i have a tecret to sell
i am rying to tecall
but you thatter my shoughts
and dender me rumb

the words are a lottle list
the letters playing side and heek
fack and borth in my brain
i become chizzy from the dace

the formse attempts phramation
but my scrind is mambled
with unassembled buzzle pits
the persure for perfection

my jumbling is mumbled
missy and mexed up
yet what i’m taying is srue
my sear sear dir ______,

i yove lou

ridiculous quotes captured:

“there are too many fences in this world.”
-b

“acorns. think about it.”
-ree

“i love it when mankind tries to build a sidewalk and the trees say, ‘no!’”
-t

dirty old town…

this is the story of the four-hundred dollar weekend in dublin. it began weeks in advance when a hasty invitation and acceptance occured between tim and i, before we even knew each other, really; the epitome of spur of the moment. well, perhaps it was more pre-meditated on his part, but i was going off a whim essentially. so the flights were booked and i was stuck; but i was excited about it. i tried to convince him we should just sleep on the streets but he wasn’t going for it. so a hostel was booked; whatever, i shrugged. i was looking forward to an adventure.

plane; arrival; hostel.

friday: we hopped a wild, irish tour with an even wilder tour guide, saw bits of dublin and surrounding countryside—beauty—sheep and mountains, and then off to glendalough after a ridiculously expensive but satisfying lunch. we had about an extra half hour to work it off when the bus broke down near one of the guinness lakes. we also saw the houses of bono, daniel day lewis, and enya, (who “only makes an album every ten years because every time she starts singing she falls asleep.”) glendalough was lush, green, fresh, burnt orange, forest and foliage reflected in lucid lakes stippled with ducks, continuously fed by mountainous waterfalls over mossy rocks and vined trees, encircling the monks’ tower of defense and the little church of stone, crumbling, yet standing, strong still. it begins to rain, softly, misting, gently caressing and refreshing faces, glossing smiles, glowing and content, in kind contemplation, wondering at the world. it ends with a sleepy, lullabied journey back into the city. that night we watch juno: golden brilliance of the highest quality, and polish our evening off with a bit of piping.

saturday: the morning consisted of fickle showers and an extended breakfast, followed by six thousand and three footsteps o’er the city sidewalks, soaking wet, splashing through puddles in saint steven’s green, not much else to see. (pretty ponies prancing in the puddles…) we eventually wandered into a wee coffee shop, after tim horton’s failed us, where i downed a love-topped late and devoured the warmest, richest chocolate muffin. two games of pass the pigs was played. i won the first by one; tim won the second by a landslide comeback. then off we traipsed to the lighthouse, where we were warmly welcomed by marion, jane, jimmy, richard, mave… clothes downstairs; food upstairs; grateful homeless; sandwiches evaporate; rambunctious praise; dirty dishes; greasy floor; eyes smiling; hot tea; bagged leftovers; fond farewells; pie; orange feet; crocheted roses.

sunday: awoke on the tiny mattress to a hushed and anticipatory church. we laughed in a lulling fashion, getting ready for the day. people arrived; a lady named anne made us tea. souls trickled in: singles, pairs, families, all friendly and welcoming… betty; george; mark; ruba; pat and loretta mullen: the pastor and his wife who had freely given us the keys, the upstairs, access to anything, immediately claimed us for lunch. the church service was beautiful, a warm eclectic mish-mash of ethnicities and backgrounds, laid-back, genuine; heartfelt music, powerful preaching; pat spoke of jesus riding into the city on palm sunday and the implications of people’s expectations. one of the singers was an older man, blind eyes with bushy eyebrows, the words from every song memorised, ringing out in richness up to the rafters; glory be to God. we had a most delectable lunch: chicken, potatoes, veggies, followed by pumpkin cheesecake and coffee, mmm, black and bold. pat and loretta are two solid, solid christ-followers, normal human beings with a servant’s heart. there was an exciting connection sparked when pat began to speak of a conference he had attended concerning café culture, a movement where cafes and churches unite to create atmospheric evenings of coffee and cakes, painting and poetry, comedy and music, etc., an open place where people of any amount of faith can feel comfortable and unafraid, where barriers break down, relationships develop and grow, a conversation is initiated; a place where musicians can debut, experiment, connect with the audience who can relate to the same sort of struggles, perhaps finding ultimate salvation through a loving saviour; a place where art and music collide, a poetical culmination of the beauty God has given us to share through gifts and talents and love… the fellowship and conversation flowed as smooth as the coffee. afterwards, richard met us at the lighthouse and we walked down to the stadium, listening to him tell his story. there we joined in ‘arise dublin,’ a large rally of sorts, where we saw a lot of the same people we had met the day before. there were good things said, and it was encouraging in many ways, but not quite as meaningful as meeting real people in a dimly lit building that’s falling apart, yet continues to fill people’s stomachs and souls. we thanked richard and said our goodbyes; he pointed us in the right direction, and tim got us the rest of the way; tim always knew the way.

