Natures rasping harmonies in
Mass of green, brown…
wind- riffled creeks
held by silvery-tangled firewood
… Points of awakening in plots of flakes
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Linked moments hand-picked for nurturing
Ice splintered limbs tore through tree’s sap
Warm tones of stones in frost delight
Livelihood lovingly trails in flurry sights
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Propulsive energy surged, stings
Joy rises, churned, strung tight
Winter in full trestle in old quarry thoughts
Harness afar in sun-shot sensation
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Poem Written by Brenda L. McCartney
Flickr - Alfred Wade
I am in deep thought about what Dutch born organizational sociologist, G. Hofstede suggests. He implies that culture manifests itself in for forms symbols, heroes, rituals and values. In my everyday reality a part of this means that certain objects can have a particular meaning to an individual. At this moment I am glancing at the poppy I purchased for Remembrance Day as it lies on my book shelf with such symbolic potency.
I recall being in primary (elementary) school and paying ten cents for a poppy, now I pay one dollar but I guess it equals the standard of living in real goods. Back then we had two options a poppy with a pin and the other with the green stem which cost slightly more. Of course I always preferred the one with the green stem it was slightly bigger and more appealing, as it was versatile; a girl could wear it in her hair and not worry about being pricked. For me as a girl or even as a young adult Remembrance Day was associated with impressive ceremonies, the moving sounding of the Last Post.
War to me as a primary school student was just a casual thought of fallen soldiers pushed to the forefront just for a day. The evanescent image of War perhaps comes from a weak sense of history. As I got older and studied Global Economics the War took on more significance. I learned about the Bretton Woods Agreement, the Gold standard etc. and many more developments which arose out of war. I never knew my grandfathers part in the War until his death. He did not speak about that part of his life. When the guns were fired at his military funeral the thought of fighting in war took on more significance.
I have been conducting a research on my family tree and I came across a very close relative. The photograph revealed that he was a soldier of war buried in England. Growing up his siblings never talked about him in reference to the war just that he died. Maybe I was too young to understand. It was not until this Remembrance Day when Montserrat remembered the fallen soldiers and the names were revealed on the newly constructed cenotaph I realized that the same relative was the said soldier buried in England. Yes World II has a new face this year as it has captured my attention with immediate importance.
The rituals of Remembrance Day 2010 has come and gone but it has left an affecting memory. So as we continue to call to mind the heroes and my very own relative Alfred Wade, who fought. We also remember those who have died in the two World Wars and other conflicts. Let us remember the supreme sacrifice that they made so we may value life, live freely and enjoy the way we now live. I should mention that G. Hofstede went on to suggest that each person has within themselves several layers of culture which may be conflicting. I am finding out more and more about myself as time passes and my layers of culture are revealed to me through history. What about your life have you recently discovered and how has the past influenced your present day reality.
A few years ago I visited The International Slavery Museum, Liverpool England. While visiting the museum it seemed as if I was virtual synchronous (shifting place but not time) with history. It was as if a time portal opened and I can see the past with my eyes. I read books in school’ Nelson’s West Indian History, A Pre-Emancipation History of the West Indies etc. but the full impact of the brutality of slavery was not so tangible until that morning in the museum.
Did I hear someone just ask if she is really writing about slavery, emancipation again? Wait; allow me to quickly diffuse your tension about my obsession of emancipation this week. Firstly, it is the week in which we celebrate the anniversary of emancipation; I am only a vehicle to remind you that it would have troubled our ancestors if they would have known that we would be forgetful of their historical milestones, when we forget. If you don’t believe me check the inscription when you visit The International Slavery Museum that reads “People need to remember about slavery. It pains the ancestors when we forget.” Secondly, I am trying to understand my past and what matters to me; thus enabling me to have a more meaningful opportunity to integrate the pieces of my life in new ways. Thirdly, I owe it to my stakeholders (me [mind, body spirit] husband, child, community) to impart what I have learned. Fourthly I hope that my enriched connections/ experiences may be of some benefit to you.
In the Slavery museum there were black and white photographs, models of the masters’ home. Additionally there were models of the slave ships and the slave quarters. There were maps of the slave triangle, replicas of slave huts and there were distinctive accounts that varied in drama and suspense. The exhibits were also in the form of interactive computers that narrated stories of slaves and there were audio enactments of the dehumanizing ways they were physically and mentally tortured.
There were European accounts justifying the inhumane buying and selling of African men, women and children. True accounts of slavery, like those in the museum informs you of the European view of African culture being barbaric thus justifying their actions. Similarly, there was an elderly black man passionately narrating his story: his surname was given to his ancestor by a slave master. He along with the remainder of his family still did not know anything about their origins and can only trace their family tree so far.
