I watched Demi Moore in “A Scarlet Letter”, about 1996 or so, and I identified so closely with her role that I trembled.  I watched it thankfully alone, and became so immersed as to be almost transported into another realm.  I was the woman persecuted; I became this woman soul who had to be so strong in my skin in order to survive and not let other people tell me how to be me.  I had lost in two love relationships; I had lost my children in their early teen years to another household, another life without me.  I had lost my home, my busy life of bustle and fullness; I had lost my health to a great measure.  I felt criticized, ostracized, generalized by society, family, friends, and acquaintances.  I really had no one but myself.  After viewing the movie I realized that I had never given up, not really, and on the inside I was ready to bear whatever this universe needed to burden me with in order to teach me that I was master (well ok, mistress!) of my own ship.  I proudly decided that my ship was indeed a canoe, and I was ready to master the wind, the rocks, the rain, the rapids, the twists and turns, and then, continue on down the river.  And there really was a river, hidden back in away from the gravel road… I can still find it.  The bush is thick and there is a big, iron gate.  Whenever I pass by there, I always think of the fine, summer day when I hiked back the road past the gate, no one around… I kept going until I was far back in the forest and farmers’ fields stretched behind the dense maple trees.  It was a glorious place to skinny dip, and I had the body and the tan, and my long hair caressed my back.  I spent a long time swimming and floating, playing with the water under that blue sky.  Naked.  What freedom.  A good-looking farmer would have been very welcome.  Kind of like Adam and Eve.  Great memories.

The Scarlet Letter

I wear a scarlet letter like she did on her chest

But mine lies deep within and there are few at best

Who know the scarlet letter takes me

Where others never trod

And I have felt the sun’s rays deep, deep on my bosom

And gazed into the face of God.

It takes me where a babbling stream is cold and stings my hands

It cascades over rocks and brings the feel of another land

Within its icy shallow depths a spirit runs wild and free

And spills to the pool in front of me

It laughs and grins in glee.

I’m naked as I bathe in joy, a sin I let not be

I know the scarlet letter burns for me and thus I’m free

I, languid in defiance and quiet in solitude

But deep inside a fire rages and no one knows my mood.

There is a well of sadness forever present deep inside

Not any of religion’s promises have helped it to subside

I take shelter in a man’s lips and refuge in his soul

I let his body fill me deep, his manhood fills the hole

Of emptiness that penetrates each moment, every hour

Every day of every week is filled with a yearning need to pour

My love into someone’s depth and fill his every need

And watch the love light in his eyes and touch his skin with greed.

And so I let the water touch, caress, and tease and lick

I swim and let nature’s grace make me slippery, wet, and slick

As I swim my scarlet letter lies buried in my breast

Waiting, for the right hand, right touch, right smile

Right fingers gently pressed against my woman’s heart and soul

Is there one who understands?

A woman strong beside him and not crushed beneath his command!

A man touched by the Soul of God and therefore mild yet strong

His heart filled with manly love, his mind filled with loving song.

He can take that scarlet letter that I wear upon my chest

And realize that woman-kind needs a different kind of crest

He can make that scarlet letter come alive in crimson glory

And lay it at his beloved’s feet and tell her not to worry.

The letter comes to life now and the bloody battle ends

It’s done its job, it’s bled its way

My bitter stance begins to bend.

Watch it come to life now and its crimson glory spreads

My smile reveals the light within, no more pain or toil or dread.

I can choose to pick it up now, or to let it gently fall

I can choose to hear the night owl and heed its lonely call

I can wear my scarlet letter like she did on her chest

I can choose and I can be

Better, or best.

