It’s been an amazing day already and it’s barely 11am.
So after one of my father’s parents died (I forget which one) about ten to twelve years ago, I discovered that the woman I had called “Grandma” my whole life was not my biological grandmother. My biological grandmother abandoned her family when my dad and his siblings were tiny children, probably around 1954 or ’55. Dad really didn’t want to talk about her much, but I did learn her name and the fact that she had sung on the radio with my grandpa when they were young. There were a couple of rumours about why she left, but I didn’t really make the time to substantiate any of them.
Fast forward to this year, when my dad died, and as you can understand I started to get curious. I had learned that she had been very young when she and Grandpa had gotten married, young enough that she could have still been alive today. With the help of a friend of Mum’s who likes to do geneaologies, I got the chance to see not only my great-grandmother’s obituary from 1976 but my grandmother’s obituary from 2007. I was very disappointed, but it said that she still had living family. I was determined to try and contact them once I received the full report.
Mum’s friend is still working on it, but the other day she actually sent me a phone number for my great-aunt, Grandma’s younger sister, who is living in Ottawa. She cautioned me against being too excited (“She’ll be quite elderly now, and maybe the number is out of date” – since when is 79 ‘quite elderly’? Ah ha ha) but I didn’t care. I phoned the number this morning…and got an answer.
We had an amazing talk about Dad (whose nickname was apparently “little sugar man”), Grandma, and the family. One of the family rumours, confirmed by my stepmother, was re-confirmed by Aunt Betty: Grandma was a lesbian. She left her family and hitchhiked all the way from Whitehorse, where Grandpa was stationed with the air force, to Vancouver, and worked her way slowly back to Ottawa. She never remarried and never changed her name. She also played the guitar, sang, and yodelled like a boss.
The craziest part of the whole story? Aunt Betty (and probably Grandma too, as they lived together for a time) lived within ten minutes of where Mum and I lived when we were in Ottawa.
I also received an email address for my second cousin and her daughter, and am hoping to one day actually see a photograph of my grandma.
This journey has been unbelievable. I hope to one day in the very near future go and visit, because according to Aunt Betty, I am “always welcome.”
-Clarity
My third Christ Church Cathedral concert will take place on May 16th, and this time I’m bringing friends!
This July I will join the Student Christian Movement on a trip to El Salvador to study South American liberation theology with Jose “Chencho” Alas, a personal friend of Oscar Romero. This concert is a fundraiser to help cover costs for this unique opportunity to enrich my ministry for the benefit of the whole church. Admission will be by donation, with bonus gifts for minimum donations!
Join me and special surprise guest musicians for a fun evening of original music and covers.
I’m really looking forward to the show, even though my heart is heavy because I had hoped to have my Dad playing with me as one of my special guests. There are several songs that I will dedicate to his memory (and really, the whole show is a tribute).
I hope to see you there!
-Clarity
My father was a mountain
and I a goat
neither speaking the same language
but aware
every path known, yet unstudied
simply etched
into the flesh
burned and bronzed
in yellow eyes
a goat loves her mountain:
she knows it chose to give her life
fresh lichen and bloody berries
spring up unbidden, and treasured for that
a goat loves her mountain:
a quiet companion to fears and tears
an open stage for dancing and laughter
a goat loves her mountain
but there are paths unwalked
vistas un-visioned
streams unseen
which water strange plants
both sour and sweet
deep wounds in fragile dirt
and stretches of virgin rock
that will still stand
untouched
when the sun runs down like a ragged fuse
and all things explode into naked nothing
my father was a mountain
and I a goat
I search simple stones
I pare perfect grass
I bleat into chasms
I hunt
for a hidden heart
-Clarity
“Oh, all the money that e’er I spent,
I spent it in good company;
And all the harm that e’er I’ve done,
Alas! It was to none but me.
And all I’ve done for want of wit
to memory now I can’t recall,
so fill to me the parting glass.
Good night, and joy be with you all.
Oh, all the comrades that e’er I had,
they’re sorry for my going away;
And all the family that e’er I had
would wish me one more day to stay.
