"Being" in Carrickfergus

I had one of those “moments” this morning; a moment of profound and peaceful realisation.  Charlotte Church was singing the beautiful “Carrickfergus” on the Big Magical Wall Screen. 

The plaintive and nostalgic words brought the realisation that so many of my friends, relatives, and acquaintances long for a return to past days: days of childhood, the teenaged years, the years of young adulthood, the days when their children were babies, or the days when the kids first went to school; days when parents and grandparents were alive:-to quote The Moody Blues, “The Days of Future Passed”.  A longed-for return to a simpler past.

In thrall to the music, I reviewed a hardscrabble childhood on the Shore, followed by near poverty in Timmins.  A childhood of taunts from peers, because of my accent, because of my poverty, because, it seemed, simply for being me.  Confused teenaged years with no sense of direction, no understanding of who I was, or where I was going.  Confused with the happiness that some found with a religion that I could not accept or understand.  It seemed that my life was simply a stumbling along, without the tools, the education, the understanding, to ensure a future niche of belonging and contentment.

As I reviewed the long journey, I realised that of course there were good times, there were numerous treasures for the soul along the way, but there was always the feeling, the knowledge that there had to be more to it all than what I had seen so far.

And there was.  I realise now that, waiting for me here on my hill, was my destination: that place to which my body and my mind, my very essence, had always been bound.  Here is where I want to be.  Here is where I am supposed to be.  Here is where I have found myself.  I can, from this nexus, review all the aspects of my past.  I can revel in all that is, be astounded by all the endless variations that are.  I can study, meditate, accept and discard.

I can be.  Here.  Now.

Thank you, Charlotte.


Listen to Charlotte sing at this link...
Carrickfergus

It Doesn’t Necessarily Follow

Follow old traditions
that best served another day.
Follow any charlatan
that claims to know the way.
Follow each and every law
our masters claim is right.
Follow superstitious mantras
that may help you sleep at night.

Follow all the game shows,
and reality TV, 
and follow self-help gurus
who teach you what to be.
Vote for all the buzzwords
that spin doctors have designed.
Always think the facile thought,
that doesn’t tax your mind.
Ridicule but don’t discuss
all topics that arise.
Repeat vapid platitudes
that others say are wise.
Look to celebrities
to guide you as you go,
on how to dress and what to buy,
and what you ought to know.

When our lives are over,
and our sojourn here is done,
will we have cause to regret
our short time in the sun?
Will we shed a bitter tear
at a call we did not heed:
why did we simply follow
when we had a chance to lead?

Alternate Realities

On a rock at the head of the cove
an American bittern stretches his neck.
Six Canada geese feed in the long grasses
near Frank’s boathouse:
one goose, alert, is on point
guarding against danger.

American and Iranian gunboats
play chicken in the Straits of Hormuth,
while attack dog Israel strains
to be let off the lease:
Armageddon shimmers
on the near horizon.

The dog explores enticing scents,
flushing a colourful pheasant
from the long grass.
Crickets lament summer’s passing.
A gang of perpetually adolescent bluejays
play boyish, noisy bird-games,
and empty the feeder.

In the Canadian North
ice levels are the lowest
in recorded memory:
the Prime Minister will make his annual Arctic junket,
so all will be well.
Chinese interests aggressively pursue
Canadian resources, while corporate interests
gleefully check their projected bottom lines.

The school bus drops off older children,
while mothers wait with siblings in strollers.
Old men walk slowly down the road,
reflecting on different days
with younger horizons.

Religions, whose prophets taught
peace, respect, tolerance and inclusion,
are controlled by madmen and zealots
who compete for new, more abhorrent ways
to spread a message of hate and death,
while adherents are conditioned

to obey, not question.

Compliant media spew propaganda buzzwords,
professionally designed to ensure complacency,
and dull the mass mind.

Across the bay, a loon laughs,
while the old hippie on his verandah
sips his coffee
and finds much beauty, and a personal peace,
but very little
to laugh about.

Sunday Afternoon on the Verandah: A Meditation on Time Travel

Eyes closed, back straight.
The smell of freshly ground drip 
Fair Trade hand-blended travelogue of
Ethiopian, Guatemalan, Colombian.

Breathing
Breathing
B r e a t h i n g

Windchimes
Ranger's toenails click click click
seven distinct tones of wind song
brisk and Westerly
enchanting the maples and the pines
with caresses and promises
of distant . . . . . . . and different . . . . . . .
lands, and Realities
just around the corner.

Finches complimenting the bird feeder
jays bragging, chickadee joyous
singing to scudding white clouds
while the squirrel scolds, biding his time
mourning doves 
lament their name

Mr. Myer's lawn tractor
sings a Sunday song
across a summer valley.

Breathe.
Eyes open to Greyhavens pastoral afternoon.
One mourning dove takes nervous point
watching for feral cats
while his comrades feast.

Nina Simone and Julie London
beckon from within.
Breathe.
Be.                                   Now.

