Looking Back, Standing Still, Thinking Forward

One month ago today, my husband fell. It was Good Friday, and thus began his descent into the final weeks of his mortal existence. He entered the ER as a man still fighting, angry at fate, determined to get out of there as soon as he could. Sadly, that vital man never left the hospital.

On his darkest day, spring had extended a tentative hand. I’d expected to take him for a rambling drive along the shore, as he so loved to do. Instead, an ambulance bore him away. My drives will be solo now. He will be my unseen passenger, gazing through the windows as the road unfolds and rolls behind me. So much changes in a month!

Today, May 3rd, is one of those mornings when I can truly say, “God’s in His Heaven; all’s right with the world.” Of course, that applies only to my small corner of the world. In Nepal, nothing is right. In Baltimore, the aftermath of devastation will take time to clean up and heal. In many places, life is a struggle and the odds of survival are far lower than our own. We would be foolish to imagine ourselves the center of any universe, great or little.

Still, all I can do is celebrate the sunshine here. Where is Heaven, anyway? Is it a location? A spiritual state? An energy field? Another dimension? If God – either gender – is there, can He or She also be here? Do the two realms overlap? Will those of us in our material bodies ever connect with those who have moved to another form?

Is David wherever Heaven might be located? I’m assuming he’s in a place of rest, grace and healing. He deserves to be. He’d often claimed to be an atheist but he quite probably wasn’t. Agnostic, maybe, unable to know for sure and always up for a lively argument. But not a man in denial: his massive library testifies to his exploration of the vast and distant frontiers of science, history, philosophy, art, religion – everything that stands as testament to humanity’s finer (and lesser) achievements. Everything that makes us look up in awe and wonder. He has his answers now.

At the last, I choose to believe he accepted the existence of another, incomprehensible dwelling-place and of the Power that invited him to be there. He was alert and aware when matters of the soul were shared with him. His dear friend, John Symonds, sensed the strength of his acceptance. David had no voice, no movement, nothing but his eyes and ears. He had been reduced to vision and sound – the basics, his mind no longer concerned with food or drink or any other physical act. So he saw and he heard – watched and listened. That was enough, I think.

Who else might have been present in that room? His father, whom he never knew? His mother, with whom he needed to reconcile? His old friends long gone? The shouting boys of his childhood, the companions of his middle years? Whose faces were in the group assembled to lead him home?

In the end, he chose to leave for that unknown realm and departed in peace. Today as I work in the gardens, David will be in my thoughts. He so enjoyed his zero gravity chair, where he’d read and listen to the river. Cash was inevitably curled in the grass beside him. Gollum – who adored David and perhaps is with him again – slept in his little grave not far away. Nothing and no one is ever truly lost. This morning, I’ll walk across this bit of land and tend my flowers. I won’t be alone. The knitting of the heart’s bones will be slow. But they will knit in time.

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Early One March Saturday

The morning is a pearl. Not a twig moves in its shimmering globe. Not a bird stirs. All is tension between reality and potential – between now and later. Stasis. Welcome respite for some; anxious pause for others. The moment of keenest awareness before all the clocks in the world stutter and continue their endless, Sisyphean rounds.

Hopeful chickadees have arrived now, and a junco, picking at seeds embedded in the frozen crust. My two rats have eaten well, and crafted a maze of tunnels through the drifts. They pop up and disappear like groundhogs. As the rains move in and the snow shrinks, they will lose their winter warren. I wonder if this will disappoint them. So much effort, such complexity – gone at the whim of Nature.

Then again, isn’t that what happens to us as well? Mayan ruins, Roman walls and aqueducts, Sable Island spars drowning in sand … the winds passing indifferently over all this wrack and glory. “Cloud-capp’d towers and gorgeous palaces” dissolving, Prospero’s vision come to pass. But for now, for this hour, the rats build their corridors of ice. They never invade my human domain, for they have no need. I let them be. We live too far in the back country for pestilence to touch them, or me.

A car crunches the frozen ruts on my road. Cash barks to be let in, his urgent business completed. The cardinal enters with crimson flare. He is my Prospero, my Mage of the Snows. Someday, perhaps he will magick me to ancient Egypt or Uluru. Waking time is brief; sleep is long. And always, the pearl rolls away and the revels end.