But since it falls unto my lot
that I should rise and you should not,
I’ll gently rise and I’ll softly call:
‘Good night, and joy be with you all.'”
(“The Parting Glass”, trad. Celtic, lyrics slightly adapted by me).
I managed to sing this at my Dad’s funeral yesterday. I only wish I had gotten the chance to teach it to him.
-Clarity
it is
to live
without why
thrown into a great poverty of purpose
the wide-open abundance
of now
the rose that smiles at autumn
the tears at the beauty of birth
washing the dead
holding
their hands in yours
expect nothing and prepare
to receive everything
-Clarity
it was a far country at first
a far and lonely country
but oh so
beautiful
windswept and wild
untamed but full
of peace
i stood in a deep valley
looked up at mountains that reached
to run their fingers through clouds
caress eagles
gather stars
silence was true here
a green silence full of a deep
vibration. my feet thrummed
with the heart of this land
this land lived
for the infinite
i knew
it could never be conquered
only loved
longed for
like an ocean
the bricks that catch the water
of a dawning life
the road home
the earth that embraces you
at your end
(and oh there was an end
to everything i had ever been
and everything i could have been
this Earth embraced my darkness
this Ocean drowned my griefs
this Sun burned away my sins
like morning fog)
then one night
i saw my sweet country
laid to waste
green earth i longed to walk split:
such a terrible abundance!
running red
with thirty-nine rivers
sky turned black
earth caught fire
horror, ashes
green silence
turned grey
i found twelve deer that walked this country
huddled and trembling
streaked crimson
from thirty-nine rivers
deep dry wells for eyes
thirty-nine tears
i will wait
this land is my heart
but that is not why i wait
i wait because at dawn
i heard the sweetest voices:
three larks
flawless harmony
thirty-nine rivers ruffled
with morning wind
and now, from each
thirty-nine shoots
of green
-Clarity
I lost you among leaves
running through orchards
wholly painted
by sun
I lost you among curled shavings
watched in the workshop
pulled splinters
from tiny fingers
I lost you among lilies
you scattered birds
with your laughter
I lost you in me
My name
My work
My wonder
My fear
I lost you
Who will scatter the birds now?
all fallen silent
in the rain of your absence
Who will bring me home
from arthritic nighttime wanderings?
Who will be me
when I am no more?
Who will rise my sun?
-Clarity
there were no hydrangeas in the garden
outside the walls of Old Jerusalem
but had there been
they may have covered him
could we have buried him in blossoms
and kept him
from their spears?
would those branches weave themselves into knots
airful shields
to cover his head
sweet coffee skin
not prophet, nor patriarch
man
that i love and have loved
or would all attempts unravel
branches curl open
reveal his face
unafraid
like marble
is this my yeshua
or david?
before these hired hatefuls
false goliaths
white blossoms
keep watch over silence
would they burn away
in his sudden blaze
-Clarity
They were happy then.
We were given wine
wherever we walked.
Our words were mustardseeds
passed from village to village
his stories grew
wild
Thousands came to nest in them and stare
crow-voices all together talking
In the morning we found him quiet
Sick?
Just tired.
Why?
Never you mind for now.
Â
Passover is uncomfortable
Something is missing
Why do we need to remember?
Find me a garden, he simply says.
I’d like to stop
by a quiet place.
-Clarity
PS Sorry this was a day late, guys. :)
The one
stumbling from the wilderness
was not the one
we had known,
soft-spoken carpenter’s son:
thin and ragged at hem and hairline;
hands, feet, forehead
scratched by brambles,
eyes haunted and lovely
voice rusty from disuse,
but somehow full
of quiet power.
Sitting at table,
eyes fixed on palm fronds burning
in the hearth.
The loaf and his cup
untouched
contemplated.
His mother took his hand
and said
“Sonâ€
then silent
waiting
eyes full
their bracketing lines
so deep.
His answer is soft and cool as water.
“I have to go away.â€
She squeezes his hand.
“When will you return?â€
Their eyes meet
The silence
unravels
for days.
-Clarity
