Kingsbrae 2.2

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Kingsbrae 2.2
2 June 2017

The Red Room

Carlos makes music on his flute.
He lives in the Green Room,
an open door opposite mine.

He creates the highest note of all
and it floats before me in the air,
a trapeze artist caught in a sunbeam,
suspended between the hands
that fling and those that catch.

His musical rhythms are different.
I try to follow his fingering.

In the space between notes,
hummingbirds flash their ruby
throats as they flit between flowers.

With a whirring of wings, all music
stops, save for the robin’s song
refreshing the early summer
with the sound of his eternal joy.

Journal: As I unpack my bags and start to settle in and arrange the room to my own liking, Carlos who will stay in the room opposite mine, starts to play his flute. I listen to the notes and, as I am listening, a robin joins in the song. I rest for a moment and sit at the small writing desk by one of the windows. From here I can see white clouds floating their ice-berg shapes across a sea-blue sky. Beneath them, Passamaquoddy Bay sparkles and crackles with filtered sunshine.

My mind goes back to another, more desperate time, two years ago, when I sat by the hospice window in Moncton and looked out at the car park. My car sat out there, abandoned, lonely, waiting to take me home for the welcome respite of a weekend free from radiation and treatments. Now, looking out of the window towards Minister Island, I feel as if I belong, as if this place had been waiting a long time for me to arrive and bear witness to it. I feel deep inside me the joy I feel when I walk in the door and enter the warmth of my own family and home.

Kingsbrae 2.1

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Kingsbrae 2.1
2 June 2017

Pan Pipes
(for Carlos)

Lips form to make sounds
and the pan pipes speak
the international language
of love and lost love,
of a breeze through river reeds,
of fire on the snow high above
on Huascaran, Misti,
and wherever the pan pipes
roam, the piper will be at home,
his magic moving hearts and minds,
entering fingers that tap
and feet that move to the music’s beat,
yet beat is too harsh a word
for music that moves
like a breeze through the reeds
to pierce our souls
with its rhythmic breath
of a life now shared
with its mastery of that sacred art
older by far than other music,
save for the tapping
of stone and stick.

Zampoña andina
(para Carlos)

Los labios se comprimen
para formar sonidos
y habla la zampoña
la lengua internacional
de amor y amores perdidos,
de una brisa entre las cañas,
de fuego en las altas nieves
de Huascaran, Misti,
y dondequiera que viaje la zampoña
estará en casa el zampoñista,
su música penetrando
el corazón del oyente
haciendo bailar sus dedos
y danzar sus pies
al compás de la música,
aunque compás es una palabra
demasiado dura para describir
esta música que mueve y nos mueve
penetrando el alma
con el suspiro rítmico
de una vida ahora compartida
con su dominio de esta arte sagrada
más antigua que toda la música
salvo el batir de bastón contra piedra.

Journal: Last night, I picked Carlos up at the airport and we loaded the car. It was getting late, and between thunderstorms, water on the highway, poor visibility, the spring presence of moose on the highway, the gathering dark, and the hydroplaning that was a part of the storm, we decided to spend the night in Fredericton rather than arrive late and in the dark. My Spanish, very rusty, is improving under Carlos’s guidance. I am helping him with his English as he helps me with my Spanish.

This morning we are up early. Breakfast is ready. I will post this and then we will be on our way.

 

Kingsbrae 1.2

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Kingsbrae 1.2

Huezeequichi
1 June 2017

Pen on paper,
words fall like tears,
waters that will erode
the hardest of stones.

 This man bears witness
to thought, word, and deed.

He’s the outsider who sees
the interior world
and drags forth its spirit
for others to see,
not painted in paint,
not sculpted in stone,
no breeze through the reeds,
just words on the page
lined up in thin lines
to flower and flourish
like an army that conquers
the world of the soul,
and leaves fresh foot
prints on eternal snow.

Journal: The packing is being done. I have gathered my books and my writing material, my notebooks, my pens, my colored inks for cartoons, my drawing paper … it is all in a large box that I call my office. Next I must pack the laptop and the files / USBs and music that I need. After that comes camera and accoutrements, including a tripod in case I want some videos. Finally, the clothes that I need, working clothes and something slightly more elegant, not that I have much good clothing that fits me any longer: alas, I have put on size and weight. The ones who wear white coats told me I would … and they were right.

Carlos will be catching the Fredericton plane in an hour or so. I will have supper when I have packed and I’ll go to the airport after supper to meet him. Then I have to decide whether to drive down to St. Andrews tonight or whether to come back home and sleep here. Decisions, decisions: if the flight is delayed, as it often is, then we’ll spend the night here. If we spend the night here, we’ll leave tomorrow and head for St. Andrews early, just after breakfast.

There is so much to do, so much to think about. Luckily, I made a list and I am just following the instructions I gave myself when my mind was calmer.

Huezeequichi: the one who bears witness.