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The Sun Always Rises …

I awoke before 6 AM and realized that today would arrive in spectacular fashion. Perhaps it was the faint play of light on mist; perhaps it was the silence that wrapped both water and sky. Perhaps it was just my own body stirring from sleep, anxious to stand and celebrate the dawn, as humanity has done from its own earliest rising. I grabbed my camera and hurried to the car. The sunrise is no longer centered above my section of the Tusket River but I knew it would be positioned over Lake Vaughan, one minute’s drive from my house if I could get there in time. And so it was. Here’s what I saw as the light shifted and changed, minute by minute. I hope you enjoy! Carpe diem … right from the beginning.

~ Brenda

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Musings from Eden

The Book of Genesis provides many opportunities for literary creation. As a poet, I keep returning to it for ideas and themes. I tend to view its events as part of a complex mythos that predates Christianity by millennia, yet also represents an interpretation of creation as viewed by the Old Testament/Torah authors – more intuitive than analytical, but still compelling. The Word figures prominently in this narrative, not to mention in the New Testament, and in Greek The Word is Λόγος or logos – Logic, Reason. I approach Genesis from a metaphorical and symbolical perspective rather than as a literal text, yet the process of creation itself appears to be vaguely parallel to what actually must have happened, albeit with certain artistic liberties. It does have its inherent logic. The primary issue is in the exact details and, of course, the time frame. There’s a certain progression from formless void to a coalescing planet, the appearance of water and an atmosphere, the rise of marine creatures, vascular plants, land animals with birds, then homo sapiens – appearing quite late in the sequence. The creatures of Eden that existed in this period were already there when Adam showed up. He was asked to name them, in fact. Needless to say, he did not have to identify the extinct ones since they were already gone. But I digress (as usual).

Being a woman, I have long resented the burdens placed upon my gender by those who see Eve as some sort of original sinner – regardless of Adam’s own role in this particular transgression. I, personally, understand why she reached for that pomegranate*. She was consumed by curiosity and a hunger to know things. As the verb sciare means “to know”, it is not a stretch to consider Eve as the first scientist on the planet. She was willing to overlook the serpent’s rather sinister appearance, although she may have instinctively distrusted it, in order to learn. The pursuit of learning often comes at a considerable price, after all. Many have since died for it. Discovery is often tied to great personal risk.

These intellectual qualities were part of Eve’s composition from the outset. Therefore, I have to assume that God fully expected her to go after enlightenment and orchestrated her “fall” to make it look like deliberate defiance on her part. He didn’t give Adam that kind of drive toward understanding. It seems rather clever of Him to force Eve’s hand by forbidding her to even think about that Tree of Knowledge. As He had made this pair as childlike beings in adult bodies, He probably anticipated the next step. A child will inevitably push the limits and grab whatever he or she has been told not to touch. Any parent is well aware of this fact. If this sounds like determinism as opposed to free will … yes, it probably is. Free will might not have been as important in the beginning as it has become in later ages. First, humanity had to evolve somehow and survive the process.

In the end, Eve’s actions quite conveniently resulted in the punishment of childbearing. The world needed to be populated, after all. God could simply have erased her and used another rib. But He chose not to do so. Eden was undoubtedly a glorious place but, as Robert Frost has noted in a poem by the same title, “Nothing gold can stay.” Maybe it was never designed to last forever. But coupled with Eve’s newly-assigned physical pain was an intense emotional bonding to her baby. Most mothers would probably view this as a fair exchange.

At any rate, I write a fair bit of “Eden Poetry”. I’m including two samples below, with accompanying photos. If you tend to hold the fundamentalist and literal view of Genesis or Biblical history in general, my blog will possibly not be to your liking. I tend to wrestle with metaphysical issues that make people uncomfortable – not always, but occasionally. No apologies, however. God and/or Goddess (I can’t associate either sex with such a remote and incomprehensible being) gave me an imagination and meant for me to use it.

