Be Like Star Thrower

Self-portrait. Off the breakwater, Waikiki.
P. Ferguson image, March 2024.

Be Like Water

I glide with the current…as it tumbles or carries my person gently to new visions, of fishes and corals, of fragments – plastics, rubber, glass, lead and rusted hooks. I float outside the breakwater so too – to return near my point of entry to glide again. With each swimming sailing time passes as time immemorial and yet here upon this part of my ocean world I find moments to think upon “Established 1959”. Statehood perhaps…but not for those who cry for the gods, cry for the people…(Hawai‛i 78 from Facing Future, Israel “Iz” Kamakawiwo‛ole, 1993).

Fishing from the wall while watching paddlers in the distance.
P. Ferguson image, March 2024.

As I dive below the ocean’s rolling surface to be one with its immenseness or raise my head above tossing waters to locate myself to the landward, I recognize my therapeutic rinse here in the salts of Hawai‛i. This is for my person, be like water on this our misnamed planet.

A few stars above Palm trees…above city lights.
P. Ferguson image, March 2024.

Once this place was not a personal destination of choice. I was skeptical without being informed. Commercialized…well yes…paradise lost…well yes…but then it was time for me to go. Time to see. I attempt to recognize much of what has befallen here, I attempt to express my gratitude for being privileged to visit here…I think about a Hawai‛i land (and water) acknowledgment…and though I can never escape the commercialism or befallen, I can be better informed when I choose to visit Hawai’i its lands and waters.

Looking towards Lē’ahi (Diamond Head)…time immemorial bordered by the modern.
P. Ferguson image, March 2024.

My return home leaves me searching, a desire to return to my floating water nest, its lullaby an even keel and leveler of imbalance. I review my experiences in thoughts, pictures, writings. I recognize a change with my words. Though there is a historical bent to my wandering I seek now, more than ever, added contextual and conceptual value. I have something to say but with new willingness for connections vibrant with new knowledge (on my part). Connections that I have never travelled with before or have found because of deeper searches on my part…to be better informed and hence today words from American philosopher and natural science writer, Loren Eiseley.

Common Water: Its substance reaches everywhere; it touches the past and prepares the future. (The Immense Journey, Loren Eiseley, 1957)

Hawaii Visitors Bureau Marker. Heritage Site of Hawai’i, Washington Place where Queen Lili’uokalani was arrested during the overthrow of the Hawaiian Kingdom, 1893.
P. Ferguson, image, March 2024.

Hawai’i is one place where I do what I can to respect place and peoples. To find earlier truth then what we find ourselves sold or told (established 1959), to empty the waters of our litter – no matter how small or large. I look at white sand and find bottle tops, foil and plastic wrappers. I look at life in many forms, I think about annexation, Hawaiian royalty, Dole’s pineapple industry, colonial buildings, modern architecture, churchyards, cemeteries and Pearl. As I look about from my sandy base towards a modern pink hotel (The Royal Hawaiian, opened 1927) and then towards Lē’ahi (brow of the tuna, time immemorial) AKA Diamond Head (British sailor’s name, 19th century) I see time immemorial’s paradise lost and my personal well-being paradise found. Be better informed, be like star thrower, be like water, as water is life.

The great star sets at Waikiki. Tomorrow is a new day.
P. Ferguson image, March 2024.

One day a wise man was walking along the beach when he noticed a boy picking something up and gently throwing it back into the ocean. Approaching the boy, he asked, “What are you doing?” The boy replied, “Throwing starfish back into the ocean. The sun is up and the tide is going out. If I don’t throw them in, they’ll die.”

Upon hearing this, the wise man commented, “But, young man, do you not realize that there are miles and miles of beach and there are starfish all along every mile? You can’t possibly make a difference!”

At this, the young man bent down, picked up yet another starfish and threw it into the ocean. As it met the water, he said, “It made a difference for that one.”

