PAMELA CRANSTON was born in New York City and was raised in Old Deerfield, Massachusetts. From the age of five, she has spent summers in St. Huberts, New York, where she and her family have been active with the Adirondack Trail Improvement Society (ATIS) and the Adirondack Mountain Club (ADK) for over fifty years. She received her B.A. from San Francisco State University, majoring in Interdisciplinary Social Science, where she also studied extensively in their creative writing program. In 1988, she received a Masters of Divinity degree from the Church Divinity School of the Pacific (CDSP) in Berkeley, CA. Ordained an Episcopal priest in 1990, she has served San Francisco Bay area churches and hospices for the past fourteen years. She also is an adjunct member of the faculty at CDSP, writes, lectures, gives poetry readings, leads workshops and retreats and does spiritual direction. Her books include: The Madonna Murders (a novel to be published in 2003 by St. Huberts Press); Clergy Wellness and Mutual Ministry; and An Eccentric English Journey (privately published.) Her poetry, essays and book reviews have been published or soon will be appearing in various books and journals such as: Anglican Theological Review, On the Trail: An Outdoor Anthology by Birch Brook Press, Blueline, EarthLight, Cistercian Studies, Forward Movement Publications, Journal of Christianity and Literature, Journal of Pastoral Care, Kilvert Journal, Mindfulness Bell, Mystic River Review, New Moon Review, New Song Press, Northwoods Journal, Penwood Review, Presence, South, and Women: Empowering and Healing. Pamela Cranston lives with her husband in Oakland, California, and returns to the Adirondacks regularly. She is a regular contributor to The Adirondack Review.
BEFORE I DIE
I want to relive
the long, slow days of summer
to be carried by time,
an aimless fleck of straw
floating in a shaft of buttery sun,
to be lazy and sweet,
as caramel in the mouth.
I want to be like the white-throated sparrows
who know the language of the wind,
the trees and stars, who speak
the syllables of rush and meadow grass
and understand the syntax of seasons,
who never worry about their own death
but who greet it like someone
bearing a great surprise.
I want to be like the deer
who need no watch or map
to step through the woods,
for whom the word "lost" has never entered
their vocabulary,
who have no place to go
because they are always there,
and who carry their stillness with them
like a deep pool of clear water.
I want to wade up a brook
mid-stream and feel the soft
brush of minnows tickling my ankles.
I want to bask on a hot rock
and watch columns of compulsive ants
march across ridges of ruffled lichen.
I want to roam fresh fields,
counting petals and cornflowers
with nothing better to do
than nothing itself,
long after the nagging voice
of ambition has grown hoarse,
or perhaps, with luck,
has even learned at last
how to keep her big trap shut
and listen.
Pamela Cranston