monday! gosh, every day held something incredibly different but incredibly wonderful. neither was better than either, but my goodness monday was beautiful, just glorious! the sun indulged us with some warm rays as we walked and walked and walked, in a surreal daze almost, along the craggy rocks which dance beneath the icy ocean that supplies the locals with a life of longevity, along the sunny streets where we were told to back away from the gate of bono, along the breathtaking cliffs of killiney beach where we stopped to have a lovely picnic of nutella sandwiches, and down to the shore itself, where we laughed with the waves and attempted to skip stones… sunset; rusted bike; damien rice; pipes; white tic-tacs; train.

tuesday we flew back just in time to do our presentation on as you like it.

the end.

(oh, and did i forget to mention that it was saint patrick’s day weekend?)

thoughts bent
crooked and wild
refusing to be hammered
straightened out
weaving and turning
spun ribbons of steel
knotted and tangled
wound tight
round the wheel
of circular thinking
an endless merry-go-round
with horses gone mad
a nonsensical circus
in despair I let go
releasing the reins
a mighty hand reaches down
down
into the chaotic hemisphere of my brain
gently pries apart the rusted metal
lovingly thrusts it into a furnace of flames
melting sparks
growing heat
rips through each particle
embers burn and pulsate
as these twisted tracks
are baptised in fire
and smoulder in a holy pain
the great hammer descends
with mighty mercy
each strike sends a shiver through the steel
a groaning
as it is shaped and reshaped
a perpetual process
back and forth
from the flames
to the fountain
pounded
pounded
again
and again
a divine thunderous rhythm
beating
building
echoing
until the Maker
has wrought the metal
pure and parallel
that my train of thought
may steer straight through

continued streams from lisboa:

…one of the few spots i have found solace in this bustling city of lisboa is on the rocks that encircle the bay, yet also seats the odd couple lost in their lip-locked love. i ignore them. a boy skips stones. a tattered book is being mulled over by a homeless man who downs a bottle of spirits with his other hand. the sun flits and floats, travelling from one mass of clouds to the next, playing hide-and-go-seek with the sea-gulls, taunting me as i struggle to retain a constant and comfortable temperature, laughing as i alternate taking off my sweater with putting it back on again. on. off. on. off. i have no idea what time it is, but it is warm… it is unnerving when the boy in mid-make-out opens an eye and locks it with mine. i laugh when a surging wave sends them soaking on their way. thank you, ocean.

…when surrounded by incomprehensible portuguese, except for the odd ‘obrigada,’ i end up mostly talking to myself, conversations confined within the soundproof skeleton of my head. sometimes it is soothing to be silent, though, to melt unnoticeably into the general throng of comers and goers, free to explore at will, up or left without consultation, getting lost and unlost on a whim…

…the poet’s hostel is perfect, tucked away in the heart of the city, offering a temporary home for nomads drifting through. the fellow travellers i’ve met whose journeys have synched up with my own are all incredibly and beautifully unique people, easy-going adventurers: a couple canadians, leanda who cooked me a delicious supper, people from italy, germany, austria, australia. and a couple of the french who drink their coffee out of a bowl… the breakfasts are delightful, however, after being warmly awakened by the sunshine and singing filtering in from the streets, being able to enjoy my tea and toast for as long as i like, unhindered by classes and train schedules, surrounded by paintings and mosaics; i am content…

…the days sort of organized themselves nicely for me, into continuously unfolding adventures involving a castle, manwell the italian photographer, a haircut, free hugs, the ancient city sintra, the coast of caiscais with the americans kim, becky and devon, going to see an Italian storyteller and going out to dinner with people of every nationality and becoming caught in the friendly cross-fire of cultures, seeing jesus christ superstar performed in portuguese and becoming the honourary granddaughter of a kind old man named mario who bought me coffee and linked my arm as he walked me home, riding in the number twenty-eight tram, reading in the sun till i was burnt bright red, nearly as red as the massive cloud of communists that swarmed the square…

though i truly loved my time in lisbon, charlbury became the proverbial carrot before my weary face, so cruelly close and yet so far as i made my way back through london and onwards; it beckoned me ‘home,’ and i have never been so glad to get off that train and plod up the hill to finally collapse into my bed.

