Here’s a poem I wrote a year and a half ago. It feels time to release it from the annals of submission purgatory and share it with the world:
“Air” By Kat Dornian
August 24, 2023 Tunnel mountain, Banff National Park. Fog shrouds the river view as moss cascades off rocks. Pine and spruce creak in the gentle mountain breeze.
June 19, 2023 CT scan, enhanced, reveals three nodules in my right lung. The doctor says, ‘We all have nodules, it’s the pollution and the smoke.’
May 30, 2023 Camp Air-Eau-Bois, Lac Poisson Blanc. I breathe new air and dip my legs in the reservoir that’s drowning eighty-five square kilometers of Indigenous land.
May 15, 2023 Air quality index reaches eleven. Five hundred and thirty-two thousand hectares of Alberta land burned. We stay indoors and run air purifiers.
October 30, 2022 CT scan shows ‘pleural effusions… lungs otherwise appear clear.’ I’ve been in the hospital sixteen days and counting, breathing oxygen from tubes.
August 29, 2022 Uclulet, B.C. A two-day drive from home after summer fires subsided. I’m on my own, breathing the ocean that summons redwood and seaweed air.
I am from glass globes of roses, from Gardenias and Gerbers. I am from dust floating in the air, caught in winter sun. I am from lilacs that can’t be contained, whose fragrance colours early spring.
I’m from toilet paper tubes and marbles, from King’s Daughters and Mayflowers. I am from a pinch of salt, pull your weight and no one wants to hear you complain.
I am from rocky cathedrals, midnight masses and incense. From forbidden dances held long into the night under Aurora Borealis.
I am from moments folded into paper, hung down halls on sooty walls, lingering in stories, on pages, in ashes flickering away.
This poem follows George Ella Lyon’s I Am From form. She and Julie Landsman created the I Am From Project around 2018 to use the power of poetry to counteract the rise of xenophobia and division in the United States. Even though the project has concluded, use of the template is still a powerful tool for connection.
There’s various templates and writing prompts you can use to dive in if you want to give it a try. If you’ve written one of these poems, please share it with me in the comments!
The longest night is approaching for those of us who reside in the northern hemisphere. After the winter solstice, we will begin our journey of turning closer to the sun once again. I’m sure many are looking forward to more light and longer days. But there are also special opportunities that come with the long nights (back to that in a second).
The waning of sunny hours has been difficult, bringing with it seasonal malaise and melancholy. The body longs to nest and sleep, but the deadlines of year-end and holiday stresses do not allow us to follow circadian inclinations, nor allow us to truly savour the community warmth and signs of life we crave. Perhaps, after the fires are lit, food is baked, and tea is steeped, there will be time to nestle into a blanket in the cozy company of others.
The opportunities to be near others, rest, and dream are important. Dreaming, in particular, is a chance to process and internalize memories as well as create and envision something new from the embers of the past. (Isn’t dreaming fascinating?) I love taking time during these long nights to reflect on the year and set plans for the new one.
Over the last year, my hope and optimism has continued to flourish despite the escalating tragedies around the world. I am finding and continuing to nurture the relationships with the many lovely people in my life who are infusing the world with good. I don’t know if I tell you, my friends, how valuable and important you are to this planet, but I think it every day and it gives me so much hope and inspiration. Although it often feels like our influences are small, I can see the good that comes from our being together, practicing gratitude, processing our pain, sharing, shifting, changing, and acting. Even though these gatherings often focus on efforts larger than myself, they’ve been immensely helpful in keeping my personal spirits lifted and getting me out of bed each day. I am eternally grateful for my friends and community.
I’ve had twenty-one rounds of chemo this year and have one left before 2023 wraps up. When I was first diagnosed, hearing this would have terrified me. I’m grateful for my body for putting up with the drugs, but it’s been difficult. I started a new medication in July, whose side effects included acne and rashes. To combat the acne, I was put on an antibiotic that caused sun sensitivity. By August I had developed such a severe rash that I’d spend entire days researching anything that would alleviate the pain. The rash turned out to be a severe sunburn with an area of infected skin as well, so I stopped the antibiotic and switched to something else. I have to maintain ongoing care for my skin, as well as everything else, but I’ve still had two more infections in the last few months. I’ve gone through about 2 liters of moisturizer in this time, and hundreds of bandages for my splitting skin. This past week has been a much needed respite. My face is a normal shade of pink, although I still have purple scarring from the acne down my arms, which seems to be slowly healing. I’m able to go to sleep without the fear of waking up in utter discomfort. I’m so grateful for my care team and dermatologist for helping me through this.