(Adapted from The Unexpected Universe, Loren Eiseley, 1969)

To Hang the Stars Upon

Making Way for the Universe

I have mostly made way for the universe coming towards me, choosing not to out-distance myself from its tumbling nature. Do not panic, do not rumble, stay calm and listen to the rhythm of the heart. Yet in me that storm – that one way motorway…

It’s there, that wild light heading towards the blinding bright, leave the road…time for the trail and find my way back home. I…I burn off and on waiting for a new day rising, to shine with trust that the right way comes around again – and how true I look to a brand new sky to hang the stars upon. I…I am divided, I wonder – should I stay or should I go, to leave it all behind. But it’s times like these you learn to live, give and love again.

Wild light…burning bright. Elodie’s Main Street Hotel (part of the trail), Ieper, Belgium.
P. Ferguson image, November 2018.

Remaining true to oneself is – ah-ah-ahh – critical when times do not mirror your good intentions, when all around seems an endless search for the story wall to write upon. But the best way…the best way…is perhaps to stop looking forever forward – to recognize my good fortunes were built one golden nail at a time…those that hold one together – each nail a milestone of accomplishment.

Maybe then – time and time again – I will recognize more what I have done and have –  rather than – what I need to do – and – what I think I want. For I‘m a new day rising a brand new sky to hang the stars upon making way for the universe coming towards me.

The sun rises. First shot of the day.
New day rising.
P. Ferguson image, August 2022.

Times Like These

Dave Grohl thank you…from your message I have a message for myself.

Lyrics

I, I’m a one way motorway
I’m the one that drives away
Then follows you back home
I, I’m a street light shining
I’m a wild light blinding bright
Burning off and on
Ah-ah-ahh

It’s times like these you learn to live again
It’s times like these you give and give again
It’s times like these you learn to love again
It’s times like these time and time again

I’m a new day rising
I’m a brand new sky
To hang the stars upon tonight
I am a little divided
Do I stay or run away
And leave it all behind?
Ah-ah-ahh

It’s times like these you learn to live again
It’s times like these you give and give again
It’s times like these you learn to love again
It’s times like these time and time again

It’s times like these you learn to live again
It’s times like these you give and give again
It’s times like these you learn to love again
It’s times like these time and time again
It’s times like these you learn to live again
It’s times like these you give and give again
It’s times like these you learn to love again
It’s times like these time and time again
It’s times like these you learn to live again
It’s times like these you give and give again
It’s times like these you learn to love again
It’s times like these time and time again

Times Like These. Acoustic performance by Dave Grohl.
BBC Radio 1 Live Lounge, 31 January 2011.

Image Credits

Universe and Heartbeat (Gerd Altmann, Pixabay)

The Mirth Curator

Toomuchstuf pondering the dilemma.
Cousin Toomuchstuf ponders the dilemma.

Toomuchstuf

There were always more things. Some here and some there, with other things just around the corner. Toomuchstuf loved things, shiny things, things that rolled, things that crinkled, whatsits, thingamabobs, do-dads, round things, square things, bumpy things, smooth things and of course whatever thing appealed to the mouse eye of the moment.

This Christmas though Toomuchstuf felt it was time to let go. But what things? All things are useful! Colourful, wonderful, plain, fancy…definitely Toomuchstuf acknowledged…an intervention was needed. Who best to call upon but cousin Wantmore whose name implied more but whose name harkened back to a youngling mouse who asked more of his poor mouse family who had, at that time, yet to find their place amongst attic treasures. Wantmore had grown well beyond the need for things though he deeply cared for the human things he felt entrusted to his care.

Wantmore atop a block whilst visiting cousin Toomuchstuf
Wantmore watches over his cousin Toomuchstuf.

And so, as all mousetalk goes there was a letter sent via mousemail, paper carefully chosen, using only the finest of inks, good salutation, the predicament explained, a courteous plea for assistance and the grand sign off…From your goodly hearted cousin Toomuchstuf. Toomuchstuf considered for a moment to include a thing with the mousemail but then filled with much mouse anxiety choosing shape and colour…should it be padded or wrapped, should it be in a padded envelope, crated, oh gosh how best to send? And so it was this day a letter only for Wantmore.