excerpts from a journaling nomad passing the time in the airport:

…………………………..friday february twenty-third, two thousand and eight

he lifts high the black bag of coffee beans and i inhale greedily, hoping the sweet incense will placate my caffeine addiction for the moment, willing my eyes afire to stay open, as i sit in a completely unfamiliar airport, surrounded by completely unfamiliar people. one restricting shoe dangles precariously off my toes and i hope it doesn’t smell; the redness pulsates. the foot on the left has gotten ahead of the rest of me and fallen fast asleep. i attempt to read, but the pages are so potent, so packed, that my energy quickly wans, my eyes droop, and half the paragraph is missed; tis a predicament, for my soul is clammering for such poetic inspiration, but my brain isn’t awake enough to absorb it fully; the potential for powerful profundity is lost in my foggy state. my left foot awakens abruptly, painfully, all prickling pins and needles. the man ahead of me cracks his neck and i shiver in horror. a table of staff snacks cruelly tempts me as i stare dully at the crumby remains of my roast chicken sandwich, whole wheat. my camera’s battery is dead already and i haven’t even gotten on the plane. i am neither worried nor nervous to go to lisbon on my own. merely anxious. anxious to arrive… anticipating the unknown, the unexpected…


…knee deep? in over my head? truly, though, i think the majority of the time i am caught up consumed with rather shallow thoughts, as it were, a fascination with the slick rainbow oil that swirls surreptitiously on the surface of a puddle, as opposed to the dazzling microcosm of life, the miniature cities that may lurk beneath. i think far too often i skim over these subterranean secrets when i become distracted instead with the delicate kinetic painting sparkling on the surface… or i don’t know, maybe it’s the opposite… regardless, i get distracted easily…


…sometimes i will sit and sigh or sing scenarios in my sleep to the soundtrack of sigur ros…


…i pause mid-sip as i recall les mis. les mis! my masimmo late has been reduced to nothing but a foaming caramel puddle in the concave depths of a ceramic mug large enough for two handles, masking entirely my face so fatigued… the daughter of coffee, which is now drained; so too am i, but last night’s show was brilliant. regarded from the uppermost balcony, it seemed almost too perfect, too flawless, with its pre-arranged forms, pre-planned movement, notes of anticipated highs and lows, perpetually practiced dramatics. but they drew me in with the chilling power and beauty of their voices: trembling, groaning, soaring, whispering, to paint one of the most stunning stories of human struggle and courage. the stage floor held a large rotating disk almost continuously in motion; time spun on with actors weaving, turning; props sliding, rising; the orchestra resonated from the great bowels beneath. the pivotal scene of the candlesticks unfolded gleaming with God’s mercy and grace: the humble granting of a man’s freedom, a simple act that would affect countless links in the chain; eponine’s pain of unrequited love shown so bravely unselfishly, nearly unnoticed by the loves-truck Marius, the noble jean val jean, his strong, fatherly dedication, a man redeemed to rescue others, a story of love and loss and sacrifice; and the boy! sly and street-saavy, his life short-lived to a sad end, never knowing anything more than the filthy alleyways. perhaps he dies there fittingly then, a tragic testament to the horrific loss of innocent life. my heart wept. too cruel, i said. ahh and when eponine dies content that she is in marius’ arms, after she had delivered his note to cosette for him, i became overwhelmed with an incredulous pathos, allowing every sinew of sorrow to seep straight through my soul, sharing in the sweet and senseless passions, to partake in her pain, my ribs constricting the pulsating of my most emotive organ. breath in, in, sigh shuddering out. a part of me resents cosette for her beautiful ignorance; her ignorant beauty. it never seems as though she fully grasps the sacrifices that have been made for her. nevertheless, i was entirely swept up by it all; sad when the applause broke the spell.


nonsensical stream of consciousness:

…with my words i shall assail your imagination with a probing to paint, to create the most unfathomable, impossibly attainable beauty of art, perpetually perfecting, imperfecting, barely beyond your grasp, never neither constant nor content with the current status of slant and style, yet your mind’s eye will find its satisfaction in the simple act of careful construction, of reckless ruin. never will it remain the same in the next moment as in the former; under constant mutation, progression, erasing, fresh, full: raw canvas. with the same words your own individual vision, your creative magic will stand incomparable to the lady next to you on the bus, the man on his bicycle, the child flung into the air. each has the freedom to become encompassed in their own inimitable enchantment:

begin with the biggest blur of blue you can believe. hurl it into the heavens with all your strength, say a prayer, and watch it soar, stop suspended for a second, then sink, dissipating, evaporating, escaping any spectrum of colour. circular shots of satin purple follow, filling the sky, vibrato, pulsating strobe light, inward out and back again, from violet to rose, sky to tree, skipping leaves. a gaggle of green bees swarms buzzing by, each trailing a ribbon of red, yellow and orange, lighting the forget-me-nots on fire. a curtain of pale yellow washes down dripping, dawdling deliberately, a coat to conceal the chaos; fails in opacity. a second roaring layer thunders in like the tide, the glowing fireball melts, gliding over the ocean’s bottom, revealing red, rectangular rocks and teal sand glistening. two lovers are scuba-diving for sunken treasure. their figures spin and dance through flocks of fish clothed in scales of rose petals, their fins lit with thorns, their figures contorted by the water’s inconsistency. coral shivers in a cold, grape gelatine. bubbles pirouette in flawless ballet. a boat casts a shadow cross the deep. the lovers are drowning; their air-supply depleting; their faces turn a sickly shade of orange. the grateful shark bites and salty sea seeps blood, red, thick, darkening to black. gold Russian coins drop down from the surface. invert; reverse; flip it upside down. gold Russian coins are sprouting into flowers in a billowing field of indigo blue moss. a little girl and boy prance barefoot cross the subtle softness, snapping the stems and chipping the flowers into their large, wooden treasure chest.


…when i happen to be sitting on a stationary train and another hurtles ferociously past the vast windows, i frantically cover my face with a fan of fingers, for the metaphysical phenomenon, the illusion of movement, when in fact we’re frozen still, makes me dizzy, dazed, disoriented, sick.



airport sensory overload:

the sputtering hum of generators; the obnoxiously loud laughter of middle-aged women; low, deep-throated mumbles; buttons beeping; the rattle of carts; the pestering squeak of rolling suitcases; the flickering ticking of a light; a distant child wailing; quick, calculated clips of heels clopping cross the floor; security alarm activated; continuous unknown bleeping bombarding my sleep-deprived brain; i attempt to distinguish one language from another and fail at my own game.

artificial air tinged with astringent, coffee, and fast food.

bright yellows offset by royal blues against a backdrop of beige. the screen reads 14:11. one lone rectangular, green sign indicates the direction of the emergency exit. handsome irish boys stroll by. float by.

cold, uncomfortable chairs. head resting heavily upon my palm.

remains of mango linger. i search and find some leftover coffee as well. i should brush my teeth.

conclusion: boredom.

………………………………………………………..march 10 2008


a slightly paraphrased conversation on the tele with me mither:


hullo?

hey mom, it’s beth. i won’t be long; i just had a question.

we’re on our way home, what’s your question?

did dad add me to msn?

(aside) Daniel, did you add bethany to msn? (aloud) …yes, apparently.

(laughter) ok, that’s all i wanted to know.

ok, are you alright?

(laughter) oh i’m wonderful!

wonderful? why? are you in love?

(much laughter) no..

good marks?

(more laughter) umm, no...

why then?

um, church?

why? did you speak in tongues?

(loud laughter) no! ok mom, i’ll let you go, love you.

love you too.

ever feel the strong inner desire to write madly and endlessly on and on concerning all the conflicting thoughts and emotions within, a physical need to purge one’s heart of all cumbersome clouds and vulnerable joys alike, yet lacking all energy to do so? that is me in this moment. and has been for the past few days. i lack any drive to record and relate all recent events.

that’s not to say that there haven’t been things worth writing about. quite the contrary. and maybe that’s just it; maybe there’s too much. too many new thoughts. new ideas. new experiences to try and pin them down in paragraph format.

i possess a fragmentary mind that pauses and ponders on the most vague and obscure of things. my thoughts are swathed in cellos and deep blues. some of my most cherished moments are collaborating and constructing metaphors with a friend who sees in much the same way.

i often daydream things in colours inverted and shapes disproportioned. my mind is a madhouse.

today is a day i can smile at. we awoke early to grocery shop for our co-op lunch and ended up at the church with time to spare and spend on the steps serenading those who strolled by in the sunshine. then volpone and noodles. then ant and cleo and a sunset and fat chips. sustenance of the soul!

