All Posts By

hilary

Poems

Inspiration

thoughts

hovering

in space

like

tiny

butterflies

with

their

silent

wings

that

make

no sound

until

they

land

upon

a

flower

and

gracefully

confer

a

kiss

 

Hilary Shantz

August 4, 2017

 

 

 

 

 

 

Faith, Life

Things women dream about

 

I had the most vivid dream last night.  When I awoke the emotions were still with me.  Just so you know, I often have dreams about looking for a husband. It is probably the one that comes up most often.  Is this because I didn’t actually get married till thirty-four, and for many years I wondered if I ever would?  Do other women have this dream?

The quest and the wait seem to be embedded in my psyche, and in my dreams, along with the one about my teeth falling out. I have another recurring dream about having a baby that keeps on shrinking;   it isn’t thriving, no matter how hard I try to feed it.

Last night, my dream began with a very dark, handsome man, dressed in a regal gold-embossed costume. I got the impression he was wealthy and powerful. I was in his home which was like one from an old Bollywood movie.  The scent of incense was strong. He looked at me with admiring eyes, “You have such beautiful skin”, he said.

Somehow I knew that this man was in love with me. There was also an older woman in the room, with wrinkled, swarthy skin. I can only presume she was one of his wives. She looked much older, unhappy and disapproving. Or it may have been his mother, though I think it was his wife. I am over sixty now, yet in my dream I was young. I felt beautiful because this man thought I was.

He was not someone I recall having met. A pure figment of my imagination, or a figure transposed from a movie, retained in my subconscious?

I was feeling pleased that he had such eyes for me. Although I can’t remember anything that happened before this moment, it was not the first time he had seen me.

I was the chosen one.

Suddenly I was clothed in a beautiful red sari. My admirer came closer. “I want you to be my wife”, he said, “I have waited long enough, it is time”.  I could smell the exotic perfume in the air, all the stronger as he approached.  We were not alone, there were many people present.

“Are you a Christian?” I asked hoping he would say yes. I don’t remember the exact response, but it contained the word “Allah” as if to say, we are all worshipping the same God, don’t make an issue of it. His character was intense, his eyes magnetic, the scent of incense and spices intoxicating.

Suddenly I felt the need to escape. If I didn’t make a run for it I would somehow be trapped physically or emotionally. I found an escape door and ran out of the house, my heart beating wildly. At the end of an alleyway I ran into my mother, Mavis, who died 18 years ago, and my friend Sherrey, who moved away to California.   I told them what had happened and we all agreed we’d best get out of that place or we would be apprehended somehow. We ran away fast, as if people were chasing us.

I woke up and saw my husband of 26 years asleep beside me. He doesn’t look anything like the man in the dream. He is fair skinned and handsome.   I felt relieved that I had eluded the trap, and that in real life I had found my Prince. I felt slightly disappointed as well, as real life can seem ordinary compared to a dream.   I sat bolt upright and wrote down all the details, for tomorrow I would not remember them.

Hilary Shantz

July 22, 2017

 

 

 

 

 

Life, Poems

My neighbour Agatha

When we moved into the neighbourhood a few years ago, we noticed an elderly lady who would spend her days outside sweeping leaves on the street.  Sadly, she is now in a retirement home, due to Altzheimers.  I miss seeing her.

 

My Neighbour Agatha

Too many minutes

In an hour.

I stare out the window.

More dead leaves on the street,

Shall I go and sweep them up?

Every day I clean, I clean

Did you know I worked at Sobey’s

At the deli counter

Corner of Kerr and Speers

Where the Shoppers is now?

Come closer

I tell you something

In Prussia, my father died

When I was a little girl

He wasn’t sick

It was the war, you know.

Otto lost a finger

In a machine

In Germany

Did you notice?

Dig deeper

I show you how

To divide

The hostas properly

With a shovel.

Take as many as you want.

I put the dead leaves

From the street

In my compost pile

Over there

Nobody wants them anyway

That’s why my tomatoes

Are so big

We had a cottage once

Beside a lake, see the photo?

I made a German cake today

Sit with me

I make some tea

What is your name dear?

 

Hilary Shantz

August 2, 2017

 

 

 

Faith, Life, Travels

Everything I need is here

 

 

Canmore, Alberta

We are attending the  wedding of Taylor and Erin in Canmore.

The morning of the wedding  I awoke early and sat outside observing the sun rise above the Rockies.

An insight I gained is that the more connected I am to nature, creation itself, the less I need other things.

