Do You not pity us more than love?

We are so fragile made.

Apt to crumble at slightest touch,

gasping for breath we need so much.

Do You not wonder in sympathy?

We are so fragile mad.

Prone to failure and to pain,

seeking a slaking even in rain.

Do You not weep for us more than condemn?

We are so childish women and men.

Reach out and touch us on our face,

You who are love, and mercy, and grace.

Uncoil your mind and lay it flat

beside the lake or on the grass.

Spread out your worries and your arms

let go of tight and just relax.

The jewel weed rests beneath the dock

where water strokes the rocky shore.

Stones let the waves their soothing work

perform, and worry never more.  

The sun, the shade, will welcome you,

your only duty: to enjoy.

And soak in gratitude for life,

more person than you were before.

Come, let me show you my hawks.

We are old farmers,

with old machinery that needs replacing,

and have some wooded pastures

no farm animal grazes

(though we do not speak of this to farmers).

So woods remain, and long grasses,

with small animals secret.

When I walk the trail through the woods they come to me.

My hawks.

They swoop above me in full screech

and hang almost still until

just as I aim my camera,

then glide swiftly down the sky

behind the sheltering trees.

Mostly the male calls down curses

to keep away from his life,

and sometimes is joined by his warrior queen.

I have not gone near their treetop nest,

in honour of their majesty.

We also wished to be left in peace

as we raised our children.

Our children grown do not want to farm

And we do not wish it upon them,

Only keep the land and lay yourself down,

Let the solid peace soak up through your bones

And rest yourself on the land.

And see the hawks soar,

Masters of the sky.

And know yourself owned by the land

And a subject of long live the hawks.

Far

When someone you love leaves,

moves away to a different country,

never to return,

the present country that seemed so pleasant

is no longer as attractive.

Because you do not yet have your travel papers,

you remain in your place and do the work that is yours,

with care and compassion towards all,

but you spend time thinking about the country ahead,

and are less attached to your life in this country.

It does not matter as much what people think of you,

since this land is not your final home any more,

a part of you has gone ahead,

and it is that future life that tells you

what is and is not Important in this life. 

Major Pettigrew's Last Stand by Helen Simonson
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

What a fireworks-worthy piece of book!
The story successfully accomplished what a good story should: it transported me to another world, away from my problems and worries, to a constantly interesting and satisfying and eventful place, including that hard-to-find wonder, a happy ending!
I actually underlined a number of passages, something I am more likely to do in a philosophical or theological book. There is a fascinating comment on the nature of romantic love: '"The human race is all the same when it comes to romantic relations," said the Major. "A startling absence of impulse control combined with complete myopia."'(p. 181)
There is a treasure of an observation on abstract beliefs vs. concrete situations: "...I think that is how everyone feels in the abstract. But then life hands you something concrete...and abstracts have to go out the window." (p.201)
And a thought-provoking sentence spoken in conversation with a man in despair: "Sometimes I think God created the darkness just so he didn't have to look at us all the time." (p. 341)
On finishing the book, I hurried to the author's website, hoping she had a long list of published work to look forward to. Sadly for me, this is her first book. Here's hoping it's the first of many.


View all my reviews

I overcame the chaos in my garden,

but cannot fight the chaos inside me.

Neglected, unattended, weeds had flourished,

had grown, set seed, and then had grown again.

So far removed from a garden planned and nourished

when tended by a constant caring hand.

Unable to look after it for a season,

I paid the price in sweat and toil and scar,

rewarded by some progress toward reason,

toward what things ought to be, from what they are.

When the gardener seems absent, soil will harden,

disorder comes where growth had used to be.

I overcame the chaos in my garden,

But how to right the chaos inside me?

After all my troubles I like to think

that deep inside me is a core of faith,

a lovely shining thing, rock hard, upright,

gleaming from the polish of many a dark aching night.

But what I feel there instead is a shaft of pain,

a stabbing standing spear that pierces me again.

I refuse to avoid it as I continue to seek

beneath pain, sorrow, darkness, when I'm not too weak.

Keep your ride upright

as you go on your way.

When the roadway curves

bank a little. Don't stray.

When the road rises up,

a hill hides the coming land,

slow down, keep watch,

keep a strong and steady hand.

When the clouds come down

and you're going in the dark

find shelter until

you see the destination mark.

Look around you as you go,

learn from all the things you see.

Keep your ride upright.

Be the one you're meant to be.

Last week, after I drove my husband to the field

and helped him change the flat tire on the harrow,

as he returned to the work with tractor and machinery,

I walked the land.

Across the hay field still early spring brown,

small birds flying up from bunched tufts of dried grass,

the high above me calling screech of a soaring watching hawk,

I walked toward the bush.

(When we were children, "I'm going to the bush," we would say,

a few minutes walk from our farmyard.)

I stood for a minute, on the edge,

looking at field, looking at trees,

and took the step,

sinking into the woods with a sigh.

If God had a mother, what would that be?

The Creator becomes a beloved child,

held in the arms of compassion and boundless human love.

Did it delight the heart of God, to feel the personal side

of a mother's sacrificial care,

when she rose up willingly, night or day,

to see to the needs of her precious child?

Was she on his mind when he prayed

to avoid the coming torture;

did he think of the pain his death would stab into her?

"Woman", he would call her, and honour the word.