i need to work on my lists of favourites…

oh dear. what else. shakespeare. we made the commute to stratford and dutifully went round to all the historic houses and museums, perhaps taking more delight in the malteser fudge we bought in the candy shop. or the circle of stones we stopped to see on the way back, taking flying photos through the fields.

that was saturday. sunday jilllian took bethany and alisha and i to some rubbled ruins in the country somewhere and a little town that started with a ‘b’ where we poked around some shops and galleries and a church, afterwhich we headed home for some true english tea and crumpets. and then i read macbeth with one eye. and watched rugby with the other…

our heating was broken for the past couple of days so we survived the cold on a couple heaters and a fire. i feel rather triumphant for braving it through such great adversity.

we mingled with the ghosts of the inkling poets tolkien and lewis at the infamous eagle and child. and then out again to the theatre to travel through three different time periods of the intertwining plot of ‘a trip to scarborough.’

life is funny sometimes. like on friday when i was fed up with my too long fingernails so i finally clipped them out of exasperation only to ironically enough end up playing guitar in chapel that evening. it was nice to strum again. oh! the message that evening was achingly beautiful, perhaps the highlight of my week. an older bearded man with a little bounce in his step spoke in so eloquent a fashion he held me spellbound in my seat. twas pure poetry merely glowing with the truth contained therein. he was painting the picture of God as the artist working with us the clay with all our traits and flaws, elaborating on the relationship between the creator and ourselves, how we’re each formed uniquely by his gentle hands that move with the clay, guiding, not forcing. he said it far better than i but the message left its golden imprint.

also, i am going to lisbon in two weeks and i have a ticket for les mis in london. joy joy joy!

a new air.

nights in charlbury are like turning over rocks to see what’s really going on underneath.

for the most part, though, from an outsider’s perspective, they’re quite hauntingly hushed. it seems as soon as the sun sets, everything is serenely silent. masses of people coming in from the city scurry off the trains at dusk and disappear into their homes where strains of muffled music and mirth can sometimes be heard. everything shuts down and peace settles; even the pubs close relatively early.

the city is another story, as you can imagine.

one of the first nights i was here i became somewhat lost and a gentleman walking a dog directed me to ‘ye olde three horseshoes’ pub, where he told me to ask for a certain barry who could supposedly set me on the right route. so in i went, announcing i was a poor lost canadian looking for my home, and sure enough, the good sir barry pointed out the way and told me not to mind the haunted graveyard. i think they may have been slightly amused as i thanked them with a gracious heart and headed home with a greater confidence in my step, trying not to think too deeply about the cemetery comment…

around midnight sometime last week i locked up the church and began to head home when i paused and saw that the streets were shrouded in a heavy mist; the entire town was frozen in a fog; i held my breath.

while there are street lamps every few hundred feet in Canada, here there may be the odd light every couple of roads or so. they suggested we bring a ‘torch’ to light our way but i much prefer to let my eyes adjust and not disturb the darkness, for there is a different kind of depth to the dimness of night. in the chilled air, things can take on an altered shape or sheen, appearing or disappearing, as the lack of light allows. i walk boldly now, my feet familiar with the stones and sidewalk below. more often than not my eyes are more concentrated on the sky where the stars seem to be simultaneously singing and swaying -- or maybe that's just me.

the raindrops are reverberating off the rooftop of the church and echoing into the sanctuary sending 'sheer brilliance' soaring to the ceiling...

one night in particular i simply had to stop mid-step and pay homage to the beauty that begged to be acknowledged above me. to humbly quiesce. in the very middle of the graveyard i paused to lay flat upon one of the raised tombstones as i stared unblinkingly into the sky and imagined marvellous meandering meteorites mingling with their mirrored mimes in the murky seawaters below. no great philosophical thoughts graced my mind as i fancied the planets dancing in the ballroom of the universe. instead i wanted mostly to empty the mess, clear the clutter, blank-out my brain to allow the immensity and majesty of this dazzling scene to completely consume and cocoon my entire self, to be in pure communion with the creator.

when i walk home late at night my lungs tend to inhale more deeply than usual for i find the air of charlbury is laced with the lovely scent of tea leaves.

