This island girl’s latest work-in-progress. I am reminded of the Jung quote Dennis E. Bolen used in his book Kaspoit! “Everyone carries a shadow, and the less it is embodied in the individual’s conscious life, the blacker and denser it is.” I’ve noticed a lot of islanders fleeing their shadows. There are no no shadows in Paradise, no darkness allowed and nothing bad ever happens even as the RCMP investigate the murder of a 17-year old girl. Hypocrites.

The Humble Muralist and the Reproachful Buddhist

Island roads are only as long as the island,
invariably leading to the vortex every island hosts,
the village or burg hugging the cove or bay,
the place where sweaty, unsighted, unrepentant
cocaine and alcohol abusers
gurgle down to, wind up in,
rubbing elbows with the vigorous
Tilley-hatted, swamping landowners
with their nasty habit stench.

Island roads snake lowly
through a bucolic landscape;
swaying grasses, expansive elms,
lambs, cows, horses, llamas.
Do not be lulled.
Anxiety stalks the dales and hollows,
tamped down, concealed behind neat,
quaintly rustic wooden fences,
skulking in the cottages
despite a plethora of yoga, meditation,
acupuncture outlets and pottery classes.
Here there be much intestinal discomfort,
trembling, ceaseless aspiring,
straining, toward the light
of heaven, secularists and believers alike,
strongly believing mostly in our island selves.

Dolly for example is the biggest Buddhist,
the baddest, blackest sheep
herder on Vancouver Island,
happily bending over
for regular shearing
as long as the tax man
is tranquil about it
and she’s back at the ranch in time
to inject herself
into the tête-à-têtes
and with, nectar.

Her resident good egg Greg studies
the recommended sutras,
working on his anger,
moving past it, out
of his townie flat to create
murals in the great outdoors.
Grandiose depictions,
towering trompe l’oeil.
Ostentatious? Yes,
but they have provided
our meek hamlet with an angle,
a tourist attraction.
Indeed, they have saved us!