Once I was the smallest child
Once I was forever under foot
Once I was truly a handful
Now I am grown
Once I was the potato peeler
Once I was the dish washer
Once I was the laundry helper
Now I am a mother
Once I was the baby rocker
Once I was the story reader
Once I was the boo-boo mender
Now I am a grandmother
Once I lived near the sea
Once I lived near my relatives
Once I planned to always remain close
Now I am so far away )-:
Brenda 2011
Thursday, November 10, 2011
Where I'm From
I am from sea-washed sandy soil, from Corn Flakes and fresh, sweet raspberries.
I am from a tiny, crowded, but happy, run down cottage.
I am from the humble yet fragrant mayflowers that grow under the dry leaves along dirt roads in second growth woods, a mix of crow pine and red oak.
I am from Sunday dinners followed by a family drive in the car, and generosity, from Clan Hunter, Clan Anderson, Bearse and Buck and Frost and people who didn’t feel the need for last names.
I am from the old school recyclers who lived in a world of make-do and those who never held back when someone needed something.
From grandparent’s loving teachings, ripe with metaphors and hand-me-down traditions, from those who wove amazing stories out of thin air.
I am from meek Unitarian Universalists, from parishioners of the Church of Scotland, and before them from those who worshiped in a church whose members were of all nations of beings: winged and four-legged, those that swim, and those who crawl, those with roots that hold them still, and the elder stones who have watched since the beginning of time.
I'm from Cape Cod, fresh caught fish, thick and creamy clam chowdah, and homemade oatmeal bread.
From the Wampanoag Tribe that stood on the wintry shore watching the foreign ships approach, and the tired Pilgrims who left everything familiar and ventured forth with hope for a second chance.
I am from the newer end of the branches of the family tree with leaf sets of my own who have their own tiny buds. I am from stories told and stories woven, from names in archives of towns settled, carved on weather worn slate headstones on hills overlooking the cold Atlantic, names included in genealogies of poets and presidents, among those names were sachems, spiritual leaders, those falsely accused of witchcraft, craftspeople, sea captains, warriors, fishermen, scrimshanders, carpenters, strong women, farmers, and those destined to wander.
Our common histories are woven in a richly colored shawl of tradition that is mine to continue weaving and then pass down, a strand at a time in stories to eager ears caught up in the magic of our seaside heritage.
Brenda 2011
I am from a tiny, crowded, but happy, run down cottage.
I am from the humble yet fragrant mayflowers that grow under the dry leaves along dirt roads in second growth woods, a mix of crow pine and red oak.
I am from Sunday dinners followed by a family drive in the car, and generosity, from Clan Hunter, Clan Anderson, Bearse and Buck and Frost and people who didn’t feel the need for last names.
I am from the old school recyclers who lived in a world of make-do and those who never held back when someone needed something.
From grandparent’s loving teachings, ripe with metaphors and hand-me-down traditions, from those who wove amazing stories out of thin air.
I am from meek Unitarian Universalists, from parishioners of the Church of Scotland, and before them from those who worshiped in a church whose members were of all nations of beings: winged and four-legged, those that swim, and those who crawl, those with roots that hold them still, and the elder stones who have watched since the beginning of time.
I'm from Cape Cod, fresh caught fish, thick and creamy clam chowdah, and homemade oatmeal bread.
From the Wampanoag Tribe that stood on the wintry shore watching the foreign ships approach, and the tired Pilgrims who left everything familiar and ventured forth with hope for a second chance.
I am from the newer end of the branches of the family tree with leaf sets of my own who have their own tiny buds. I am from stories told and stories woven, from names in archives of towns settled, carved on weather worn slate headstones on hills overlooking the cold Atlantic, names included in genealogies of poets and presidents, among those names were sachems, spiritual leaders, those falsely accused of witchcraft, craftspeople, sea captains, warriors, fishermen, scrimshanders, carpenters, strong women, farmers, and those destined to wander.
Our common histories are woven in a richly colored shawl of tradition that is mine to continue weaving and then pass down, a strand at a time in stories to eager ears caught up in the magic of our seaside heritage.
Brenda 2011
I Asked
I Asked
I asked the sunrise why it was so golden
And it sang and sang its good morning song
I asked the sky why it was so blue
And it sighed some gentle clouds, puffy and white
I asked the elder maple tree why it whispered
And it shook its leaves in the wind as a response
I asked the breezes where they were going
And they played with my hair and made me laugh
I asked the gurgling creek to talk with me
And its unspoken words flowed directly into my spirit
I asked the afternoon shadows why they hurried the day along
And they just reached and grabbed up more sunlight
I pondered a while, what was the lesson?
And the earth said look around
As the rosy sun slipped into cool, starlit twilight
And the harvest moon rose above the darkening tree line
I quietly observed…
Everything was as it should be... perfect.
Brenda 2011
I asked the sunrise why it was so golden
And it sang and sang its good morning song
I asked the sky why it was so blue
And it sighed some gentle clouds, puffy and white
I asked the elder maple tree why it whispered
And it shook its leaves in the wind as a response
I asked the breezes where they were going
And they played with my hair and made me laugh
I asked the gurgling creek to talk with me
And its unspoken words flowed directly into my spirit
I asked the afternoon shadows why they hurried the day along
And they just reached and grabbed up more sunlight
I pondered a while, what was the lesson?
And the earth said look around
As the rosy sun slipped into cool, starlit twilight
And the harvest moon rose above the darkening tree line
I quietly observed…
Everything was as it should be... perfect.
Brenda 2011
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