Send the Cards
It was early in December this year, as I pulled out boxes of holiday greeting cards, surprised to find half boxes, and unopened boxes. I’m reminded that the days of sending 40 or 50 cards to family and friends are long gone, just as many of those people are gone from this world. There are also those who no longer want the expense of mailing cards (over $3 in Canada for an international stamp does make you stop and think) and that makes me sad – it has become a lost art. I honour the wishes of those who have opted out and no longer send a card to those people, but I do write and send to family and friends I don’t see on a regular basis. I’ve always seen sending holiday wishes as a way of ending the year by saying “You are in my thoughts, and I hope life has been kind to you.” What arrives in my mailbox now is a trickle compared to what it once was.
I’ve never been in the practice of saving greeting cards with the exception of the few I’ve saved for my sons that were given to them by grandparents and their aunt. One day I hope when they inherit these treasure boxes that I’ve created for them they’ll have moments of happy memories when they see the things I’ve thought they might appreciate.
When I’m into January and putting all the holiday décor back into boxes for storage I collect the holiday cards, read them one more time and then they go into the recycling bin. However, there was one year that I kept a particular card that I simply couldn’t part with. I set it aside.
Many years ago, when we were all in the first flush of being adults, one of our friends, having earned his Engineering degree, purchased his dream car - a black Corvette which he eventually drove to Ohio as he began his career with a major chemical company. A “life of the party” guy, J, was missed at the usual gatherings but he kept in touch as often as possible. On one trip home he said he was finding it a bit lonely down there and asked me to compile a list of the books he should read that he probably hadn’t – and please list 50. So much laughter, so many glasses of wine, as we tried to decide which 50 books needed to be on that list. One of the last questions he asked me on that trip as he was heading out the door, was “what is mead, anyway?” – I recall the question, but not why he asked.
One December a few years later, I can’t recall how many now as time has a way of blurring, a Christmas card arrived. The image on the front was not the usual funny type that J would choose to send. This one was very Victorian, very nostalgic with an image of a group of children. They might have been siblings, but I like to think it was a group of friends, working to build a snowman.
A week after that card arrived a phone call came from someone in our group – incoherent and sobbing that he’d been phoned by someone else in our circle – J was in hospital having suffered what might have been a stroke or a ruptured brain aneurysm. We went on a wait and watch only to be told a day later that J had died.
J’s funeral was held here at home on a very cold, snowy day just before Christmas. The men in the circle were his pallbearers; the women wept for a life gone much too soon. Afterwards and many drinks in as we toasted his life, we thought about how much living J had done in that short life. And how so many of the things he said to us, or did for us, had left a lasting impact.
That January, I kept the card he’d sent and found a suitable frame. I put it away with all the other holiday décor. It is the first item I take out of the storage bins every year and find a pride of place for it to remember not just his life but all that he meant to so many people. I have it on my desk right now as I’m writing this.
The choice of that card was intentional, even if J didn’t know it at the time. Or maybe he did. Maybe he had a sense that time was short and he needed to leave a message for us all.
This is the reason I continue to send a Christmas card to everyone in my life who still holds so much space in my heart. We never know when it might be the last “you are in my thoughts and I love you.”
Tao for Tuesday
There are days, often it’s a Tuesday for me, where things just do not go as planned. Distractions, being a bit too relaxed after having navigated the first full day of the week, or focusing elsewhere, the focus not to be found right in front of my face.
This is especially true at busy times of the year, and December is probably the busiest month for the majority of us with social obligations, shopping to do, gifts to wrap and meals to plan.
There are people who find December the hardest month of the year to get through. Those who are grieving family members or friends whose absence is most keenly felt during the holidays. We may be missing those who are unable to be present due to other circumstances and our commitment to our day-to-day activities take a backseat.
What I can offer is this. There will be days when you burn the toast. You might even burn two slices as you try and repeat the process. That means it’s time for Plan B. Leave the toast. Choose something else that requires less attention and less energy. Something that is easier to cope with that allows you to simply be present. Being present is very often enough.
There is no secret remedy for getting through hard days and difficult moments other than to acknowledge them. With grace. And gentle moments of love.
Grief and the Holidays
At every family gathering, for any occasion whenever all of the cousins were together, I was the misfit, the one in the middle that had no place to land. There was a group who were much older and there was a group who were much younger. And then there was me – three years too young for the next group up and three years too old for the ones down below. There wasn’t anyone in my own age group to socialize with. I blended in wherever I could. As the years passed, I found myself “accepted” more with the older group and thus had an education in a number of ways that I wasn’t quite mature enough to understand but stored those nuggets of wisdom away for future reference.
I was never the “go to” cousin. The younger ones had their circle, and the older ones didn’t need anything from me – except perhaps a dose of hero worship which I doled out as needed for entry into their inner sanctum. But none of them ever needed anything from me. Until we were all on the level playing field of adulthood and life experiences.
I never formed a close bond with my cousins, but I attended their weddings and the christenings of their children. And as happens in all families, I attended the funerals of their parents, my aunts and uncles. Soon those funerals became our only social interaction. There was one cousin who when I was a child, took me under her wing in as much as she was aware when I was sitting alone or just on the edge of a group, listening and she would bring me just a bit closer. And during a difficult period in my teens, she reached out in what I thought was a genuine gesture until I was informed much later that she did so at the behest of my mother and my aunt.