On to the poems …

*Note – Since apples were unknown in the region where Eden is said to have existed, but pomegranates were native to that area, most historians now believe that “apple” is a faulty translation for a fruit that looks quite similar, in that both are red, round, juicy and seed-bearing.






He tightens himself into his branches,
rustles their leaves only a little –
yellow hearts, he notices. Jigging
lightly in a late-harvest shower.
But he cannot name the tree, although
he knows it has one. Everything
is named, but fading like himself.
Memories wrap around and around,
tendrils without the strength
to cling harder or vine wilder.

He has chosen carefully his lure,
red ripeness and high sweet notes
like a descant above the darker alto
of this abandoned garden.
Blemished, certainly, but some
imperfections grow their own hooks.

He has set himself above her,
runs his tongue over the last
of his teeth as she steps without
questioning this path made for her.
She scents the grass with musk –
resonant as these autumn apples –
and scans the hedges for spies
among their thorns. He looks down,
deeper than the already shadows.

She has been here forever.
Only the coyotes are evil, but
they hold music in their voices
so she accepts them as necessary.
Shrinking light limns her
with a brief aureole. Her gaze
lifts toward him, mandorla-eyes
centered with sun points.

The odour of their temptation
wreathes them – his locked arms,
her eagerness. She stretches
her neck; he remembers a swan
dropping from the blank sky
with arrows in its breast.
He slides out his instrument:
that weapon hidden in his head –
less merciful now, primed
with all the failed chases strung
from his neck. Beads shaped
like every sorrow in the world.
He understands he is not beautiful,
so cruelty must be sufficient.
He owns this forked seat
of both cunning and disaster.

When she finally eats, he blinks
with sudden regret. As if his vision
shows only part truth. As if her
innocence trumps everything
he believes about himself.
I am your God, he whispers then.
For once, I get to decide.
But no tremor shakes the quiet.
Because nobody cares what he says.

She is listening to the wind. He strains
toward her, so elastic now. So cocksure.
He will give her one chance. Yet she
stands unafraid, the juice of his sin
leaking from her mouth. No hand
out of the holy air will drag her
away from this place of atonement.
This lost orchard, where ruined fruit
offers her all its power. Where
nothing else wonders what its name is.
And everything depends on the fall.

He is quick as any striking asp, but
still winces at the recoil that rattles
trunk, earth, even the dusk itself.
A birdwing flurry rises above him.
He wishes he could take it all back.

But she is lost to him now,
vanished into her new awareness.
He stoops to stroke her, draws
away from the up-and-down saw
of her ribs dying under his touch.
She has put on mortality – lies
here in mud and damnation.

Night pools around her like blood
under an old and broken bough.

Brenda Levy Tate (c) 2011 – all rights reserved

from Tipping the Sacred Cow, Fortunate Childe Publications, 2011; reprinted in Wingflash, Pink Petticoat Press, 2011




In the Beginning

Our mothers taught us too well
to fear the snake, bringer of a cry 
under the knife, a cutting, the mangled 
cord that loops us to a single loss,
one night when we forgot
to be wary. The rind stretches,
inevitably bursts. 

In this blackberry meadow 
we gather – we women who hold 
that same pomegranate 
the serpent offers, month after month, 
year upon bloody year, until its lure
gleams flat as a mirror, raised 
for us to bear witness.

Here, then, are its red-jellied ova 
in their five hundred cradles: this, 
a sea-maid with war under her fists;
this, a dust orphan who believes 
only that each road leads 
to some new sorrow.

There, tumbling downriver, 
a firstborn son grasps his own 
ankles, jellyfishes on the current. 
And there, a buttercup lass 
without voice refuses to curse 
her creator. She does not recognize 
a bribe when it dangles in front 
of her hand. The swollen skin is fruit – 
nothing more. She wrinkles it 
into the dirt.        

We limp toward our dry age,
when every kernel is blown and gone. 
I throw off my heavy scarf 
dividing skull from spine. Thought
has become acceptable. I am 
no longer forbidden to jackknife 
questions for my enemy 
in a round-bark trunk. Nothing 
grows inside me any more. 