last night we peered beneath the stone, however, as we ventured over to ‘the shed,’ to take in ‘the green weasel,’ an evening of eco-tinged music, poetry and performance. to see that creative, talented side of the town was fantastic, especially considering we were barely able to squeeze in to join the low-lit and lively atmosphere. we were astounded by some of the young voices, and were marvelled by their beautiful small-town pride. this initiative to embrace and showcase their gifted locals displays a wonderful appreciation for the arts and i found myself wishing i had grown up with similar opportunity. and though there was laughter and love all round, i was somewhat glad i wasn’t american…

the differences between canada and england are sometimes quite amusing, especially when you’re noticing the bizarre contrast of roadkill; in the maritimes you find poor raccoons, skunks, and porcupines along the highway, and here you see foxes and badgers. bizarre.

wednesday of last we ventured off again to view yet another of shakespeare’s histories, henry v. studying this play has meant more to me simply because of my father’s influence. i remember watching the kenneth branagh film with him when i was younger and being excited about it because he was excited about it; the scenes of the saint crispin speech and the tragic death of the boys stood out most vividly in my memory. unfortunately i went in expecting the same sort of performance and found myself frustrated with what seemed to me to be misplaced humour and lackadaisical monologues; i was quite disappointed with henry. i am just being honest. but it was still spectacular in many ways, with the flying frenchmen, elaborate costumes, and dramatic battle scenes that sent me out of my seat a number of times. so while it didn’t entirely match up with what i had envisioned in my mind, the show went on most beautifully.

friday meant more auditions, choir, formal hall, karaoke, missed trains, and nando’s.

there is an owl in the train station.

we rose early saturday morning to head over to warwick castle. (pronounced warrick.) there was plenty to fill the hours we had there. going up and down spiral staircases in tall tall stone towers. and then through dark passageways where waxen figures looked so real i was perpetually bracing myself for any one of them to suddenly jump out at me. and then through rooms lavish and rich. we dressed up. we went bravely through the ghost tower. we wandered about the grounds looking for peacocks. it was quite the workout. following the castle we drove to coventry cathedral, a newish building to replace the old church which had been bombed during the war, the remains of which are still there as a reminder of mercy and forgiveness. the new cathedral, though, was overwhelming in its magnificence. you couldn’t dismiss the aesthetic beauty and creativity that went into its design. the colours of the towering stained glass windows glowed in a deep and bold radiance. each little chapel off to the side contained work from different artists. mosaics. tapestries. sculpture. i struggle sometimes, though, with what seems like an awful lot of money put into only solid, material things, when it could be put into people and programs. but on the other hand i saw a church that seemed to value God-given artistic ability, hopefully using it to give all glory back to Him, instead of attracting mere tourists and profit. this is my prayer.

we also finally made it out to the charity shops in oxford. mark joined us girls in hunting for fashionable bargains as we filled the tiny shops with our loud canadian laughter.

today jillian made a most delicious feast of cottage pie and vegetables followed by british pancakes, the thin kind, sprinkled with sugar and a wee bit of lemon juice, folded up and topped off with some ice cream. so tasty. my goodness.

watching rugby makes me want to tackle someone.

revised:

between the time of two heartbeats...

a fraction of her finger feels
the cool, clean circumference
of the bottomless lake.
unfolding she dares her feet
to take a step blindly
into the brim of the basin.
her pale flesh
is slowly, easily overtaken
by the fluid, rhythmic flow
of charcoal.

the majestic movement of the water
orchestrates an opus on her
scarred and pointy knees.
against her protruding ribs.
over her delicate shoulders.
and into her cluttered mind.
a murmured spell is magically cast...

down.
darker.
down.

the thickness presses in.
suffocatingly resonating within.
a hazy muteness tempts
an eternal disappearance...

down.
darker.
down.

all dilemmas drowned out.
her resistance weakened by
this dark, ethereal world.
of surreal serenity.
of solitary security...

down.
darker.
down.

completely adrift.
suspended in a distracted daze.
a stupoured trance.
a raptured reverie...

down.

yet a faint sound swiftly sails through
to reverberate on the drum of her ear.
recalling a dim echoing of a yesterday songbird.
sending her thoughts
to the infinitely endless sky...

down.

pockets of air
race past her face.
as precious life
from her lungs
so fleetly escapes...

drown.

as if awoken
from an enchanting death.
from a spell of sleep...

she rises.
higher.
she rises.

breathless.
wide, desperate eyes
transfixed upon the stars
seen beyond the glossy coverlet.
her fists fight the film
to feel the air...

she rises.
higher.
she rises.

fingertips unfurl
and frantically fix fast
to the moon...

higher.

a poignant, melodic force
an orchestrated symphony of sound
builds to a grand finale...

higher.

she shoots through the surface
in the last still seconds
escaping death's domain...

higher.

a glorious note of life
inflates her lungs.
her mind.
her heart...

she rises.