                                                                                                  cailin raine

When There Were "Roars" In Our Barn: A Glimpse From The Past

When I was a little girl on the farm, it seemed to me there were acres that went on forever.  A day was timeless, with many hours to fill with play and wonder.  My Mom was usually in the kitchen, preparing good things for us to eat.  Dad was always busy planting, or baling hay, cleaning pens, or mending fences.  The sound of him starting up the old Ford tractor was always a comfort, because he was just always “there”.  It was fun to watch the calves with their Mama cows, leaping and running around with the other calves, the grown up cattle grazing and content as they chewed their cuds.  I was never afraid to walk the fields and pet the ones that would let you come close.

I grew up counting “cow pies” and kicking the dry ones just for fun.  I took many “city” kids all over the farm, teaching them our country ways.  We spent countless hours in the barn jumping from the high beams into the soft, loose, sweet hay.  There were certain ideas about “farmers” that those kids had; it didn’t take much to figure out how or what they thought about country folk.  I won’t ever forget the surprised look on a couple of faces when I invited them into our house and Mom had it gleaming and spotless with a wonderful aroma coming from the oven.  Further inside, the dining room table had snow-white lace on it, and the biggest revelation of all was the beautiful, old piano in the corner of the living room.  We didn’t have a lot of money, but what we did have was certainly well-cared for.

We were taught right from wrong, and honesty was a way of life.  I wasn’t very impressed when a little girl from the city took home a pink, flowered top that I had sewn for my Barbie doll.  First of all, the blouse was missing, which was strange, this being after having the girls over to play.  Then it was my turn to go over to one of the chalets at Beaver Valley Ski Resort, and in the midst of our Barbie collection, was the very same pink, flowered top.  I knew my sewing of course.  The new owner explained how she had “found” the same material I had, in her Mom’s sewing box, and she had made the very same top!  Well, I knew better, but I kept quiet and let it go.  I had learned that most of the time it was better to just let things be; she would learn in time.  My Dad walked away from silly arguments, and just let on that the other person was “likely right”, when in fact he knew better.  What was inside yourself was way more important.

As the youngest in the family, and coming along fairly late as I did, I often felt pretty much on my own, with the busyness of the older ones taking centre stage.  I didn’t get much attention, and being quiet and shy from the beginning, I don’t think that I was demanding of any.  But one visit stands out, because “someone” actually “chose” to spend time with me!  That person was my cousin, Stu. 

Company was often unexpected, but my Mom always had her famous pies baked and ready for anyone who might drop in.  I was pretty little and actually do not remember who all was present during that visit.  What I do remember is that when I started to tell Stu about the Roars in the barn, he seemed really interested!  The more he paid attention, the more story I told.  When I asked him if he wanted to come out to the barn and see the Roars, he immediately said that he did!  Well, was I ever surprised.

So, donning boots and jackets, out we strode, all the way to the barn which loomed above me like a great mystery.  During our walk I continued to tell him all about these creatures that lived in the hay mows, never actually coming out so that you could see them!  But they were there!  Living, and eating, and growling, and liking the fact that they had the barn to themselves at night, when they could come out of the hay mows and Roar!!  The more I came up with something that they had done, the more Stu laughed.  I was astounded at him actually enjoying “just me”.   He asked me, “Are they really called “Roars”?”

“Oh, yes. They are Roars!  They really are called “Roars”!”

I spent a lot of time on the farm alone, the others getting married, moving away, and just me left at home.  Looking back now, I guess this was all part and parcel in making me the loner and the writer that I am today.  I don’t mind silence or solitude; in fact I thrive on it.  I won’t ever be a city or even a town girl.  Country is in my blood and I am proud of it.  Those days of rambling over acres, kicking up the cow pies, exploring the valley and the Beaver River will always sustain me.  I have many stories to tell, but I will always remember that first time that “someone”, my cousin Stu, was so enthralled with “just me”.  He chose to believe!, and he listened to all I had to say about the Roars in the barn.

Today, when I park my car and ramble over to take a picture of an old-fashioned, bank barn, before they are all gone and just pictures in history, I can still sense them there, way up in the rafters, happy and content they are…my “Roars”.

                                                                                                                                                                cailin raine