God On The Rocks

“Please let there be no one at my rock,” I’d whisper silently, picking up the pace. The deeply wooded trails behind me, I’d step out onto the promontory of rock and take the giant breath I’d been holding inside for too long. It was here at the edge of the world, all sky and ocean, that my body could lift the mask from its daily façade.

Lighthouse Park (2)In the months following my daughter’s diagnosis, a visit to this sacred spot became a weekend ritual; the one place I could find solace in a world falling apart around me. Lighthouse Park, a summation of all that’s beautiful about Vancouver, was my go-to place.

I’d head directly to the pocket of rock carved, it seemed, just for me to hunker down and take refuge from the world. Most times I went there to cry, for a life that was ‘never meant to turn out this way’. Other times I would talk to ‘God’, the Universe, whoever might be listening. “I wish for a long and healthy life for my daughter Rachel,” I’d say out loud, hoping that audible prayers might take precedence over the silent kind.

In later months when the sun had warmed deep in the Earth I’d lay back, arms outstretched on the ancient rock letting it absorb all of me, the weight of worry shifting from me to Her, without question or conversation, judgment or sympathy. Some alchemical healing began to work its magic.

When my daughter’s tumour was thought to be malignant, my rock beckoned more and more. Conversations with ‘God’ came thick and fast. Then came that unforgettable day. Curled up on my side, the hypnotic motion of waves and tide had held me captive for hours. I needed to begin the journey home. As I peeled my body from the rock and opened my eyes I saw it; the most perfect rainbow plastered across the skies of West Vancouver’s shoreline. A new bout of tears clouded my vision. But this time, I was smiling too. Certain that my spoken prayers had been heard, I lay down again and listened. Here’s what ‘God’ had to say:

“There’s always beauty in pain. Go find it.

And don’t worry, I’ve got this one.”

Never before or since did I believe in the power of prayer or feel accompanied by something larger, so much as on that day.

Each time I see a rainbow I smile at the memory of that day’s vision. I know now that great beauty originates in the graceful acceptance of sadness. As Marcel Proust said, “The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes but in having new eyes.”

Unlike grief, nature is predictable. Its ebb and flow, its seasons and cycles offer us hope when little else can. To find our special places in the natural world is a calling we each must discover. My rock at Lighthouse Park, a meeting of land and sea, was the place I found to grapple with profound and painful change. Where’s yours? Where do you go to find peace, to mend your heart, maybe even talk to ‘God’?

In the Absence of Eggs

It’s been three weeks now and the chooks aren’t putting out. Well not as far as I can tell. If they’re laying, they’re not letting on.
“Look out for eggs in strange places,” the homeowners cry joyfully, Quantas bound. Thing is, I have been looking: under boulders, piles of grass, roosting spots, but no eggs. Nada. Nothing. 

What’s worse is one’s losing all her feathers. A coating of downy soft plumage lines the carport, like the aftermath of a pillow fight. More each day.  
Dear God,
If you’re around this Easter
Please take care of the chooks,
Please don’t let there be any animal fatalities under my watch. 
I don’t care about the eggs anymore. 
Thank you, 
While God’s working on that l head out in search of the chocolate kind, Cadbury’s Mini Eggs, my primary source of sustenance for years spent writing March report cards. 
Wincing at the increasingly exposed blue neck of the barren chook nestled deep within the carport I drive off in a cloud of feathers, eager to accumulate an Easter stash of something edible.

Aussies love their chocolate. Cadbury’s is HUGE. Easter egg displays are spectacular with eggs of every size, colour, and filling that launch pensioners into fits of giddy delight. But alas, I search the aisles of Coles, Woolworths, and IGA in vain. Under great duress I’m forced to entertain the notion of an Easter devoid of my favourite crunchy morsels. 
With no luck on the egg front of either variety it’s clearly time for a change – again! The licence plates remind me:
Tasmania – Explore the Possibilities

So instead, each morning I hunt for the hugest, plumpest figs ready to pluck and rest atop my counter and ponder the deliciously divine ways in which to consume.

I scan the vista of meandering river amidst fields of barley, cut a blooming red rose and admire its majesty of folds and fragrance. The rooster crows, a kookaburra laughs, and a robin models his tangerine chest to appreciative onlookers. Bountiful beauties of another kind offer themselves to me in abundance.
Who needs eggs? Not me it seems. 

Well, at least not till the next full moon. (See Mars Bar Meditation) Hmmm, think that’s tonight. Suddenly, a werewolf urgency propels me into a frenzied panic….

hey…look what I found at the corner store!