montréal reflections: day nine

NOTE: We are on holiday for rest and reflection in Montréal before a new year of engagement, teaching and creativity begins. This is the eighth in a series.

Last night we visited with Di's EF colleagues who live in Montréal: three young English teachers currently living in this town but having roots all over creation. One will be heading to Taiwan soon because, as he told us last night, "it is the most beautiful place I have ever been." Like Johnny Cash sang, this guy's been everywhere, man: Hanoi, Uzbekistan, New Orleans, Korea, Canada, Japan and on and on. Teaching English as another language creates opportunities to travel and meet new people and cultures. I loved his adventurous spirit.

As our meal unfolded, one common theme involved how hard it is to make a living teaching English as another language - it takes determination, stamina, and professional creativity - so each of these instructors work four jobs to cobble together a living wage. Because of the mobility and flexibility these gigs afford, however, these teachers make it work. Each one is profoundly independent and intelligent, too seeking meaningful human relationships in their work rather than only working for pay checks at soul-numbing bureaucracies. We listened and laughed together, swapped life stories and insights over great food, and even got to take in some hot local Latinix jazz, too.

This morning over breakfast, I was struck by the serendipity of savoring last night's feast alongside a poem that popped up in my email. It is by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer entitled, "How It Might Continue." 

Wherever we go, the chance for joy,
whole orchards of amazement—

one more reason to always travel
with our pockets full of exclamation marks,

so we might scatter them for others
like apple seeds.

Some will dry out, some will blow away,
but some will take root

and grow exuberant groves
filled with long thin fruits

that resemble one hand clapping—
so much enthusiasm as they flutter back and forth

that although nothing’s heard
and though nothing’s really changed,

people everywhere for years to come
will swear that the world

is ripe with applause, will fill
their own pockets with new seeds to scatter.

Of the multiple gifts given to us this time in Montréal I've been struck by a new quest to explore this great city. That's always been an undercurrent of "flâneur-ing," but rather than return to many of our old favorites, this trip has been all about new places. And new people. We've made time for a few sentimental essentials - Diese Onze and Modavie have been vital eateries (and each time the jazz is new) and we took a stroll through both Parc Baldwin (our sabbatical home four years ago) and the ever beautiful Marché Jean-Talon (the city's finest farmer's market) - but most days we've gone into unknown places. 

Today, we hit Parc Jean Drapeau, two islands filled with gardens, solitude and the Biosphere. Having made a commitment to stay in Pittsfield for at least a few more years, one of our embodied prayers has to do with building a home garden dedicated to peace. We are working our way through a spirituality of gardening  book that asks us to rediscover the beauty of indigenous plants. We also want to know the history of each new flower and shrub so that we understand how it compliments and strengthens the environment. The garden at Jean Drapeau is huge, filled with hearty flowers and shrubs that work in the north country, and abounding in simple artistry. The butterfly bush was resplendent in color and butterflies. The willows and stone walks invited contemplation. And the silence on the island was restorative. We took a ton of pictures to research and discern what might work in our emerging garden of peace.

For almost two years I have been learning to listen to the first word of God in creation. I am a slow learner. I still don't know the names of many of the plants that already abide in our garden. I get confused with our herbs. And don't even ask about the trees. But after spending this time working in the garden, hauling branches and rocks, cutting back the scrub at the edge of the wetlands, building a terrace, and watching what all of this splendor looks like, the time has come to go deeper. To learn the unique wisdom of these flowers. And trees. And weeds. To honor them with intentionality and care. And to work at being still enough to hear what they want me to know. The late Mary Oliver put it like this:

The dream of my life
Is to lie down by a slow river
And stare at the light in the trees —
To learn something by being nothing
A little while but the rich
Lens of attention.

Tomorrow I am getting a new tattoo as part of my covenant to better learn how the first word of the Lord in creation is speaking to me.