The Garden temptress hums sweet 
as a harp – she, who has tricked 
us from the beginning. Her secret 
teeth fill a gourd with droplets 
of juice. Its neck juts firm, 
the last man-thing in paradise. 
The false adder hangs her trap
on a thorn. Insects jostle each other.
Come, you are not too late.
Flies’ wings click-zip together
like angel bones.

She could have bitten Eve 
instead of feeding her. She has never 
shared a bond with Adam, the lust
that urges every poor girl to damn
herself. Now she relives that choice, 
over and over, having no legs
to walk away from it. We are all too late,
but she understands.

We watch her tend the tree, cultivate
its next crop – wisdom and illusion. 
Apples for fools. Pomegranates for the rest, 
who should know better. She lacks 
interest in us now.
Then we leave her there and follow 
the flowless rivers out of Eden, 
where beheaded grasses shake and mourn. 
She has taken our wombs before
letting us go. No rapture can ever enter us 
by that path again. The gate rings 
as it closes. 


Brenda Levy Tate (c) 2011 – all rights reserved

First published on IBPC, Web del Sol (October 2011)







Words about Wings


As a poet, I tend to write what I know best – which usually means that my themes are drawn from familiar experiences and settings. The world around me, or the people and other creatures who inhabit that world, lend me their voices sometimes. Today, I’ll share two of my poems about hummingbirds. At least, on one level they’re about hummingbirds. They’re taken from my third collection, Wingflash, published in 2011 by Pink Petticoat Press (see link below the poetry and photos). This is the time of ruby-throats and as I write, they zip and chitter through the rain beyond my window. I love their tenacity and boldness! One need not be massive, muscular and loud in order to leave a lasting imprint on our collective psyche. It is enough to delight the eye, yet remain quick and ephemeral, never present for longer than a season.

Photographing a Hummingbird

It is not enough to be ready – shutter speed set to overfast,
lens filled with sungleam. He mocks me – he is not the float
of a waterlily far from shore. He is a close-up stutter, one stray

spark from fire I have not ignited. He lights on a wire
above my head and I can smell the ash, drifting. When I anticipate
his flight path, he knows. Better to listen with my fingertip,

prick its skin with the sound of air dividing: pre-thunder
for a lesser being. A storm that never reaches me.
Wingflash over monarda! Long before his body shapes itself,

I open a hand that cannot hold him, forget the camera.
This prayer inhabits a bird, and he will never offer himself.
He was not created for my redemption.

At the crematorium, I stop outside the door, afraid to view
my father. I wish he had not died on his own, a fallen
straggler. It is not enough to be ready – he is one stray spark

from fire ignited and drowned. The sky can refuse him now.
But I wait for a wingflash, one image: the captivity of leaving.
Listen for air to divide around him as he shines.

Brenda Levy Tate (c) 2011, all rights reserved



September Morning in the Garden

The last hummer has abandoned me now,
whirring her path behind the sea’s wrinkled
invitation sent on a southeast wind.
My bee balm slowly circles a black hole
at its centre. I sip café au lait,
brought from that same forest where hummingbirds
retreat to grow old. If the clouds are kind –
if no whirling horrors with human names
toss them aside – if nets fail to pull them
out of the air they trust. Small perfect things
jitter across the sharpened grassblades. Brass
chimes haunt the lake. My jadeite pendant swings,
spills its light. I am stretching – a skin drum.    
No prayers needed. Nothing to save me from.

Brenda Levy Tate (c) 2011, all rights reserved


The Pink Petticoat Press

Truth, Beauty and Eight Little Legs

But another sound followed them long after these had faded  – the tiny, dry sound of a spider weeping. – Peter S. Beagle, The Last Unicorn

As a photographer and friend of photographers, I view and share countless images. My internet tastes these days run to photos uploaded by people whose work I admire. I seek such photos elsewhere as well – in galleries and exhibits and art shops. Much of their subject matter is focused on the natural world, and a major aspect of that world is the macrocosm inhabited by small beings whose lives defy our full comprehension. While we can usually relate to – and even empathize with – a seal, groundhog, elephant or macaw, how do we establish a connection with, say, a crab spider? Where is the common ground between us and a centipede or earwig?