As things were getting better in September (after seeing a dermatologist), I enrolled in a creative writing program. One of my new year’s resolutions was to write 80,000 words and submit something to a magazine. I’m much behind on my word count (about 40,000 at the end of November), but I have sent out a few proposals, manuscripts and poems. So far, nothing published, but I’m enjoying the process immensely and learning a lot. At the end of this post, I’ve included a poem I wrote as a “talk-back” to John Lennon and Yoko Ono’s Imagine (a song that I’ve found myself humming a lot this year as I witness what humans can do to their kin).
One of my favourite memories from the year was the canoe expedition I got to go on in May with the Fondation Sur La Pointe Des Pieds. We canoed along Lac Poisson-Blanc in Quebec, guided and assisted by an incredible team, and accompanied by fellow cancer survivors. The power of this trip was unexpected. While I went in thinking the outdoor experience would be transformative, I less expected to be transformed by the people as well. The joy, camaraderie, and selflessness shared infused me with hope.
I realize there’s a lot I could say about this year. So many fantastic things have been happening. For next year, I’m still optimistic about getting another surgery to remove the remaining tumors. But here and now, on this long night in the tail of autumn, Rod and I are still here, cozy, and laughing a lot.
Winter Solstice
by Kat Dornian
Give yourself to slumber under ink black clouds. Moon below the horizon, light for when it’s dark. Lie in peaceful presence. Silhouette of the trees mythologies reverberate of songs, put us to sleep. Dream of all the beings, our kin gathered around, flames flicker in shadows mysteries of living found. Maybe someday you’ll join us under the sky’s moonlight. Stories, song and dancing long into the warm night. I hope someday you’ll join us maybe for just one tale. World quiet from the fighting a chance to just exhale.
I can name the metrics of violence: Bullets, bombs, blood shed Blast After blast Echoing in my head
You tell me I could measure love too But I don’t know what to count You said count the loaves of bread
Remembrance Day feels extra difficult this year as I watch more catastrophic acts of violence, power, and greed unleash their fury. I feel powerless; Many of us do.
This morning, I read Wendell Barry’s speech from 2013, titled “On Receiving One of the Dayton Literary Peace Prizes.” It seems appropriate that it is today when this chapter was where my bookmark took me. Some of his closing words struck me: “Peace comes from freedom, real freedom. It comes from responsibility, real acceptance of responsibility.” The line reminded me of the way bell hooks talks about the work of love. I’ve been enjoying both of these contemporary philosophers this year.
I don’t have much to offer in terms of answers for peace and responsibility. What I am finding to be true, again and again, is that the compassion and care we show for each other through acts like giving time, space, skill, and creativity (of which I include such acts as baking bread) make life livable. History shows us that our collaborative, collective, connective caring leads to flourishing, so that is what I chose to practice if only to make my own, little community lighter.
Give me dust Give me soil Give me grubby knees grass stains and bruises Give me sand in my hair and bugs on my shirt Fruit flies butterflies ladybugs and ants The caterpillars falling from trees The bumbles and buzzes of bees Give me berries to dry in my pocket Give me rose hips fresh peas and oak leaves Leave an acorn a half-chewed cherry a sunflower seed Leave a feather and give me a song call the crickets nocturnal cats and chirpy bats Give me the full moon the blue moon and the harvest moon Give me clouds when I’m out Sunshine when I’m in Give me rain and snow and long nights filled with stars Give me wool and warmth and a cup of tea from fallen leaves And when it melts Give me dust
This poem carries a lot of the same rhythm as Lemm Sissay’s “Some Things I Like” from his book Listener. Why is that? Well, I’ve been memorizing that poem because a poetry video I watched recommended memorizing a poem or two. I repeat the poem multiple times a day as I’m working on storing it, so when this call for dust came to me, the rest of the poem unfolded in the familiar rhythm.
Let me know what you think. What does “Give Me Dust” evoke or bring up for you?
The following story is an experiment in a “rough-verse“ storytelling. I want to get more of my meandering stories onto the site alongside my personal updates. Most—like this one—will be first drafts as I move more value onto practice than perfection.This is a start.
“Magpie with Cape v1” by Kat Dornian
Magpie’s Menagerie by Kat Dornian
Magpie collects her things. A beautiful array of knick and knacks: Buttons and foil, beetles and fluff.
Magpie arranges them, day in and out. Adding to her hoard, lovingly displaying the ribbons and caps, rocks and cones.
Magpie searches for more. Flitting about for the debris left out on steps, on stones and hidden in coves.
Magpie is never satisfied.
Magpie re-arranges, again, everyday. Button here, ribbon there, fluff below, rock above. Her newest foil scrap lacks a spot.
Magpie places and re-organizes. Worrying about the collection — trying the foil here, the foil there.