As mousemail has short delivery times, as most mouse extended families live in soon time delivery areas the letter arrived later that afternoon. Wantmore was making tea, with a few ginger crumbs and mince tart bits for good tasties. Wantmore moved his plate to the arm of his chair and pulled the blanket across his mouselyness. The letter to one side as he bit into the ginger, closing his eyes and then acknowledging the fine tasties of the season. Oh, to live this well Wantmore thought…being forever grateful of his home and duties to his human family.

Red pillar box giving times of delivery.
Mousemail moves quickly and Toomuchstuf took his letter to his usual post or pillar box.

All was well as he opened Toomuchstuf’s letter. As Wantmore read he sighed a concerned mouse sigh for he knew his cousin well. Too much of too much is too much and too much of a thing is too much stuff. So Wantmore went off across the scampering of snow to the nearby house, up the drainpipe to a hole in the side, near the gable, next to the turret and pushed at the door.

Upon entry the gathering of rolly-polly, sis-boom-bah, tumbleware, smoothware, bumpy and plain poured from the corners (if you could see the corners) with only narrow pathways in between. Where Wantmore asked is my cousin the mirth curator and then there he was carrying three green beads within his paws attempting to sort by colour (for this is much of mouse nomenclature). Now green goes here, and blue there…these pink ones are too few….oh but what about my marbles Toomuchstuf asked?

Bright colours...beads and more beads.
Toomuchstuf had a fine gathering of beads of all colours, shapes and sizes.

Then, there ye be, Toomuchstuf saw cousin Wantmore and after considerable hellos and how do you dos and wellenss, they then worked together through this usual alone time of his cousin. These things bring me comfort and memories Toomuchstuf explained…there were tears as Toomuchstuf pondered each and every thing to consider for divestment. And as Wantmore always listened and as he always knew it was not the too much stuff of this particular day but the alone time of this particular day. And so the two mouse cousins spent some while looking at things and recalling memories associated with each one. All things have significance Wantmore thought depending on how they have been collected and cared for.

Many hours later and during the time to leave time, which takes some while in mouse time with best wishes and wellness for the season, Wantmore at the door near the hole in the wall reached into his pocket and with his one mouse paw provided as a gift a singular, spectacular pink bead to Toomuchstuf. For me Toomuchstuf asked with considerable joy and with great mouse nodding, wobbling, and waves, Wantmore said Yes and scampered to his home knowing this Christmas he had given Toomuchstuf exactly what was required in his alonenessness…love, attention and another memory.

Wantmore and Toomuchstuf.
The two cousins, Wantmore and Toomuchstuf together.

All images by P. Ferguson, December 2023

Merry Christmas to one and all…mouse and non-mice!

On Watch in the Rain

The water falls this day of days, 11 November 2023.
P. Ferguson image, November 2023.

I watch as the water bounces across the surfaces and here at our window it gathers. The droplets as if heavy tears from the sky. Peace here but not so much in this entire world we know as home. The wind not gentle in its breath but manageable, I stand by familiar tree – some eight years have past at this my familiar perch. Others will be here – beside me. Perhaps the same vantage point but it’s the passing figures and impressions that will make this day my remembrance.

The day’s fly-past above a sea of umbrellas.
R. Ferguson image, November 2023.

As I watch one perhaps newly retired from the Canadian forces joins nearby. Wearing jeans and hoodie. The baseball cap is creased…wet from this day. Medals at the chest, poppy above. This is today’s veteran and I believe the first I have seen that reflects those who will continue to be here after this visitor is no longer at this tree. There were others before him, my father who when unable to march with his own, brought camera instead and puttered amongst the crowd to take pictures. His camera, his lens became my view finder. And then of course the naval veteran…the last time I saw him…supported by others as his ratings cap took him across the horizon. This is how I can remember.