The local spiders, in particular, intrigue me because of their obvious work ethic, coupled with persistence in the face of adversity. I can’t help but applaud anyone or anything that is willing to build and rebuild, endlessly and without quitting, despite the cruel sweep of mortality that tears down every cable and strand and tower. Orb weavers craft remarkable webs, which human beings frequently rip apart – not always by accident. Wind and rain wreak further destruction on this fragile architecture. A dog crashing through tall grass can destroy the efforts of a hundred spider-hours within seconds. Yet the diminutive web-mistresses will begin their tasks again come nightfall, and each morning will see a fresh and glimmering array, suspended from branch or blade.

With the spiders that don’t make webs at all, but prefer to crouch on flowers or under leaves, there’s an immediacy that is lacking among the makers of thread. They simply grab their prey when it drops in for a bit of nectar or maybe to answer some mysterious call of nature; the intent is to snatch now and store for later, unless the spider is particularly hungry at the moment. It’s fascinating to watch this process. I’ve wasted … I mean spent … endless afternoons in quiet observation of the floral battlefields in my garden. Eventually, for the spider on her coneflower or centaurea, the deal-breakers are time and decay. Flowers wither and lose their appeal to pollen gathers. The arachnid population must pull up stakes and move to fresher territory. There’s not much action to be had on a shrivelled daisy. In the process of changing residence, undoubtedly some of these mobile tenants are lost to weather, birds, tires and feet. And in the end, they’ll die anyway, sooner rather than later. The life of a spider in our region is notoriously short, because we have cold winters here. The female argiope, for instance, hatches in the autumn of one year and exits during the first hard frost the following fall, not long after she has mated and left an egg case behind. It takes repeated attempts and clumsy errors before she can learn to craft the perfect web. All that effort, all those glorious gossamer dream-catchers hung from reeds and sedges … and then she’s gone.

So many people use the “poisonous spider” excuse as their reason for obliterating every creepy-crawler within range of a broom. The correct term is “venomous”, and while almost all spiders inject some sort of venom into their prey to immobilize it, that prey is usually small and puny – a fly, a beetle, a grasshopper, maybe a minnow. Most spiders don’t have the ability to penetrate human skin and inject much of anything. A few might bite in self-defence but the result is usually just a brief sting. We’re not talking rattlesnakes and pit vipers here. Even worldwide, comparatively few people are actually injured by spider bites and very few die – perhaps two a year, out of the billions on our planet. “Of around 50,000 spider species known, only about 25 (1/20 of 1%) have venom capable of causing illness in humans, to a greater or lesser extent. In any given locality you can expect to find from zero to (at most) three such species. These species are called ‘medically significant’ spiders.”  We can be killed by many different antagonists among the wildlife we encounter; spiders aren’t even close to the top of the most-dangerous-animal list.

In Nova Scotia, we have no spiders with venom dangerous to humans. Ours are all harmless except to their prey. Most, in fact, help us by eating the insect pests we would prefer to do without. For me, if offered a choice between a big ol’ garden spider and a horde of blackflies that she is waiting to consume, I’ll always take the spider.

But this monologue isn’t about spider myths, or the sensationalist stories that often promote these myths and can be passed down through generations of the spider-scared. People averse to spiders, or actually afraid of them, won’t be convinced by any amount of factual reassurance. They will continue to hate spiders, react with strong exclamations when confronted with them, and comment on spider photos with decidedly negative responses. “Eeeuuwww” and “ugh” are fairly common examples. Still, this saddens me when I see it. Photographing spiders, for me, is both challenging and rewarding. If I can effectively capture the miniscule hairs on a yellow-and-black striped leg that’s under 2mm long, then my day has been a modest success.

So what’s the point? you ask. She likes to take spider pictures. Big whoop. For some people, that ranks right up there with being impaled on a steel fence surrounding their local sewage treatment pond. They’d rather haul out the smartphone and immortalize a lovely sunset over water, or maybe an apple tree clothed in pink and white. I almost feel sorry for them; I say “almost” because I take sunset and flowering-tree shots too.

