Inspired by a persistent white feather, which came in not once, but twice, just before Christmas 2023, when my husband was heading out our backdoor.And the answer to, “Why is there a feather in your flower arrangement?
Sandi Knight
The Feather
She opened the door. the snow was deep, the air cold, but not a breath of wind.
And yet, it blew in… landed at her feet — a small, delicate, white feather…
She reached down, gently picked it up, cradled it in the palm of her hand.
Then, with a soft breath, sent it back outside, only to have it land at her feet again.
She smiled, looked up, and quietly whispered, “Okay then, come on in, join us.”
Sandi Knight Photo — The Trans Canada Trail, Neepawa, Manitoba, Canada
This, is my season…
I love the cool starts. When crisp morning walks awaken the senses and refresh the spirit. When I sit on my deck, steam wisping away from my coffee as I hold the warm mug in both hands. When hummingbirds flit past me, gathering nectar to fuel up for their long journey south. When both summer and migrating backyard birds take turns splashing about in the bird bath. When a gentle breeze whispers promises through the leaves of trees awaiting their fall make-over. When flowers are vibrant and bright, alive with butterflies & bees. When I pause to appreciate and soak in the beauty surrounding me.
I love the warm, sunny afternoons. When sandhill cranes circle high above, and I hear their distinct, rattling, throating call. When the steady hum of combines can be heard in the distance, gathering the season’s bounty. When the garden is full of fresh produce to gather for dinner & preserve for winter. When a snack can be grabbed as I walk by the apple tree. When I can fit in a last-minute beach walk or hike with a friend. When our dog rolls happily in the shade in lush, cool, green grass. When the sky is bright blue and wispy clouds float seamlessly through it.
I love the rainy days. When the dust of summer is washed away, brightening up the landscape. When it’s cool enough for soup; for turning on the oven to transform forgotten bananas into mouthwatering muffins. When I grab my favourite sweater & make a cup of tea. When I call friends to catch up or make plans to get together. When the dog curls up beside me on the couch as I read a book. When I slow down, pause, rest & reflect.
I love the evening walks. When harvest sunsets take my breath away. When a cricket symphony plays in the background. When migrating geese & swans fly overhead in their shifting ‘V’ patterns. When the moon rises to the east as the sun slips away in the west. When darkness comes just a little earlier. When the stars appear by one-by-one until they form a twinkling net from horizon to horizon. When I hear the soothing, rhythmic call of great-horned owls. When I sit on our deck for just a little bit longer because I don’t want the day to end.
When we pause to examine our roots, are vulnerable and raw, when we sit with our wounds, our pain… it creates freedom to release what doesn’t serve us, it makes room for new experiences, and stories to flow into our lives.
This is part of my story, my family history. It was published in “Chicken Soup for the Soul — All in the Family” in October 2009.
Reunited with my dad — March 23, 1995
The first letter arrived a few weeks before Christmas. My heart stopped when I saw the return address. I was pleased but apprehensive. I dropped the rest of the mail on the counter and sat down at the kitchen table.
I had written to ask him for family medical history. The reply was long. It had the information I had requested and then some. It explained a little of my past, but kept me at arm’s length. I re-read it a few times, then wept and set it aside.
Life goes on; many things sit and collect dust in the back of one’s mind. A year later, an unexpected Christmas card with a family photo arrived from his wife. She said he was busy working out of town but he would write soon.
I studied the picture. Immediately, I knew where my looks came from. I really didn’t bear much resemblance to my mother’s side of the family, but here was a man staring back at me who looked familiar in so many ways.
He had a grown son and daughter — a family of his own who looked so happy together. They wanted to get to know me. Asked if I could send a picture of my family. I wasn’t sure. Did I have the courage to go forward?
A mere week later, my aunt reminded me, “When one door closes, another opens.” I hadn’t thought of it in that way. My mom had just died. My aunt encouraged me to write back.
The reply came in February. As I read his letter, my eyes misted over. He would be in Manitoba in March. Could he and his wife stop by to see us? After almost thirty years of absence, he wanted to meet me.
Excitement, happiness, fear, and sadness washed over me all at once. My toddler wanted to know why I was crying. Not wanting to worry him, I replied, “It’s okay. They’re happy tears.” To be truthful, I had no idea what those tears represented.
Saying goodbye — July 1964
I was only two years old when they divorced. Hard as I had tried over the years, I had no memory of him. Divorce laws weren’t necessarily fair in the 1960’s. My mother did not allow any contact — no cards or letters, no phone calls, no pictures, no visits. Gifts he mailed were returned. He did not want to make a bad situation worse, so reluctantly agreed to stay away. An unselfish act in his eyes. Living two provinces away did not help.
When my mother remarried in 1966, she changed her surname, but I still retained my father’s last name. So growing up, I always knew of his existence. When you are young, you accept your life as it is. It was not until I had children of my own that I really began to question my parents’ decisions. How could have they thought this best? It was likely complicated, but no one ever offered an in-depth explanation.
