Do Not Ask Rock to Be Rain

Flower pushes through a crack in Rock, barely a crack, yet there it is, a Flower. Such a small fragile Being, to meet the challenge of Rock, to emerge into the light of day, its tiny self reaching bravely toward Sun.

And Spirit says, “Dear One, you are growing in such a rocky place. You rise to meet the Sun. This journey is not about making Rock soft, but about beauty and pursuit of Light. Little flowers do not soften rock into soil. Only time, rain, eons, lifetimes, soften rock. Yet little flowers still grow, still seek the light, still bring beauty into hard places.

“Dear One, do not blame Rock for being rock. This is what is. You are Flower. You are Beauty. You are Strength. You are Courage. You bring life into this hard place.

“There is no point in denying or avoiding what is. But know this, Seed survives for centuries, safe inside the seed casing. But to reach the Light, Sprout faces the challenge of the Unknown, pushing up through Rock into Light.

So Spirit says, “Don’t fight the Rock. The Rock is Rock. Growing in this rocky place makes you strong. Follow your dream. Reach for the Light. Be the beauty that you are, even while Rock remains Rock.

“Rock may not appear to be aware of you, Little Flower, but in the way of rock, Rock sees and is proud – proud of being Rock for you, proud of being a solid place for you to grow, proud of your beauty, proud of your growth and tenacity. Rock may not caress you as Breeze caresses. Rock may not warm you as Sun warms. Yet Rock supports. Rock hold enough soil for you to grow, to become, to flower.

“Rock is Rock. Rock is always present, always there, solid, as Rock is. Rock loves you, Little Flower, in the way of Rock. But more love is with you than Rock love. There is also Sun love, Rain love, Breeze love, Soil, Lichen, and Bacteria love, all feeding you, holding you, in the place that looks like only Rock. There is never only Rock.

“You are not meant to soften Rock. It is not your mission to soften Rock. Others – Wind, Rain, Lichen – soften Rock. Bigger forces than you, Gentle Little One, have the task of softening, shifting, moving and changing Rock.

“One would think that a raindrop, a sunbeam, a tiny lichen or a breeze, could not shift a mighty rock, but that is the way. Even in one winter, a rock wall shifts. A few winters pass and the wall is a pile of stone. This is the way of Rock, Wind and Water. Let it be. Let them do their job.

“Your job, Dear Little One, is to stretch toward Sun, to be Beauty, and to produce Seed. This is the Way of Flower. Let it be. Let Sun and Breeze and Rain caress and love you as you need, even while Rock sits in wordless Presence. Rock can only be rock. And yet, there Rock is, a loving setting for roots and growth, the container you need. Do not expect this container to be Sunshine. To not ask Rock to be Rain.

The Land is Not Sad

“The Spirit of the Land is not sad. Even though we may be on the path to destruction, the Land is not sad. This is the way of death and life and death and life. Do we grieve the loss of dinosaurs? There will again be life, even if it is not human life. There will again be beauty. This is the Way. This is how Creator works.”

I wrote that in March, last year, 2024. I have been grieving the changes for longer than that – changes like the current long drought that hurts apple orchards, maple trees, and forests. I watch my beloved Pond, as the water levels drop further than they did in the last drought of 2020. One day recently, I sat by the pond, so quietly that Muskrat and Duck ignored my presence. My heart filled with gratitude that Pond is still Pond, even when the water is low.

But that does not stop the grief, not my grief. The other night I sat there again, listening, watching, meditating, in the stillness. That night, it seemed like Pond, the Wild, the Land, were all telling me that this is what Shift looks like. This is the face of Change.

(See the usual water level, just below the birch on the far side.)

And the grief welled up in tears. I don’t want Shift. I want Same. I want a full pond, full of water. I want the companionship of my Other than Human Friends. I want Dragonflies and Frogs. I want birdsong. I even want mosquitos to feed them. I want to sit here with Pond when I am 85.

I am afraid for the future. And I grieve. But the Land is not sad. This Land has lived through the loss of dinosaurs and virgin forests. This Land remains, and will remain, long after I am gone.

Lament for a Civilization

There is no change, no plan, no amputation,
No nurse with power to heal,
None to take us by the shoulder
to look us in the eye and warn
of danger there inside
this fascination to wring every ounce of life
from this slow death.

There is no hope of change, no coming back.
This death will come, must come.
Is it not better to accept this death, this dying,
than suffer the long wait
and close our eyes and ears to those
who shake their heads
at our fascination with love and life
that turns to hate and death?
Is it not better to lose a hand than lose our souls?

We twist soft hearts, all love,
all softness of care for what remains,
until the hardness, the holding, the grasping
exhausts us,
and only then release this stranglehold
on what was never meant to be so hard,
this twisted love, this desire, this greed,
to keep what we thought was ours,
that twists our selves, our humanity,
into shapes unmeant to last.

“At least he went quickly,” they say.
“At least he didn’t suffer long.
What a blessing, really,” they whisper,
even while our hearts break
at what is gone, forever lost,
this life we thought would never die.