Likewise, it was also there I learned about the song ‘Amazing Grace’ written by John Newton; the hymn that we bellow in church with such conviction, as if our sins parallel that of the Hymn Writer. When John Newton became a Christian he gave up his trade as a slave-trader he became an Abolitionist, Hymn Writer and wrote that said song:
Amazing grace how sweet the sound
That saved a wretch like me
I once was lost but now I’m found
Was blind but now I see
Unquestionably, the museum grabbed my attention as there was a tug, a power, a force that caused me to respect all aspects of life. It has been quiet some time since but as I replay my experience that day and I still feel incoherent from such a profound and overwhelming experience.
St. Anthony's Church - Jan Baster
Each year we celebrate the anniversary of something; birthdays, deaths, anniversary, national holidays and each year I find new meaning in these celebrations and pause for thought. A few days ago we celebrated the 176 anniversary of the emancipation of slaves. Now questions are erupting in my consciousness and about the land of my birth.
On the 1 August 1838, two years after the Emancipation Day Proclamation was passed, in thanks to God the freed slaves in Montserrat gave a silver communion cup to St. Anthony’s church. They would have seen that very same church with a sign that previously read “No slaves or dogs allowed.” In fact they were relegated to sit under a large tamarind tree while their owners worshipped.
St. Anthony’s Anglican Church was/is the oldest Anglican/Episcopal church in the Church of the Province of the West Indies (The Anglican Church of the Caribbean) built in 1636. The church was abandoned in the danger zone in 1995, due to volcanic activity. For me the church held such significance as I recall with accuracy that last time I entered and left that church. I was a teacher and my farewell was held in St. Anthony’s. I left the church with a remarkable enthusiasm for life some seventeen years ago as I embarked on my journey to the Bahamas. As an Anglican who now resides in another country in the same Province; I beam with pride to know that my island was on record of having the oldest Anglican Church in the Province.
I walked in that church yard many times and stood where the same tamarind tree was unaware of such a history with an unforgettable message. I now ask myself, did I drink from that cup when I last received Holy Communion there? Did the slaves go on to build the faith of others in the island, even the faith of my ancestors? The sign outside the church “No slaves or dogs allowed.” was taken down shortly after emancipation. The sign positioned approximately 3km from the church (not in the church yard) now reads; ‘No entry beyond this point.’
I now ask myself, where is the cup? as I retrace the steps of the former slaves in my mind. It brings to mind the fact that we have to be careful what signs we put up now, because in years to come the situations of life may force us to wear different signs. I also reflect on the fact that our past is all around us and what our ancestors did still affects us in subtle ways today. Do we realize this as we live out our lives now? I concur with a writer that once wrote the past do lingers in the present.
Do you know and understand what happened around you?
Her gaze…
Turns inward
Increasing wisdom
Yet still searching
Hitting her stride
Evolving
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Poem Written by Brenda L. McCartney
Photographed by Thomas Francisco
Incisive decisions beat
Eyes smile to the gentle rhythm
Tulip bosom expressive all season
Seraphic energy molds
those who spring from
and around you
Feathers of nurture
Spirit laps no cost
As your crescent shape cradles
We honor
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Poem by Brenda L. McCartney
Photographed by Ton Kinsbergen
Today friends, relatives, and colleagues gathered for a moving service as the Daly clan said a final goodbye to the third generation of the Daly family. Alfreda Daly is from the third generation of people who have been living in Montserrat after the Daly family migrated from Ireland to Montserrat. As a member of the fifth generation I am aware that I am watching history unfold and elders are buried and infants are born. As we stand as members of succeeding generations we owe it to both our descendants and our ancestors to set aside this sadness and instead celebrate all that she was, did and stood for. As I recall the only thing that mattered to those I have met from the second and third generation – was family. As we stand in the shadow of their generation I pray that we carry the hopes and ambitions of a family that would not settle for less than they did.
Pink Rose fragrances upon afternoon air
Her life diligently seamed and greatly dear
Passion seen in eyes of children’s plans
Her smile in the faces of her grands and great-grands
Her kindness extracted in those she held near
Now a free spirit in still spring air
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Siblings were loved – remembered days of her youth
Discipline and dedication her unswerving truth
From St. John’s to brick towers in boroughs of London
Familiar voices sodden in windows a cherished one
From Hoxton to Broomfield Street train sounds crawl in air
Mild End –journey’s end- the familiar now draw near.
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Time still – a labyrinth recollections beguile
Playful jeers of her fists now commands a smile
Her expressions shone clear when sweetly sings
Firm with wit and affection – gifts she would bring
Under the lens in her silvery bright gleam
Moment stamped precious – held forever esteemed.
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Memories are not like some fading star dust
In the silence of changes we all adjust
As you mourn the village of kinship endure
Your smile we do see as no longer before
Do not loiter with tears – as I am not gone
I live in the unity of our families’ home.