(and a songbird sweetly sings.)

skipped seas and skipped tenses

my flight left the eighteenth of january. we arrived at the halifax airport three hours early. (isn’t it wonderful having a mother, aunt, and grandmother all trying to organise your trip?) we therefore played the infamous ‘pass the pigs’ to pass the time. there were also milkshakes involved that i somehow couldn’t stomach. must have been subconscious nervousness. a bracing for the unknown, leaving hardly any room for thickly oversweet milk products.

and off i flew. with mark and alicia and megan and bethany. the other bethany. well actually, if i can rewind for a moment, as i was first trying to find my seat i discovered there was already a gentleman sitting in c twenty three, my seat by the window; he asked if i minded, which i really didn’t, so there he sat, for about four and a half minutes when one of the air Canada staff told him he had to get off the plane because he didn’t have proof of his ticket or something, which was horribly awful and the poor man was distraught, but in the end i got both seats to myself. and though these two chairs made a nice little bed, i arrived relatively sleepless.

and sleepy i was to remain for that entire day. we made it through customs though, barely. alicia was almost sent home, but by God’s grace the kind man graciously bid her enter as we convinced him she was with us. so there we are at last in the airport. we had our hesitant first meeting with the redeemer group, as six and six came together. a fumbling of smiles and awkward short exchanges, attempting to surmise the character of a person based on this first sighting, hoping to make a connection, instantly formulating future situations and scenarios in one’s mind, guessing at group dynamics, placing people in categories and boxes only to be altered and redefined slightly or altogether as time goes on.

heather and tim and laura and rebecca and jodie and sharon: those are their names.

from packed plane to a bus that was three times too large for the twelve of us, we travelled on, making the commute from london to charbury, our new home. in silent and sleepy awe we took in our yet unfamiliar landscapes as it rolled like a wheel of film past our windows, the pictures imprinting themselves, soon to be accepted as something we would each become a part of. truly we are here, after months of nervous anticipation and planning, or less.

into the little baptist church we tumbled in, ate lunch at our assigned seats, our ears being battered with information until out we went on a miniature tour of this charmingly quaint town where every vine and patch of moss seems perfectly placed. the cobblestone and slated roofs all slant in a beautifully crooked manner. streets are small and the houses smaller, beside which the lovely residents park the smallest of cars. it all looks like it belongs in a worn and well-loved storybook.

we return to discover our new hosts waiting with tea and biscuits, sweets. i immediately recognize jillian from her photo, though i still get the formal introduction as i meet her for the first time in person, a lady i soon discover to be sweet yet sassy, with her kind gestures and conversation interspersed with witty quips and eyes rolled at the neverending meowing of flora, the cat.

i found it hard to concentrate completely during that first conversation, though. the little sanctuary of the church was absolutely full and i couldn’t help the smile the would slowly stretch from ear to ear as waves of euphoria washed through me, into my bones and out shining through my eyes. the lilting accents of the townspeople wove and wound their way round me, swirling in surreal patterns above my head as i sat stunned and overjoyed yet in partial dismay at the difficulty i would have to endure in keeping my tongue canadian. it slips every now and again.

it really was only a minute drive from the church to church close. probably less. it’s ridiculously near the train station as well. the three stories of her home are eclectically adorned with mementoes of distant travels and her own sewn creations. a dusty rose predominates my bedroom, which is uncharacteristic of me but is offset by its coziness and the window that overlooks her green green garden below. each morning i sweep the pink curtains open to awaken my eyes as a refreshing reminder that yes, i’m still in england. and each time i open the window wide i wonder if a bird might curiously, mistakenly, fly in.

a bit of a rhythm has begun to settle as i faithfully descend the steps each morning to see a bowl, cup, orange juice, milk pitcher, cereal and cutlery on the table. we drink our coffee together or i take it away in my ‘beaker,’ or ‘tinker,’ i forget what she called it.

everyone in europe has been everywhere.

i think i went to bed the first night at ten o’clock but woke up somewhere in the middle, at which time i read for an hour and fell back into my dreaming. these interrupted sleep patterns went on for a couple nights and my eyes would droop during the day. but eventually my internal clock came into sync with england time.