The lovely foil
Wind blows a mighty gust. Catches foil, carries it away: Flitting and floating, falling and falling.
Magpie sails after foil. But she’s too late. Lovely shiny sparkly foil, caught by River.
River takes foil far while Magpie screams down stream— desperate cackles and mournful titters.
Wind and River pass by. Watch Magpie as she woefully sorts buttons… beetles… fluff.
Magpie spies on River. She pleas with Wind at every sunset, expecting her foil to be returned.
“Foil is long gone, far past,” River and Wind whisper to Magpie. Still, Magpie clears the perfect spot.
River turns to ice, Wind turns cold. Magpie nestles deep in her nest: Beetles and rocks, buttons and ribbons.
An old scrap tickles her. A treasure long neglected across the months of spring to autumn.
Magpie remembers now — the way the tarnished thing shone before it was forgotten and coaxes it from hiding to its spot.
The lovely foil.
Wind may one day play though and take old foil to the River. But now, it cradles under Magpie’s breast.
One month with a cancer diagnosis. It’s moved quickly and yet so slowly as well.
August began in a whirlwind. I had a DJ gig, a teaching appointment, and hopes of finishing my thesis. I had a colonoscopy, MRIs, CT scans, bloodwork, and bone scans. I had appointments with gastroenterologists, surgeons, and oncologists. I had to tell loved ones and confront the sense of dread weighing on me.
It wasn’t long before my work and school commitments fell away. The only thing left was to wait, to focus on healing, and to endure the waves of nausea and cramps from the cancer in my colon and liver. Waiting is difficult for me. I’m impatient. I want the cancer out like a house guest who’s overstayed their welcome. Sleep helped to pass the time. Even with the fatigue, one can only sleep so much.
I told my friends and family about my diagnosis. I received help and several messages (many still unreplied to). I think about them everyday, like I should organize something, but a general discomfort pervades even simple things like that.
I’m trying to find a comfortable space to do things. I’ve set up inviting plants friends everywhere. I’ve decorated with the puff of wool, dried grasses, and simple beeswax candles I’m told to love so much. And yet, I’m restless and uncomfortable. I don’t know where the days go when I tally up the minutes: I meditate, stretch, line up rides, lie down, feel sorry for myself, wish things were different, meditate, try to read, try to watch tv, try to clean, try to be helpful, hate myself, hate this situation, meditate as though it’s the only cure, pace, compose thank you notes and stories in my mind, sleep.
I’ve received relief from work and school. All I have to do is heal now; I remind myself of this everyday. All I have to do is heal. I feel the force of a transition in this healing. The way the cancer is building in gooey, mutated masses within me. That house guest who’s still here even though I’ve asked them to leave three times. The house guest who’s clumsy and loud. I wrap this cancer, this overstayed guest, in a large leaf and I swaddle it. I don’t know why yet. I’m not even sure I should. There’s little direction here.
I’m just doing my best. I’ve always done my best.
I enter the new month greeted by chemotherapy. It is unknown and scary. Questions prevail but only time will tell how my body reacts. There are predictions, but everyone is different. Chemotherapy will help stop the cancer from replicating and spreading. It is the fortification of a boundary between “me” and “it”. I will heal, the unwelcome guest will tire and shrink.
Near the beginning of the month, I wrote a poem about my uninvited guest. Later, I came across Rumi’s poem titled The Guest House. The latter prescribes a practice of inviting and being grateful for all the emotions that come. I was struck by the contrast of my own moods towards cancer and Rumi’s wisdom towards emotions.
A Welcoming Home by Kat Dornian
A welcoming home
might have loose bounds allowing in all sorts.
A flustered flurry of a party inside.
Warmth, bounty, comfort for anyone who comes.
A home of love torn apart e’ry night by everyone needing a warm hearth.
A home of love flaking away with each guest. Carried in pockets, upon shoes, replaced with trash, dirt.
A home of love devoid of boundaries means all move in… until I no longer remain; A stranger in my home no traces to be found. Eaten from the inside out.
The Guest House by Mewlana Jalaluddin Rumi, translated by Coleman Barks [Source]
This being human is a guest house. Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness, some momentary awareness comes As an unexpected visitor.
Welcome and entertain them all! Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows, who violently sweep your house empty of its furniture, still treat each guest honorably. He may be clearing you out for some new delight.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice, meet them at the door laughing, and invite them in.
Be grateful for whoever comes, because each has been sent as a guide from beyond.
Here’s a drawing of me after receiving my “Power Port” (for delivering chemotherapy drugs). The photograph is a bit bloody, but I think you can get the gist from my quick sketch… I was pretty high on sedatives at the time, haha.
Kat Dornian 