 

Everything I need is here 

 

Calming

To the spirit

Is the sight of

Tall Canadian pines

Stretching up

To a cloudless sky

So blue

It doesn’t seem real.

 

The sun rises slowly

Catching one face

Of a gnarled pine tree

Its needled boughs

Growing only on one side,

As though posing

For an artist.

 

Nourishing rays of sunshine

Fall on the smooth bark of

A white birch.

A light breeze

Breaks the stillness

Rustling the silvery leaves

Of poplars.

 

Suddenly a crow cries out

And I am spell-bound.

 

It is morning

In the Rockies.

 

One feels protected somehow

Encircled by contours of stone

And grey rock towers

Marking the outer limits

Of an unchanging landscape.

 

This rough land

Of stone and forest

Drew adventurers

Looking for riches.

Yet, when they came,

They found more

Than gold and pelts.

A comforting place

A sacred space

The companionship

Of elk and bison,

The spiritual grounding

Of earth and sky.

In other words, home.

Gifts of the wild,

Calling to me also,

Calling me

To receive

And breathe in deeply.

 

Everything I need is here.

Hilary Shantz

July 30, 2017

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Travels

Shanghai dumplings

The cab driver let us off on the crowded pavement. With only Chinese characters on street signs, were we at the right place?  We approached a row-house, situated in a  narrow alleyway,  painted red and black.  It was wooden, three stories high, with creaky heavily worn stairs leading up to the second floor.

Jim had insisted we make use of his apartment “I barely use it” he said, “I am always travelling somewhere or back in Denver.”

We let ourselves in using a key hidden under a glass bottle.  A neighbour, Mrs. Lee, came knocking on the door a few mintues later.  Dressed in pink and green cotton pyjamas, she was silver haired and missing many teeth. Absolutely no English vocabulary, like most of the people in Shanghai.  Our diminutive new friend babbled good-naturedly.  “You are Jim’s friend?”, “Jim de peng-you?”, and “Jim mei-guo”, “Jim gone to America”.  She smiled again and quickly left, returning to deveining shrimp and chopping greens in a makeshift food prep area outside her unit on the first floor.

Unlike Beijing with its wide carefully planned streets, this quarter of Shanghai felt like a Parisian neighbourhood.  At one time this tiny area had belonged to France.  You can still buy baguettes and croissants and sit in quaint cafes with Edith Piaf music playing.   I noticed lavender growing artfully in black urns. Local Shanghainese women here seemed to wear their scarves adroitly like their gallic counterparts.

The amazing thing about this city of 28 million people, or any large city for that matter, is how comfortable and connected one can feel when staying in a neighbourhood where locals live, work, and drink tea and coffee. Toronto is much the same. I remember living in Forest Hill Village on Spadina, and felt the same sense of being part of a community as I did on this busy Chinese street.

My husband, brother and I deposited our bags on the second floor, and sauntered down to the fruit shop which was still open though it was past 10 p.m. We wanted to get some bottles of water.  The fruit were fresh and irresistible. Strawberries in season, grown locally, though it was March. We bought 2 boxes.  Longan and dragon fruit we couldn’t pass up.  The shop owner and her two children were very friendly and all smiles. Over the course of the six days we would become a fixture in the neighbourhood, easily recognizable due to my husband’s height and Swiss German heritage.  My brother and I being of Chinese descent blended in to the local tapestry. The day we left we were waiting for our taxi on the street corner, with our luggage, and our fruit store family waved at us fondly as if to say “Zai jian. Sorry you are leaving.”

“Wong’s Dumpling House is a must,” Jim had told us. And of course we were hungry.  We’d only had a small box lunch on the bullet train from Beijing to Shanghai. Steamed dumplings and noodle soup were all the menu contained, so we simply pointed to what we wanted. “No tourists in sight” I noted, happily.

The waiter promptly arrived with three plates of steaming, perfectly formed pork dumplings that had been made by two men whose expert craftsmanshp was visible to patrons watching in anticipation through a glass partition. This was simplicity at its best. Oily red chili pepper sauce in tiny pots, and black soya sauce in a bottle on the chipped formica table, were deployed to enhance the flavor of these mouth watering delicacies. Juicy, and filled with tasty liquid. Ahhhhh! So comforting. So simple.

This is why we travelled half way across the world! This is why it was all worth it. To sit in a dumpling house anonymously along with real Shanghai people, on a chilly winter evening, having a late night encounter with savoury little pieces of stuffed dough, heat rising from the delicate wonders and the sound of honking horns and a vast sea of strangers with unfamiliar customs outside our door.