Now, here I was a parent myself, feeling very much like a child all over again. I had a month to pull myself together, a month of waiting and wondering. It wasn’t as though I wouldn’t be busy. I had a two-year-old son and a newborn daughter. The end of March would be here before I knew it.
Then panic set in. Would I be ready? How would I look? How would I feel? He was coming to Manitoba in March…what if it stormed? Our farmyard always looks so bleak and unkempt that time of year. Would he get lost trying to find our place in the country? Would I have the house clean enough? Would he think I was a good parent? What if he didn’t like me? Would they stay for lunch? What would I cook for two people I didn’t know? Was this really a good idea? I was reeling. I needed to breathe…three deep breaths in and out. It wasn’t working so I tried again, slower this time. Don’t worry, I told myself. It will be fine. I needed to calm down, but couldn’t shake the anxiety and fear.
The days and weeks slipped by, and March 23rd arrived. The weather cooperated. The roads were fine. Our son and baby daughter had slept well and looked sweet and innocent. I, on the other hand, looked tired and nervous.
We watched and waited. A car pulled into the yard. They got out, opened the doors to the back seat and pulled out gift bags. They had brought presents. I had nothing for them. Lunch alone would have to do.
They saw us in the window, smiled and walked to the door. I welcomed them into our home. He put down the bags he was carrying and came up the three stairs toward me. Then the unexpected.
He reached out and hugged me. It was a big bear hug filled with emotion. It spoke volumes. I have never been hugged like that before or since. The hug said, “I’m sorry.” It conveyed, “I’ve missed you. I’m happy to see you.” It expressed, “I love you.” It made up for every missed birthday and Christmas. It explained, “I wish I had been there for all your firsts, for every accomplishment, and for every time you needed a shoulder to cry on.”
I didn’t want to let go, and it seemed he didn’t either. The hug replaced my worries with comfort. Words were not needed after all, but introductions were, and so the hug ended. It was time to relax and visit. We had a lot of catching up to do.
We visited again that summer in Alberta, then continued to call occassionaly and exchange letters. Over his time communication dwindled. His last letter to me was in November 1998. We tried to connect for a visit in 1999, but it didn’t work out. I never saw him again. He died on June 22, 2001.
January 24, 2024 was a serendipitous, ‘big magic‘ kind of day. I was writing the first draft of a story about a young women wandering into a mossy forest.
“She took a few deep breaths and felt her body relax. She was almost there. Her special place. Her retreat from the world. Where sunlight filtered magically through the towering trees, dancing on the moss and the rocks in the clearing. Where bluebells blossomed. Where she felt at home.“
At the same time Kathy Bradshaw was finishing her captivating piece of art, entitled, “I can smell the moss”. Neither of us knew what the other was doing. Two days later, this ‘creative collision’ opened the door to collaborate and enter the Canadian Encaustic International Online ‘Waxing Poetic’ Exhibition.
From Kathy’s artist statement: “There is nothing like breathing in forest air – its intoxicating mix of moss, earth, decay, cedar and pine. A forest’s lush array of colours and textures weave a visual feast. There is mystery, there is darkness, and oh there is light. It is the sensual, mysterious and dreamy nature of encaustic that allows me to tell this story best. I also consider Sandi Knight’s touching poetry/prose piece to be the perfect extension of my painting.”
Thank you Kathy for your kind words, support and the opportunity to showcase my poem alongside your enchanting, mossy, sunlit forest.
She brought the painting to Gran’s room, hung it where it could be viewed from the comfort of the bed, remembering the first time they wandered down, what would become, their favourite woodland path…
Large, lush ferns lined the narrow trail, sentinels to a sacred spot.
The clearing opened before them, so welcoming, so magical…
Sunlight danced playfully on the moss-covered forest floor.
Spring was ebbing into summer, the greens rich, vibrant, varied.
Bluebells softly swayed in grass beneath the towering trees.
They paused, taking it all in, entranced by this mystical oasis.
Gran awoke, surprised to see Sarah at her bedside. Her face lit up, her gaze moving slowly from granddaughter to canvas, “Oh Sarah dear, it’s as if I’m there! I can see the bluebells. I can feel the breeze. I can smell the moss.”
Serendipity — “the fact of something interesting or pleasant happening by chance”. This beautiful painting by Kathy Bradshaw and my fictional story fit that narrative in a surreal way. As Kathy was finishing her captivating forest piece, I was writing this. Neither of us had any idea what the other was doing. In fact, while we know each other from social media, we’ve yet to even meet in person. The experience truly feels like a ‘Big Magic‘ moment. I hope you enjoy the collision of our creativity.
“I can smell the moss” — Kathy Bradshaw
Sarah quietly slipped away — away from the crowded house, away from the stories, away from the condolences. She needed to reflect on her memories in peace, needed to feel near her Gran.
