The Loneliness of a Stranger

The smell of coffee and cigarettes clung to her with the same loneliness that drove her speech.  A rambling collection of things were strung together in a strangely proud, and yet deeply lonely, conversation.  No, conversation is the wrong word.  We didn't converse so much as she talked and I listened.  I had gathered almost instinctively that she just needed to be heard, seen.

She told me that her Mom had passed and she was looking to become reconnected.  I am guessing that was where her loneliness originated.  She recounted a story where she and her mother had walked into the museum when it was closed but a meeting had been going on.  They were graciously allowed to wander the museum while the meeting continued.

She told me of the way she was only just realizing that all the places she likes to visit in Mexico and the US have turned out to be Kumeyaay sites.  She feels she is being drawn to them.  Maybe it's because she senses the deep roots of community in those places and she is drawn to them now that she feels alone in the world.

An intelligent woman, it rankled her in the way a familiar sadness does that she needed assistance when she couldn't reach a taller shelf.  Perhaps too it chafed at her that I was not less informed on the subjects in which she wanted to be superior.  It seemed important to her that she prove herself to me as someone who is well informed.

All I really know is that a day later I'm still contemplating the loneliness of that woman.  I feel her loss and sadness keenly and in my own way I'm grieving for her.  Sometimes I feel as though I see more than people intend for me to see.  Sometimes I think I can see right through a person to their deepest pains when they talk.  Is that a gift or a curse?  I can't do anything to help this woman, but maybe listening was enough.  We all have different roles to play in each other's lives, maybe yesterday she simply needed to be reminded that there are people in the world who will still listen.

I Am Purple

Recently, in the process of working through The Artist's Way, I was asked to do a bit of self-reflective writing.  The task was to pick a colour and write about yourself as that colour.  I picked my favorite colour and was really surprised by how much this writing task spoke to me.  This is what I wrote:


I am purple.  

I am red and blue simultaneously. I'm Royal, rare, at times misunderstood or undervalued. I'm work to understand or create but I'm elegant. I'm distinguished. I'm irises, dreams, warm grapes in the summer.

Purple Iris photo by Melinda Wilson 

I'm complicated, a blend of hot and cold mixed with abandon and passion. I'm quiet and ferocious by turns. I'm the subtle smell of lilacs and the intoxicating smell of lavender. I'm curling Iris petals and unfurling, lavender, velvety roses.

I'm refined and a wild spirit. I'm ethereal, magical and indefinable. I'm bold and shy. I'm the sort of complex that dusk and magic are made of. Real and romantic.

Purple Irises in Colonial Williamsburg photo by Melinda Wilson

I'm a wild Violet growing amidst the cracks of a sidewalk. I'm an Iris in a formal bed lining the path to an ancient stone Manor house. I'm immutable stained glass in a cathedral and fleeting hues in a sunset over the ocean.

I'm plums with sour skin and sweet flesh. Rich smooth color. I'm silk, velvet and satin. I'm flowers and fairytales. I'm fragile hope and vibrant strength.

Purple Flower in Geneva by Melinda Wilson

Let's be Old Fashioned Anglo-Saxons...

and write poetry.

That is, I was thinking there should be more poetry done in the Anglo-Saxon style using kenning.  Recently, I was thinking about how much fun it is to describe things in lengthy poetic phrases.  My favorite from reading Anglo-Saxon poetry, oh so many years ago, was the way they described the sea as the whale's road.

So, naturally, when this sprang to mind recently I decided I should write my own poem using kenning. Oh right, I haven't defined it yet and you may not wish to look it up just now, being as eager as you are, I am sure, to read my poem.  So, I'll just define it for you.  Kenning is when you use a poetic phrase to describe a word instead of just using that word.  Rather than saying you rowed a boat across the sea you would say that you rowed a boat across the whale's road.  A kenning for dragon would be fire-breather.  It's not a difficult poetic concept, nothing like conforming to a strict meter.  However, I think it's a lovely literary device.

Right, so now that we've defined kenning, I won't keep you in suspense any longer.  I know you are all dying to hear a little Anglo-Saxon styled poetry.  What would your day be without it?  Bleak.  I know.  Don't worry, I understand your concern about the dearth of kenning in modern society.  So, without further ado, here is the word pile of the day:

I make myself comfortable in the ocean's sand-box;
As the birds' highway lifts my hair in playful delight.
I build a tan grainy castle for the rolling water to devour;
While my toes find freedom from their leather plight,
My fingers find purpose in their tiny ground-pebble creations;
And my face grows warm with smiles in the day's ending light.