The point is that we define beauty, and identify what is beautiful, in deeply personal ways. Keats once said that beauty and truth were the same thing. I’m not sure where that leaves the actress whose chest size keeps expanding to gratify some weird standard of “wow”, or the sixty-something with a Botox habit. Still, the man had a point. If we can’t celebrate the natural way something looks, acts and simply exists, it’s not likely we’ll be too excited about any amendments to that authenticity.

A spider is incapable of deception – except, again, towards its prey. It can sometimes mimic its surroundings by changing colour. It can hide and pretend to be an innocent blemish on a stem. But those ruses are still part of its essential makeup. All members of its clan will do the same; this is their “spiderness” kicking in. People, however, can misrepresent themselves for individual convenience, though not everyone will do it or try the same method of fakery. We have few basic traits for humanness that apply to each person. Most are culturally determined. To a spider, her culture embraces her entire species.

I do find these tiny beings quite lovely. They are symmetrical, and their eyes are astonishing – complex, often multiple, and clearly not capable of viewing their surroundings as I view mine. Many spider species are decorated with patterns as gorgeous as any found on clay pottery or intricate beadwork. Even the brownish spiders clinging to the side of my house are wondrous in their variety. No two will have identical markings. They seem similar but upon closer inspection, there will be definite amendments to the general design. I love these fat, tenacious creatures! Last winter, a leftover web attached across my kitchen window was so durable that it collected snowflakes during a storm and was transformed into a web of crystalline white. “Spider silk has incredible tensile strength and is often touted as being several times stronger than steel of the same thickness. What’s even more unique, however, is spider silk’s elasticity.”

I appreciate that the majority of highly visible spiders around my own home are female. The fair sex is bigger, more aggressive and prettier. The males are teensy-weensy, nondescript and expendable. In many spider species, they are useful for providing sperm for reproduction and then, immediately after that process (or even during the act itself), they supply nutrients for the female by allowing themselves to be eaten. They only ever get a first date, in other words – no follow-up. This sexual cannibalism is quite common and normally it’s the male who dies but in rare cases, certain species reverse the trend and the males dine on the females (talk about survival of the fittest!).

The other thing is that you never see a spider that looks ill or old, which isn’t true of most other species. Take butterflies, moths and bees, for instance – more widely-admired than spiders, although bee stings are responsible for thousands of  anaphylactic shock episodes, and a fortune in epi-pens. These “cuter” bugs end up with worn and ragged wings, or patchy bald spots on their fuzzy bodies. Many mammals become arthritic, grey, thin and weak. Birds can lose feathers and develop a seedy appearance that does not bode well for their senior years. Fish float on the water with their eyes blank and bulging. But when spiders wear out, they just die and vanish (or dry up and blow away). They don’t hang around looking pitiful; they don’t cry either, even if they might want to. They’ve got most of us beat when it comes to finishing with panache.

Because I enjoy peering into the miniature landscape all around me, I do tend to boldly tiptoe where others tread only in work boots. When I happen to spot a nest of newly-emerged spiderlings, my first instinct is to run for the camera. It is never, ever to destroy the hundreds of babies heading into their brief spans under the sun. Their genes have dictated what they must do, and for how long. My genes have shaped me differently; fight-or-flight still operates, but there’s an added layer of rational thought and reflection that no spider can claim (yet). I could stomp and squash, but that wouldn’t help anyone. It would definitely not help the generation of new argiopes or shamrock orb weavers or jumping spiders looking to find homes around my yard.

Squashing the newborns, however, might immensely please the hordes of blackflies and mosquitoes that are tired of being stuck to spider threads and unceremoniously ingested. Then these winged terrors would be happily available to sample my skin. Now, I can’t find much about blood-sucking insects that I would call beautiful. The way they fit into the food chain, and nourish countless birds, is very significant. If there’s something to admire about them, this would be it. I watch the swallows careen all over the sky and understand that sometimes, if you can’t actually be lovely yourself, you can at least make loveliness happen elsewhere.

That’s what spiders do too. Every glittering September dawn reminds me that I would miss them terribly if they were suddenly extinguished. Shelob and her kind are fables. The reality is less exciting, perhaps, but far more reassuring to a gardener’s heart – far more tempting to a camera’s lens.

Arachnids of the world, arise and fulfill your destiny! You, too, are glorious and there is no need for you to weep.