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Poem Written by Brenda L. McCartney
Photographed by Genevieve Naylor
My cousin uploaded a Carleen Davis “Stealing love on the side,” song on her Facebook.com wall and one of her friends replied “My mom used to love this song….hmmm wonder y [why].” I laughed because growing up I loved this song and replayed it over and over or may have even called the radio station to replay it. Music for us at one point in our lives was a mere form of entertainment consumed in the moment. We enjoyed the rhythms, for some music relaxes us and we do not delve into the deeper meaning of the song. The music when composed is a mirror into the songwriter’s enigmatic life or proxy to whatever situation.
As we get older, we listened to what the songwriter was saying hence discovering the tender pleasures of his epiphanies. I recall when I first met my husband he said: “Brenda, you sure love white music.” He must have forgotten about his U2 and Radiohead CD’s. Admittedly I love some Kenny Rogers, Dolly Parton, Jim Reeves, Air Supply, Billy Joel etc. but I was taken aback as I do not see music in colour, for me it commands my attention and I enjoy the vibrant melody. Most of all I appreciate the lyrics i.e. the words of the song.
For example the lyrics in Jim Reeves song ‘We Thank Thee’ I enjoy teaching it to my daughter and she loves singing it on her way to school every morning. For me it is like passing on a legacy as my grandparents taught me this song. To teach her the song is like giving her something meaningful to take with her on life’s journey.
There are mornings when I get up and listen to the radio and the Arrow song “Proud to be a Montserratian” comes on. The lyrics evoke a sharp feeling of patriotism, resilience, pride as I bask in the sweetness of the melody. Other songs I hear conjure images such as the pulse of the street, the smell of food, the cool balm of friendships, weathered eyes etc.
The Song ‘You’re beautiful’ by James Blunt I love this song but until recently after watching the video I got sucked in by the complexity, sheer mystery and density of the lyric. The lyrics were clearly coded in the narrative of confession; it was all about suicide suffice it to say. Before then I just enjoyed the song but the visual of him committing suicide left me dazed.
So now my cousins’ intelligible friend who is now much older and sees life through a different lens now came to understand the meaning of the words as she unpeeled the layers of the meaning of ‘Stealing Love on the Side.’ She now sees the song through an adult lens and feels she can now have a confident dialogue with her mom (I would really like to be a fly on that wall). I am sure when her mother first stated that she liked the song it did not reflect her life. I am certain that it was just the seductive rhythm that drew her to the song. What about you, do you listen closely to the lyrics of songs? If so, which songs have impacted you most in your life?
Our lives – eyes – wide open
Under fettered compelling emotions
Ethnographic still life
Inscriptions in mosaics piece by piece
II
Nocturnal pauses – the rhythm of bugle
cowbell, goombay and goat skin drums
Images muse in cultural imagination
Subliminal manipulations
Vividly conjured
III
Mosaic depictions in an episodic buzz of a Byzantine era
Vignettes bold
Night and day reflections
World of spirits – old and new
Rattles, dazzles
Yoruba tradition blares in a drumming dance
Multiple layers under the dominance of gazes
Red, yellow, blue, gold, white and black touchingly reconciled
The radiance of Junkanoo faces not bound by season
But kindred spirits
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Poem Written by Brenda L. McCartney
Image taken by Tom
I stood in the zoo looking at a peafowl willing him to raise the train of feathers for a stunning display but to no avail. I wanted to see the spread of the feathers. It would make a great photo and a memorable moment. Now that I have had a chance to do some research on the peafowl I have learned that there has to be a reason for them to raise their feathers. I have also learned that in Hindu the peacock is a symbol of mortality and love and most times when people think of the peafowl it is usually in reference to the male with its raised train of multicolored feathers. That is why we call them peacocks – the cock part signifies that it is a male and this particular peacock was an India Blue Peacock.
So there I stood in the sun raising my arms, my daughter and husband and a random woman raising their arms as well – hoping that this peacock would somehow show us his full plumage. What struck me that day was the bold shimmer of blue on the peacock’s neck. Another lady stood by making her own observation of the peacock. She openly shared my sentiments about the brilliance of the blue. If someone would ask me what is my favorite a color a color does not come to mind. For me a favorite color depends on my mood.
On that day even the hot sun seemed cool. When I reflected on the peacock it was as if it embodied tranquility even in its colors. A few weeks has passed since by experience at the zoo but still there is something electrifying about the anatomy of a peahen’s brilliant color particularly the blue. This week shades of this hue has been revealed in several places or things namely; Bridesmaid dresses, red carpet dresses, the color of cars, that I felt compelled to blog about this.
Do you know what is your favorite color is? Is there a particular reason why you like a certain color. Is your favorite color a color that has to compliment your skin tone, eyes etc.?
Image taken by Saas Fee, perle-der-alpen.ch
Love After Love
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The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other’s welcome,
and say, sit here.
Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine.
Give bread.
Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you
all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,
the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit.
Feast on your life
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Poem Written by Derek Walcott
Some may say this is cynical piece for Valentines Day; I call it a masterpiece. Be positive appreciate the person you are simultaneously celebrate others in your life.
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