The God Machine

Watched BBC's Beautiful Minds: Richard Dawkins, and was driven, this morning, to pen the following. To my religious friends, of all faiths, this is not meant to denigrate your beliefs, simply to clarify mine. Enjoy, and be open.

The God Machine

There dwells, deep within our minds,
a thought that, in many ways,
we share with our ancestors,
way back in caveman days.

Our lives were short and brutal then,
as we struggled to survive:
we grasped at anything that might
just help us stay alive.

Our elders wove fables
of supernatural beings,
who directed our fragile lives,
all-knowing and all-seeing.

We took all of our wise men,
prophets and visionaries,
and lifted them to godhood,
with the zeal of missionaries.

Gautama was the first to go,
with his gentle ways and thought:
his acolytes worshipped the man,
not the wisdom he had brought.

Sweet Jesus, with his love for all,
and message of personal peace,
was elevated to the godhead
by greedy Nicaea’s priests.

Muhammad, the great unifier,
and social engineer,
was glorified by united tribes,
who listened but did not hear.

Thus it goes, on and on,
passed down through the ages:
we disregard the message,
but deify the sages.

We possess a mighty intellect
but are condemned to perdition,
by disdaining common sense,
and embracing superstition.

~James Douglas Fanning, 23 May, 2012 at Greyhavens

Flirting With The Past

We all speak of the way things were,
the way things used to be,
but we must beware distortion
in the lens through which we see.

Events and people in our past,
coloured by passing years,
are glorified by love and respect:
we forget their pain and fears.

Those people and events define
who we’ve become today,
and tint our thoughts and actions
in each and every way.

Consider though, they were like us,
and products of their age:
they struggled, loved, lived and died,
each of them, rogue or sage.

The danger is to glorify
those who have gone before;
to think that things were better
in those distant days of yore.

They gave to us genetic gifts
so we’d evolve and grow,
and walk proudly in this future
that they would never know.

To yearn for return to a simpler past
is dangerously atavistic,
and dishonours those genetic gifts
with a view far too simplistic.

Like Biblical talents, our inheritance
should be to honour our traditions,
and not be buried, deep in time,
but to better our conditions.

Remember fondly those who have passed,
and love and praise them well,
but what atavism sees as Utopia,
may have been a personal hell.

Old Man, At Peace

In this winter of my life
I have no need to seek
relief in tropic climes.
RVing to Arizona
is not where I would be,
for canopied visits with my peers,
none of whom think like me.
Neither a golfing trip
to Florida with fellow codgers
driving bellies round groomed tees,
nor a visit to the Legion
to relive foreign wars,
reviving ancient wounds.
Tearing through pristine wood
on an ATV, whose energy output
would power a third world village...
not the life for me.

Instead, the introspective way,
reflection, thought, and peace,
where seasonal winds speak
in my pines, 
and sunsets break my heart.
Exploring walks with my dog,
through alternate realities,
and reflecting on where we are,
compared to where we could be.
Family and friends visit here,
and leave as much as they take away:
warm memories, and a sense of “us”,
sustaining through our days.

I stand here, in a cosmic Now,
with illusions as my friends,
contemplating the possibility
that Reality never ends.

Life Cycles

Swirling leaves of autumn,
death that follows birth,
Natraj’s ring of fire,
the spinning of our Earth;
frigid deep December gales,
the flowers of early June,
our seasonal trip around the sun,
the phases of the moon:
lives wrapped in cyclic ritual,
counting off our days,
trying to find meaning
in our karmic haze.

Given the shape of circles,
this conclusion’s not profound:
when you cut away the dogma,
what goes ‘round comes around.

Chronological Paradox

Conditioned by optimism,

we look on Time

as a forward progression.

“The march of time,”

“Here today, gone tomorrow,”

and other aphorisms

sprinkle our languages,

offering folksy wisdom

to guide our lives.

Yet as we age,

and friends, relatives, current events,

calamities, and catastrophes,

march inexorably into a past

that regresses at a logarithmic speed

away from our static present,

we are confronted daily

by Time’s ultimate paradox:

we sprinkle away our grains of time

frivolously, reflecting on yesterday,

fretting about tomorrow,

when all we need,

all that we are, and,
ultimately,
all we really have

is Now.

All Roads Are Taken

This is a tribute to Robert Frost’s “The Road Not Taken”, with a nod to the amazing laws of Quantum Physics

All Roads Are Taken

A fork in my Path appeared ahead,

and with quantum physics as my guide,

I suspended logic, and, with little dread,

used multi-worlds theory in its stead,

and followed both branches, as yet untried.

In this Reality, I continued on,

while another me trudged the other way.

As time passed, the branch was gone,

and, without regret, I walked alone,

but think of other roads each day.

Other choices would, I knew, appear,

and I’d travel each, as another me.

I’d face each decision without fear,

knowing, that, while I stay here,

different horizons my “others” see.

With this Illusion passed away,

peering through the undergrowth,

another me will stand and say,

“I’ll save this route for another day,”

but will end up travelling both!