I wake up every morning now,
only a short distance from
Emily Carr’s heritage home on Government Street,
and that makes me happier than it should
because of who she was and who she became
even though who is she to me, really?
Just another woman who struggled to live
how she wanted to live — no more, no less.
On canvas and across her days, an original.
Not as easy a feat as that might seem.
Love her or reject her still?
Settler that she was, that almost all of us now are.
So much to learn about this old city.
Peering down from my eighth floor concrete perch,
each day book-ended by
watercolour washes of lucky accidents
and in the distance, three deciduous.
I’ve named them The Triplets because
three tall tops poking above the rest is what I see.
Regal and stretching, their tippy-toe branches
resembling that delicate ancient art: Crewel embroidery
except, in this case, offered up to the gods.
All it takes is a little imagination to transform this morning’s vista:
into an orange horizon on a distant savanna.
The heat from a tanned land blurring the whirling dervish of far away hands.
Nowhere near, as I am and The Triplets are, to Mile Zero on the West Coast of Canada where Terry Fox runs, in stillness, towards eternity.
Wishing for you this year, as I do for most everyone who has touched my life, ever, good fortune, stellar health, memorable conversations, fulfilling friendships and as C.S. Lewis describes in his book of the same name, The Four Loves.
Use bright colours to decorate your canvas in the next 365 days. Happy 2018!