Rainbows, hope and soldier who today appears to see the rainbow.
P. Ferguson image, November 2023.

I move forward to amplify the sky as the bend of colour provides backdrop to the bronze soldier. Rainbows seem hopeful. I watch as others take their pictures…a sea of camera phones captures the phenomenon. I return to my tree and in the turning about, the vision has left us. I wonder what else might pass by or appear to capture the heart, the soul of all who gather? And then there are those who provide support. Another heartbeat in the home…those who seek only mutual love…and in an instance I am reminded of the parachuting dog Brian, and the Blitz rescue dog Rip. They too served.

Loyal friend ever watchful. Poppy at the collar.
P. Ferguson image, November 2023.

Then too there are other reminders this day…we will remember them…we will remember those who served and those who died in this nation’s sacrifice. We can remember those left behind to remember and those left with memories they must carry every day. This is a day that we can help carry all those through to tomorrow, to always carry on, to always do our bit, to always remember.

Veteran service dog…this day we will remember.
P. Ferguson image, November 2023.

New Climbs for this Horizon

Member’s badge of the Salonika Campaign Society.
P. Ferguson image, September 2023.

Pursue and Pursuit

As we walk into the air, I feel the welcome heat immediately. Cautious steps down the boarding (de-planing) stairs and then towards the terminal at Thessaloniki. We pass through the barriers, immigration as signs above appear in Greek and English. There is no time for pictures. We turn another corner, and are well met by the mosquito sign of the Salonika Campaign Society. A small group of like-minded individuals who will share in our journey these next few days. As our cluster turns one other, not of our party, sports a classic silk-screened hoodie – the Anti-Social Social Club. I have returned to the Mediterranean (and Aegean) after some eleven years. There will be new climbs for this horizon.

Salonika Battlefield tour t-shirt
T-shirt from a previous tour. Several of our group have visited here multiple times.
P. Ferguson image, September 2023.

As our tour bus drives towards our first stop there are few people save for one attempting to sell biscuits between rows of autos. All of us are generally of an age save for one younger descendant whose ancestor remains here. The further our tour bus limbers along the more I am itching for a wander amongst the highlights that drift by. A classic 1930s British-built road roller covered in an even patina of rust passes by too quickly even for a reference shot through our spotted windows. Perhaps there will be (of course there will be) other moments? Still, I need a walk, as I yearn for content, images and context.

Dry ground and shadow at Roche Noire Salient.
The sun provides my shadow against the dry ground at Roche Noire Salient.
P. Ferguson image, September 2023.

Parallel to us glides a bird of prey in search of its earthly diet. Pursue and pursuit, evade and escape. I watch until the raptor banks on a return journey to whence it came. At our first stop we wander about a military cemetery where we receive the day’s foodstuffs and I become bedazzled by dragonflies, similar to our raptor friend, in pursuit of small white flies. I begin to wonder upon the natural history of this new place (to me). What wanders in pursuit but is itself pursued by challengers?

Along the trail a tortoise shell – well dried in the sun. Pursue, pursuit…no chance of evade and escape.
P. Ferguson image, September 2023.

Our first operational history site takes the group to the Roche Noir Salient captured by the British 27th Division 1-2 September 1918. This start to the final breakthrough, pursue and pursuit, was part of a large and well coordinated allied attack. The enemy’s forces collapsed to the west of Lake Doiran and on 29 September 1918 Bulgaria signed the Armistice of Salonika.

At the site of battle. The Roche Noire Salient, Greece.
One landscape of the Roche Noir Salient, Greece.
P. Ferguson image, September 2023.

It takes a while to cross the border into North Macedonia. Seemingly this day is one I was once familiar with reminding me of Western Europe border crossings in the 1960s. Soon our day draws to a new beginning at Doiran where we become better acquainted with ourselves and our interests. This evening’s food will feature fish dinners, elegantly prepared, though I can only pick at salads, potatoes and tomatoes. Cats are in abundance, watching upwards towards this new visitor. Also in pursuit…we are both hungry.

