Writings that reflect body, mind and spirit
Jennifer Dales, who grew up in Aylmer, now lives in Ottawa where she works in the Office of the Privacy Commissioner. Jennifer is also a writer of prose and poetry that reflects the disciplines of philosophy, English literature and journalism from her years at Concordia University.
These are clearly evident in her compositions as illustrated here, where she weaves that fine thread between the body, mind and spirit.
Here are the lyrics of a song that Jennifer has written, as well as one of the poems she composed several years ago, dedicated to her Outaouais roots.
I would like to thank Jennifer for sharing samples of her writing journey with readers. I also want to acknowledge and thank my daughters Christine and Anne Marie for suggesting Jennifer’s story.
Lullaby of the land
As I walked down by the creek at dusk
One evening in the fall
I heard the clear cold cry
Of geese nearby
Blowin' in from the north
Though there was no joyful goldfinch song
Of sweetness and delight
You can hear night sing
On the rustling wings
Of the bats in their full flight
May the fires and fights
‘Round the towns at night
Never keep you from your sleep
May they all burn quiet
In the dark tonight
And leave you to dream in peace
As I walked on with a worried heart
The last bird flew away
And the song went on
Though the geese were gone
As the north wind roared all day
Then a quiet breeze coming from the east
Kissed our frozen cheeks
But my heart’s firelight
Will warm you tonight
And keep you while you sleep
May the freezing wind from lonely fields
Never cause your heart to cry
So I pray now child
That you sleep tonight
When you hear this lullaby
Caving at La Fleche
All my stories are buried under white snow. I walk over them
where they sleep, curled around the roots of red pines. In the cave
we entered, you could see bats by looking up in the darkness.
Training a head lamp on a crevice showed me a dozen, nestled
against limestone, sleeping fur sparkled with frost.
Night time butterflies, wings folded.
Small jewels of time, moving: one second, then another:
each tiny creature taking in, letting out breath. What could I find
under red pine roots if I had vision to see through white wash
of spring snow? My hands turn red as I dig beneath drifts
that have grown deeper through winter. I want to cup something,
a patience held in, and wait there with it until glistening snow turns
to water; wings know it is time to open, roots to descend.