~ Alice Finnamore, 2025

Twenty years ago this month, I fell into politics.

Twenty years ago this month, I fell into politics. I’d known for some time that something was coming, something was changing in my life. Every time I felt into it, I got an image of myself in a canoe, being told to lie down, and not even peek over the edge to see where the river would take me. Just let the river flow. If I’d known I’d come ashore into politics, I’d have paddled furiously in the opposite direction.

I grew up in a Conservative family, my father a card carrying member of the Progressive Conservatives. (They don’t call themselves “progressive” anymore, by the way, just “Conservative Party of Canada”.) The family tradition was so solid that I believed I was not allowed to voice any other opinion, or even ask questions. (Like the time I was reprimanded for asking why Baptists only baptize adults, when I was trying to find answers for an Anglican friend in my high school Art class. Sorry, Mom and Dad. I still remember being shut down for asking. I love you, but….)

In 2005, I was upset with both the Liberal government and the Conservative opposition. Something had to be done. In the moment that thought crossed my mind, it was as if I heard these words from on high, “Well, you could run!”

Run? Who could I run with? I went to my computer to read party platforms, really read them. For the New Democrats (NDP), I could put a check mark next to almost all the items. Plus, Jack Layton was the leader. He seemed authentic and real. He remained so until the day he died. Someone recently said to me that Jack was the only NDP leader who would have made a good Prime Minister, except that he died. I still miss him. Anyway, I immediately sent in my $10 membership fee, and within a few days had met with local party leadership.

After that, I went to see my Daddy. (My mother had been gone for years already.) I said, “Daddy, I have news. You’d better sit down.” His face blanched, and he sat. He probably thought I was dying.

“Daddy, I’ve joined the NDP.” He breathed a sigh of relief. “And I’m going to run.”

In my journal, May 9, 2005, I wrote: “Went to see Daddy. He is surprised but pleased. He’s relieved that I don’t have to make a lot of noise at the convention.” How funny is that? No idea why he’d say that. Maybe someone can explain. I just know he supported me, through not one but two elections, as did the rest of my family, but of course I can’t be sure who actually voted for me.

In this current federal election, some complain that the Liberals are stealing Conservative ideas. I want to tell you a story about that, because the difference is in the details. In 2005, a teacher at a school some distance from me invited me, and other candidates, to speak to his class. When I arrived in the school parking lot, who was also getting out of his car but the Conservative candidate. Someone had misread his calendar. It was my turn with the students, but here we both were, after a long two hour drive.

Now I have to say that the two of us attended the same church. We actually sat in the same pew. I sat on the left, and he on the right. I joke about sometimes circling around and sitting next to him, forcing him to move a little more left. We were good. No animosity.

So in the school parking lot, we agreed we would share the hour with these students. The memory of that event is one of my favourites. The students asked questions, and we would each respond, until finally one of them said it sounded like we were saying the same thing! How could that be? The Conservative and I looked at each other and laughed. The difference is in the details. For example, we both wanted to help parents afford childcare, but our party policies approach that differently. The students learned an important lesson that day.

I ran a good campaign. I took enough votes away from our Liberal incumbent that my friend won the seat. The Conservatives won the election. Soon after that, I joined the choir. We no longer sat in the same pew. He and I rarely spoke of politics, except for one day when I had to tell him about a dream.

I dreamed it was a late fall day. I was shocked to find, in my back yard, the Conservative Prime Minister and a gaggle of men in dark suits, wanting to do an “audit”. They thought I was hiding something, since I had my garden already clean and dug for the coming spring planting. I went to church that Sunday, with the story, and asked my friendly Member of Parliament to tell the Prime Minister to stay out of my garden. We had a chuckle. I doubt he told the PM a thing.

As our April 28, 2025 federal election approaches, I am still asking questions. I’ve learned enough over the years to know that no matter which party is in power, people will blame them for policies of the previous government, or, for that matter, for the state of our roads and the lack of doctors, which, by the way, are provincial decisions, not federal. Currently, with Canada in economic war with our old “friend” south of the border, I have to make my decision based on which leader seems most capable of leading in a time of war. My choice is between a man with a PhD in economics from Oxford who has loads of experience, versus a man with a Bachelor’s degree and no experience at all, outside of politics.

Regardless of who wins this election, I believe we are headed into new territory. No party, no leader, can save us from the upheaval we are facing, whether it be flood and wildfire, or the collapse of civilization for all the reasons we hesitate to even imagine. It’s a question of which leader and which set of policies could carry us best into an uncertain future.

A Chat with Crow

A poem from today’s wander, by Alice and Crow

Caw, caw, caw! said She.
Caa, caa, caa, said I,
Mispronounced, too soft a tone.

She, patient, tried again, head cocked,
Again, again,
Caw, caw, caw!
No language shared,
I listened with my heart.

She on treetop, I on soil –
One landscape, two perspectives,
No right or wrong,
No Left or Right,
Just love of Home,
And different points of view.