One of several feline visitors to the table. at Doiran, North Macedonia.
P. Ferguson image, September 2023.

For further information about the Salonika Campaign Society please visit their website.

To Be Where I Have Been

Langemark German War Cemetery, West Flanders. Two of four mourning figures.
P. Ferguson image, September 2009.

Our Shadows Taller Than Our Soul

I wander through the words of others seeking images and voices – to create connection or to treat on their own or to provide all encompassing descriptions of a particular moment or feeling. Finding voices and images that capture the essence provides for a better walked trail. The first of these images and voices together…the searching of the light and shadow (and especially the in between) from my 2004 journey to the Western front. (Malta a close second…I need to walk that trail again).

Shadow and light. Poppy crosses at the base of the Kitcheners’ Wood Memorial.
P. Ferguson image, September 2016.

The work in 2004 resulted in presentations – the light and shadows of soldiers from both sides of the fence, memorial architecture, fragments of memory, the destruction of and the rebuilding of Ypres’ Cloth Hall and St. Martin’s Cathedral…the corners of this Ypres town. All of these steps continue, albeit there has been no personal return since November 2018. The shadows have indeed grown long and I must find my soul again upon these trails.

Trench shadows (and light) at the Imperial War Museum, London.
P. Ferguson image, September 2017.

This day’s effort has come from searching for phrases by wandering through the voices of singer/songwriters. In doing so today’s words a segue of my findings…a search of what represents my wanderings… I’m a traveler of both time and space…To be where I have been*…and then again to my recognition of the movement of time…Our shadows taller than our soul.**

A shadow at work. Bény-sur-Mer Canadian War Cemetery, Normandy, France.
P. Ferguson image, September 2009.

And that 2004 voice to describe all I had seen on the Western Front…from the much earlier voice of William Shakespeare…Praising what is lost makes the remembrance dear. (All’s Well that End’s Well, circa 1598-1608).

The Brooding Soldier. Shadow and light at the St. Julien Canadian Memorial, Belgium.
P. Ferguson image, September 2016.

*Kashmir, Led Zeppelin (Page, Plant, Bonham, 1975)

**Stairway to Heaven, Led Zeppelin (Page, Plant, 1971)

With the sun will come more flowers!

Its been a while…

Crows roosting on a driftwood shelter.
P. Ferguson image, August 2022

The wait seems longer than usual. Each previous day seemingly grey in this life of waiting. Today the motivation has arrived as the sun opens its aura on Victoria sending its rays – its warmth towards us. And so they come too, en masse – persons flocking to the beaches bringing food and drink, ice cream is near. The water laps near them as personal inflatables dance at the shore. Paddleboards no longer ground-borne find their place on the water. Driftwood shelters appear. All are happy.

Poppies…with the sun…will come more flowers.
P. Ferguson image, September 2023.

So too the, the next generation, dancing in the flight of frisbees and footballs. Spike ball brings laughter and good attempts for the point as mixed doubles may find deeper friendship. It’s the sun. And for parents…their joy of seeing the most important thing of the day to a child. Mom, Dad look what I did, look what I found. Camera phone out, selfies abound….memories to show later…perhaps years to come…remember when?

Dear sun, so happy you are here, near to my person, the ache is gone and I am again cradled in your arms. Its been a while and how for years…I have wanted this song for the heart of this warm, warm day. With the sun will come more flowers!

The Beatles. Here Comes the Sun. (1969)..brilliant!

It Sounds Like Home

Western Front Violin
Western Front Violin. Made from battlefield area Pine and Sycamore. Imperial War Museum Collection.
P. Ferguson image, November 2008.

The Violin as Mentor

For those who strive to find words from the pen or keystroke…they will understand…not all words are forthcoming. Some days words sit on the edge, and though I have written before of word loss I love these days when words fall from the fingers to the page. It can be this simple.