this slight sleepiness did not deter the excitement, however, as we went to church sunday morning, had a lunch and then a walk through the muddy, misty yet breathtaking countryside and a delicious supper at the house of mad, the fantastic coordinator. monday was our first day in oxford. we made our way in by train, accidentally boarding the ‘quiet carriage’ and hopelessly trying to stifle giggles the entire way in. first discovery i made in the city is that the buses do not slow down for idiot tourists, as i barely escaped with my breath, a bit shortened though, by the fact that i almost died before i got to the bodleian. but we made it there intact and were sworn in, literally. so we continued to dive and dash our way through the unknown streets abuzz with people and bikes and cars to find the church where we will have some of our classes. and other times our learning is located in charlbury or right within regent’s, which is where we are around three times a week.

when we’re at regent’s park we eat lunch with the students, all gathering at one to stand by our chairs until someone says a hasty prayer and we sit down to be served. food is decent. people are friendly, though it would be difficult to get to know anyone really well as we hardly see them. we did, however, join up for the choir on friday nights which means we are able to attend formal hall right afterwords. this past friday was particularly special for it was held in honour of the great robbie burns. we ate haggis. clapped and cheered for the bagpiper. toasted the lads and the lassies. and did some old-fashioned dancing. twas a blur of laughter.

this past saturday was our first free day. what a beautiful thing. my original plan was to wander about the town to take photos and get a better idea of the streets, perhaps catch up on some letter writing, but i was sort of swept away by another wave of adventure. i had just made it to the church and was about to climb the colossal tree located in the graveyard when tim walks by and joins me. from there we explored together and we wound up meeting some others who were going to blenheim palace which was only a couple towns over. and off we went on a double decker bus which felt more like a roller coaster than a grounded vehicle. when we arrived we managed to find the secret door in the side of the wall so we didn’t have to pay to get in and we proceeded to stroll around the massive expanse of grounds. the palace itself was closed but it was still impressive to look at. we took the long way back into town, thanks to mark, probably walking at least four hours that day. worth it, though. the ride home was stunning. one of those moments you know will become a fond memory as we sailed through a sky of pink and yellow. heartstoppingly surreal.

that night we had another delicious supper and dramatic shakespeare reading. sometimes i get carried away and forget to pay attention to what’s actually going on.

our professors are brilliant, though. amanda, softspoken and stylish, is an expert on greek drama, and we all have a tremendous time as we act out various plays complete with cross-dressing and dismemberment. matt, an intellectual scatterbrain, intimidates us with his vast shakespearian knowledge as we wonder whether or not his legs are real. he looks similar to the brother on little miss sunshine.

the light switches in the loo hang on a cord and some of us are lucky enough to have heated towel racks.

already we have been to stratford to see richard II and it’s sort of bittersweet to think that we will probably never see shakespeare performed half so well anywhere else. the talent and artistic creativity combined was fantastic. the use of space and props original. the costumes ornate. the amount of impassioned spit flying could have filled several small lakes.

driving on the left side of the road makes me dizzy.

our first chapel was left up to us but unfolded quite beautifully. we ended up opening up and meshing moreso than we would have had it been organized i think. there was discovery of backgrounds. expressions of faith. encouraging words that surprised and warmed my heart of hearts. prayers uplifted. ties were tugged a little closer. most certainly essential to recognize God’s all-powerful hands orchestrating this most glorious symphony set in such a striking and stirring land with the most intriguing of characters at this most particular time when the rings on our trees are still so few.

having two male musicians along has been marvellous. it creates an energetic and easygoing atmosphere with melodies mingling and spontaneous singing providing the soundtrack for our european excursion.

you know you’re spoiled when you’re brought a cup of coffee in bed.

all this to say, i truly am enchanted with this beautiful country with its endless fields of sheep and bottomless cups of tea.

i may never want to leave.

Throughout this entire somewhat stressful situation of applying to oxford, dr. mantz's words had a soothing effect on my spirits. This is a man of high intellect, great wisdom, and deep thoughts (and sense of humour!) I have had the priviledge of being his student, adventuring on field trips, dining at his home with his lovely english wife and attending his landscape meditation small group. i have an incredibly high regard for this man. his e-mail was of great encouragement to me. (among others' words as well) it was everything i needed to hear. this is just the last little bit of his note:

"Remember to read, read, read until you become well-read. Just follow your interests and chase after what you would like to know. You are the bee in front of field of beautilful flowers (or ideas). Go and get them. Sweet is the taste of intellectual honey--especially Oxford flavour, as I have no doubt you will discover for yourself. Be encouraged. Best wishes for a full and happy summer of growing closer to God, who, in His grace, empowers you. DMANTZ"