She walked down the garden pathway, through the horse pasture, along the fence line until she reached ‘their’ tree. Two intertwined hearts were still on its trunk. She paused a moment, her fingers tracing the worn etchings, lovingly inscribed by Gran all those years ago, “So you’ll always remember the way, even when I’m not here.”
Oh Gran…I’ll always remember the way, and the very first time you brought me here.
I was so upset that day. My parents once again exasperated with me, “Why are you crying this time?”
Gran looked at me and softly said, “Come along.” She saw me, understood me, didn’t try to change me, “I love you just as you are!” She took my hand, guiding me quietly and gently down what would become a familiar, comforting trail.
I cautiously followed her on the narrowing path, large, lush, green ferns brushing against us. Then the clearing opened before us, so welcoming, so magical. Sunlight filtered through trees, dancing on the moss-covered floor. Tiny blue flowers, “Bluebells,” Gran said, swayed gently in the grass beneath the trees. It felt like we’d entered a secret, enchanted forest.
And so, it had become their place, their private forest oasis — where it was safe to cry, be upset or excited, to feel all her emotions without judgement. Gran listened, nurtured and loved. She taught Sarah about birds, insects, animals, about trees, moss, ferns and wildflowers. She encouraged imagination and creativity.
They would lean against the trees or stretch out on the soft bed of moss. Sometimes they read or Gran would tell stories while whittling tiny perfect carvings. Sarah would colour or draw. As time went on, she began painting, exploring with watercolour and pastels.
One year Gran bought her a camera, and Sarah’s love of photography began. Behind the lens she became skilled in the art of noticing, of being present and immersed in what was in before her, and with while doing so, her anxiety would dissipate.
Even though it meant moving away, she had been encouraged by Gran to go to university. Little did Sarah know at the time, that it would be for more than four years — that her work would take her around the world, photographing people, animals, buildings, monuments, and landscapes she never could have imagined as a girl. Gran cheered her from afar, and when her health allowed, she would travel to Sarah’s openings and exhibits, proudly beaming and telling anyone who would listen, “That talented young woman is my granddaughter. She sees and captures what we may miss.”
Sarah bought Gran a digital photo frame to keep up with her latest travels and projects. Weekly phone calls or video chats kept them connected, and she came home as often as she could. Then, no matter the season, Sarah and Gran would make time to visit in their special place in the forest — to catch up, reconnect or simply just sit, listen and observe. This was, and would forever be, her favourite landscape.
Various photographs from here and her expansive collection had found their way into children’s hospitals, daycares, schools, shelters and even youth detention centres. Her intent was to do what she could through her art to decrease anxiety for children while invoking a feeling of calm and safety, especially those in difficult situations.
With time and success, she’d been able to accomplish this, at no cost to the organizations, through her own non-profit organization — the “H3 Art Network”, in honour of Gran. When Sarah suggested it be, “Helen’s Healing HeArt Network”, Gran quickly declared that name was far too long. After much debate, Gran finally agreed to the H3 abbreviation.
Over the years, many prints, canvases, and even custom door wraps had made their way into countless spaces. At Gran’s suggestion, H3 also expanded to work with senior centres, assisted living associations, personal care homes, hospitals, health care facilities and hospices.
Sarah never imagined her vibrant Gran being in any of those places, especially a hospice. Yet it happened. Gran requested her favourite photo be hung in the common room — “as large as life please!” It was impossible not to smile at her determination and enthusiasm.
It was one Sarah had captured with her first camera. When spring was ebbing into summer. When the greens were vibrant and varied. When sunlight danced playfully on the carpet of moss. When the bluebells swayed in the grass. At that moment, when Gran and Sarah had entered the clearing, they’d both stopped, captivated by the beauty of it all — almost afraid to take another step or speak and break the spell of the tranquility and perfection before them.
Sarah loved that photo too, but the file was too small to print the size Gran hoped for, so she enlisted the help of a dear friend and talented painter. The canvas was ‘as large as life’ and the re-creation of the photo was beyond what Sarah could have wished. The texture, the colours, the details perfectly portrayed the photo and captured the emotion of their special forest retreat.
When it came time to hang it, she wheeled Gran out of her room and watched her reaction as it was unveiled. Her face lit up in amazement, “Oh Sarah dear, it’s like we’re there again! I can see the bluebells. I can feel the breeze. I can smell the moss.”
A week later, her beloved Gran, her coach, her cheerleader and life instructor was gone. Sarah wasn’t sure how she could carry on, but she knew going back to their spot was what she needed to do now, and it would always be so, whenever she needed to feel her Gran’s presence.
When a death brings back past trauma and memories, it takes a lot of work to heal. This poem was part of that process. #WorldPoetryDay seems an appropriate time to release it into the wild.
The air changed —
when you opened the door when you walked into a room when you sat down at the table…
Sandi Knight 