Some long while ago I endeavored to write poetry…whatever came to my thoughts and written as the words gathered themselves into phrases. The joy was not perfection, it was not in any form of editing…the joy was the raw feelings in the moment.

The Thiepval Memorial across the fields of battle.
P. Ferguson image, October 2009.

So today I find myself working on the Somme for a presentation, occasionally coming to terms with memory…what can I possibly retain? Then I let go…what will be will be…like the unfinished violin that finds its notes for the Battle of the Somme. And the words have come – from its play across the strings as the bow laces the tune together. And in the playing we have these words for the page. Home…so many memories.

The Battle of the Somme, The Unfinished Violin, Sam Sweeney, 2018.

…and this is not the first time I have thought of home with the violin as mentor. So too those days on a ridge with The Warriors Lament of Sierra Noble 9 April 2007.

Beginning to End

Where is the heart…

Adanac Military Cemetery, Miraumont, France.
A battlefield of the Somme. Looking towards Adanac Military Cemetery, Miraumont, France.
P. Ferguson image, September 2010.

…the soul…of this presentation that I steadily provide ink to? It must be more than the telling…it must resonate in the craft of words and images together…a bigger story than the one we obviously tell. How did we come to this session? One soldier in particular, connected to bronze, to the chanter, to history. Yet so many others walked and scrambled across this same ground…not recognized as such – as one young man.

Thiepval across the fields.
Across the farmer’s fields where the cacophony of war sounded. Thiepval Memorial in the distance…the great stone echo of that chaos. P. Ferguson image, September 2010.

And as I stumble towards finding my reasons for crafting my effort in the fashion I choose, I turn again to the score…the grid of phrase and passion. One simple search, “War and Cello”. It is in the asking I find a link to my over-arching idea…to my words beginning and end…and why I choose to focus this day – you are there with him.

Soldiers of the Great War
Evermore…those who walked and scrambled this ground. Canadian, British and Australian soldiers…our heart…our soul. How many came home?

This story is of those others…the stories not so easily found, bleached with time, yet we make them walk here again. This is a new pilgrimage not the one in focus but those to the side. The others on the memorial from the same battles and from across our communities. Digging and asking a little deeper, finding the phrase…the heart…the soul that makes their story (the others) of equal conversation to the well known…they (the others) being the seldom known of the beginning and of the end…evermore.

The Darkest Cello Music – Beginning to End. Aimee Norris.

In memory of one of the others…
Private Harry Ayres…47th Canadian Infantry Battalion
Killed in Action…Regina Trench
11 November 1916
Commemorated on the Vimy Memorial, France

A few lines from Harry’s letter to his wife Carrie

A blazier fire at twilight,
A thousand stars ashine,
A searchlight sweeping Heaven.
About the firing line.
The rifle bullet whistles,
The message that it brings,
Of death and desolation
To common folks and Kings.
A sentry at his station,
Upon the trenches rim
Has thoughts that draw souls nearer
And you are there with him

(Harry Ayres, Chilliwack Progress, 7 December 1916, page 1)

Ring! Hi Mum it’s me!

One day at a time…our little Christmas tree…
(P. Ferguson image, December 2022)

…For Rosemary and her brothers

The tree this year may be small but shines no less brightly. There may be one less this day at our table but somehow we will find the way. It’s a new road now but one we all travel.

Beside the tree a solitary Christmas penguin. To the other side a dish carrying ceramic bear waiting days now for the single chocolate to disappear. Wantmore and friends are about – scampering to the tree…fretting – it’s different these days. The family they know are about, but quiet. It’s not like them. Wantmore and his family enjoy the lights – bright colours – but no crumb bits are about these festive days. The mice-kin understand.

And when the tree lights come on at night and the music plays behind…all know what we are thinking…in hope…that a single chocolate will disappear by morning.

Rosemary's mum

An Irish Rose…Margaret Mary Audrey May (nee McManus)
12 June 1926 – 22 December 2022