the other by ocean, where seagulls and terns claim driftwood as perches. It is the raven who is master here. Large wings casting shadows, the thrumming call – sometimes belligerent, sometimes a purr – a reminder that this land is theirs, that the totem poles dotting the island are a testament to royalty.
Offshore, seals roam in masses encouraged by the schools of trout and halibut, and soon the salmon run. Orcas gather in semi-circular formation, readying the hunt. Spring is a time of proliferation – abundance after the Winter chill.
Arise, old woman Nature evokes new rhythm – Spirit wants to dance.
(Vancouver Island first appeared here April, 2018. It is an early attempt at a haibun. I am linking up to my weekly challenge: trees. Image my own.)