Writings that reflect body, mind and spirit

Jennifer Dales, who grew up in Aylmer, now lives in Ottawa where she works in the Office of the Privacy Commissioner. Jennifer is also a writer of prose and poetry that reflects the disciplines of philosophy, English literature and journalism from her years at Concordia University.

These are clearly evident in her compositions as illustrated here, where she weaves that fine thread between the body, mind and spirit.

Here are the lyrics of a song that Jennifer has written, as well as one of the poems she composed several years ago, dedicated to her Outaouais roots.

I would like to thank Jennifer for sharing samples of her writing journey with readers. I also want to acknowledge and thank my daughters Christine and Anne Marie for suggesting Jennifer’s story.

Lullaby of the land 

As I walked down by the creek at dusk

One evening in the fall

I heard the clear cold cry

Of geese nearby

Blowin' in from the north

Though there was no joyful goldfinch song

Of sweetness and delight

You can hear night sing

On the rustling wings

Of the bats in their full flight

May the fires and fights

‘Round the towns at night

Never keep you from your sleep

May they all burn quiet

In the dark tonight

And leave you to dream in peace

As I walked on with a worried heart

The last bird flew away

And the song went on

Though the geese were gone

As the north wind roared all day

Then a quiet breeze coming from the east

Kissed our frozen cheeks

But my heart’s firelight

Will warm you tonight

And keep you while you sleep

May the freezing wind from lonely fields

Never cause your heart to cry

So I pray now child

That you sleep tonight

When you hear this lullaby

Caving at La Fleche

All my stories are buried under white snow. I walk over them

where they sleep, curled around the roots of red pines. In the cave

we entered, you could see bats by looking up in the darkness.

Training a head lamp on a crevice showed me a dozen, nestled

against limestone, sleeping fur sparkled with frost.

Night time butterflies, wings folded.

Small jewels of time, moving: one second, then another:

each tiny creature taking in, letting out breath. What could I find

under red pine roots if I had vision to see through white wash

of spring snow? My hands turn red as I dig beneath drifts

that have grown deeper through winter. I want to cup something,

a patience held in, and wait there with it until glistening snow turns

to water; wings know it is time to open, roots to descend.