In Flanders fields the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row, That mark our place; and in the sky The larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved and were loved, and now we lie, In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe: To you from failing hands we throw The torch; be yours to hold it high. If ye break faith with us who die We shall not sleep, though poppies grow In Flanders fields.
I have no space in my heart for war. I am fearful, and saddened, by continued conflict on foreign soils that I have grown up watching on television and reading in the news. I cannot get past the hatred expressed by bombs, and guns, and the death of innocents unable to defend themselves. I am distressed by the threat of war. I have no space in my mind to even try to comprehend such action. I have no room in my heart for war. I do, however, have the greatest respect for those who have served this country, or made the ultimate sacrifice, so that I, that we, may live as we do now. It is not hypocritical. It is honest. I grew up listening to the horrors of war. I grew up attending, annually, Remembrance Day ceremonies. Armistice Day, as observed by commonwealth nations, marks the end of the First World War. We learned of the war, and those that followed, from a very young age, in textbooks, through the media, or from our parents. The stories were not lost on me, but truly didn’t sink in until the end of my teenage years. As, then, staff photographer at a mid-sized daily Canadian newspaper, I was assigned to cover the annual November 11 ceremony at a cemetery on the outskirts of the city. As a photographer you learn to hover on the edges of an event. I, not wanting to disrupt the ceremony — and wanting to pay respect to those who were there for greater reasons than I — tucked myself behind a tree, attached my telephoto lens, then watched and waited for the right shot. The crowd was not small, rain threatened, and veterans still stood tall in their uniforms, blue blazers and berets, medals displayed proudly. Their postures straightened as a bugle played The Last Post. I watched as a man in a wheelchair began to shudder, his head bowing down. I then watched as the soldier next to him reached over and placed a hand his shoulder. I was watching through a 200 mm lens, the complete picture of the scene and the crowd was not important to me. The sound of the bugle fill the air. I pressed the shutter button a few times, capturing the intimacy of this small act, then my eyes began to cloud with tears. I lowered my camera and broke down. I tried to remain silent behind the tree. My eyes were no longer fixed through the camera lens, but sweeping the crowd. I watched aging veterans, wives and widows, and sons and daughters honouring family. The impact of the wars, on me, was felt more deliberately than ever before. After any event, as a photographer, you search out the subjects of your photograph to get names (and correct spellings). This particular photograph would not require the soldiers to be identified as I shot mostly from behind and they were simply the two men, in a crowd of many, who were not identifiable, as such. I could have easily offered a cutline in the next day’s paper identifying the men as “veterans”. I did not think it as respectful, or I wanted to know who these men were. I had been profoundly affected. When asked, both men proudly provided their names, ranks, and details of where they served. I was also invited to the Legion Hall where a simple lunch was planned. I went, and I sat and listened to men who were not regaling themselves of war stories, but sharing memories of friendship, of comradery, and of duty. I have no place in my heart for war. But I have room to remember those who defended this country and others; proud soldiers who defended the lives of others across the globe. The numbers have dwindled over the years. They were fathers, and husbands, grandfathers. They meant something to their families, and to me. I still tear up on Remembrance Day. Some years I will watch the beautiful ceremony broadcast from the National War Memorial Ottawa. I have visited the Cenotaph in Winnipeg, on Memorial Boulevard, and sat through the ceremony. There is nothing as dramatic as the cannons going off as a sign of respect, heightened by the silence between each shot. I cannot help but stop for a moment each Remembrance Day, wherever I am, and offer a silent prayer. I have no room in my heart for war, yet, if I am to claim peace the most important goal, I am also to acknowledge, and dare I say, respect, war, and Canada’s peacekeeping role throughout the world. No, it is not hypocritical; it is the reality we are faced with. War is a reality we are all forced to live with, sadly. That should not stop us from hoping, for praying, for peace.
Warning signs, dashboard indicators, red flags, continual reminders of what is ahead, or what follows at breakneck speed. Too fast; too busy, too confused, we yield not to the signals, but push ahead, our direction, our intention, our destination more important than anyone else. Even suspended in traffic, all four lanes, our refusal to allow others in is more than stubbornness. Sharing neither caution or common courtesy, we will not alter or acknowledge our route. To do so is to admit less power, or that we may have lost our way. Distance and time the only measure of where we are going, or how we will get there. We navigate the commute between the reality we live with, and that which is expected, our individual emissions contributing to the noxious fumes we ingest. Daily. Driving forward, but not ahead, running on empty, through a cracked windshield we see, or believe, nothing will harm us. Road rage, we curse under our breath. or shout foul-mouthed insults at those behaving as we are, refusing right-of-way. To anybody. Self-motivated or selfish, it makes little difference at any speed. We fail to notice a world that passes us by. Look, perhaps a shoulder check. It may take a glance in the review mirror to remind us life is precious. Slow down. Pay attention. Let others in.
This eleventh month comes suddenly. You notice the morning chill but only remembered the night before.
Dawn is the lifeline connecting what you avoid and all you face. Daily, hourly, incrementally towards full sun, or a reasonable facsimile.
Daily it changes, the hour uncertain, we split our time between the gentle light of the moon and the day’s reflection of the silent senseless wonder
Memories capsized, plans revert to what we don’t know and never expect Anticipation. The confluence of influence undeniably intricate.
One force to another, a morning monopolizing time. Night a natural state of wonder, senseless as it seems. November brings us closer to the edge of a new year. All we can do is wait.
