The Pulse of The Morning

Most mornings I try to sit and write a few pages in my small notebook. Pencil to paper. A daily record of thoughts, observations, feelings, ideas. Mainly unedited and nothing profound.

In my small notebook, I try to capture my slow, deliberate days with Frank, who is living and dying with aggressive, terminal cancer. I try to capture the beautiful intricate dance between life and death; the weaving together of living and dying, and the grace and beauty of awareness, compassion and love.

This blog is an attempt to reflect my morning scribblings. I've been contemplating it for a while but my inner saboteur likes to tell me that no-one would be interested in my very small, quiet world alongside a river in rural Nova Scotia. So I've put it off for many months.

I am a Luddite in heart and soul [I'm a weaver after all] and I rebel against this technology. I considered publishing a zine which feels much truer to who I am. But that takes time and effort, something I am very short of these days. Plus the cost of posting a simple envelope from Canada is akin to extortion. So I have taken the plunge: I have ignored my inner saboteur and I have begun. I ask you to bear with me.

The name of this new thing I am doing here is 'The Pulse of the Morning: Notes on Living and Dying.' My inspiration comes from the poem 'On The Pulse of Morning' by Maya Angelou. I've edited this beautiful, long poem down to the last few stanzas. My hope is for you to find inspiration in her words.
I'll see you here again soon.
Shona

On The Pulse of Morning
by Maya Angelou

...Lift up your eyes
This day is breaking for you.
Give birth again
To the dream.

Women, children, men,
Take it into the palms of your hands,
Mold it into the shape of your most
Private need. Sculpt it into
The image of your most public self.
Lift up your hearts
Each new hour holds new chances
For a new beginning.
Do not be wedded forever
To fear, yoked eternally
To brutishness.
The horizon leans forward.
Offering you a space to place news steps of
    change.
Here, on the pulse of this fine day
You may have the courage
To look up and out and upon me, the
Rock, the River, the Tree, your country.
No less to you now than the mendicant.
No less to you now than the mastodon
    then.
Here, on the pulse of this new day
You may have the grace to look up and out
And into your sister's eyes, and into
Your brother's face, your country
And say simply
Very simply
With hope - 
Good morning.