Roll on to our adult years with children and the life changing issues we face. Years after my breast cancer diagnosis that same cousin’s daughter was diagnosed with an aggressive breast cancer at an age younger than I had been. I received a phone call one evening from this woman, in tears, asking me what she should do. It took me by surprise as I had never once had any message of care, concern or support from her while undergoing my own journey. However, as she had turned to me for advice and support, I gave it, willingly. This is part of the journey – we help those who follow us. Her daughter is still, as I write this, blessedly thriving and raising her family.
Many years later, having exchanged only the odd email message or a quick exchange on social media, I received another late night phone call from this cousin. It was just weeks before Christmas and she was in an agony of despair, sadness, loss and hopelessness. Her grandson had died months before in a car accident and my cousin blamed herself for the death. Grief is not always rational, and guilt often lies in the shadows of grief. The guilt stemmed from having loaned this young man, at age 17, the money to buy the vehicle that soon after its purchase led to his untimely death. We spoke for hours – or rather, I spoke, she cried and kept asking me “why?” and what could she do, how could she cope.
Her biggest issue that night was what to do about Christmas dinner, their family’s first without him. Her grandson loved the rolls she made for the meal, and she always made sure to bake extra because he would eat so many. Now she just couldn’t face making those rolls for everyone else because it hurt her heart. I encouraged her to make the rolls in his honour because I was sure he would want that. I reminded her that the whole family needed to mourn his absence from the table and to stop doing something he had loved could make the memory of his life less significant in some way. She didn’t think she could do that. I then suggested setting a place for him and putting a roll on that plate. And yes, there would be tears and there would be sorrow from every person at that table. But there would also be joy and laughter as stories were told about how many of those rolls he would eat and how excited he’d be when he could smell them baking in the oven. I reminded her that just because someone is no longer at the table physically, they are still very present in spirit, memories and hearts.
I don’t know if she followed through with any comfort I tried to offer that night. I hope she did. I cried when I got the news from her brother that she had died on Christmas Day just a few years ago. As another Christmas Day approaches, I’m thinking of her and of her family. I hope her daughter now makes those rolls and sets two places at the Christmas dinner table – one for her son and one for her mother.
On The Run
When you run and you keep running, is it just running away?
Or is it running towards a destination?
Is there a difference?
And if there is – how do you know which it is?
I’m not talking about running for exercise – there is a goal with that. Fitness perhaps. Or just an obsession with movement.
When you are running from the life you are living where is the message in that?
I began wanting to run away from home when I was age three. I didn’t get very far. On a dark early winter evening, a suitcase packed with my doll’s clothes, my doll in my arms. Standing at the front door, on the balls of my feet trying to reach the doorknob. “Where will you go?” asked my mother. “To Aunt Margaret’s” my reply. Only problem with that – I didn’t have an Aunt Margaret and we both knew it. Still, she let me go. Waved me off in fact as I made my way down the stairs from the porch to the sidewalk. And in the dark, I turned to my right and started walking. I didn’t get very far before I turned back and walked through the door saying “Aunt Margaret isn’t home.” And even though I walked through that door, it didn’t feel like I was “home” either.
We repeated this futile dance several times during my childhood. Sometimes it was because I didn’t get my way for something I wanted. Sometimes it was just me having had enough of the tension, the strife and the toxicity of everyday life, with the need to “go”. No idea where I needed to be, but it wasn’t in that house. It was a need to be saved, to feel safe, to be rescued. It was long before I knew my role was to be that of liberator.
When I was age nine, until my tenth birthday, I thought I’d found the place I didn’t need to run from. And while I had been reluctant to make the move to that small town in the Niagara Peninsula, I came to feel at peace with my surroundings. The home life was a bit more settled, though there were undercurrents that I wasn’t aware of because I was so wrapped up in my new freedom and much too young to understand. The idyll didn’t last because only months after my tenth birthday we were right back where we had started, not just the same city, in that same house. Into that same old toxic environment.
And the stirrings of unrest, the desire and the need to flee were being stoked on a regular basis. I had tasted the freedom that my spirit needed, and I was beginning to know too much. What is called in psychology terms as “the unthought known”.
By the age of fourteen I no longer needed to be the runaway. I needed someone else to leave and made clear what the terms were. The conditions were met and I carried a lifetime’s worth of guilt for that ultimatum. My own guilt and that placed upon my child’s shoulders by adults who should have known better, not to mention done better.
Over the last few months my ten year old self has been whispering in my ear. We’ve finally ditched that guilt. We’ve come to terms with where we are in this moment. And we know that while we can’t see the future, we know that the world awaits and there is a path we are meant to take. We took a few detours over the years but we’re ready to realize all those dreams that we started to plan all those years ago. We’re not running this time, we’re walking confidently, hand in hand to whatever awaits.
Being Bold
When the world you inhabit as a child feels unsafe because you never know on what day which emotions are going to strike the wrong chord and the reaction could be a crushing blow – not always physical – usually verbal or emotional – to your wellbeing, you build a wall of self-protection. Not a physical wall, one that is internal and only you know is there. You build it slowly, adding one brick at a time with each hurt, until all that is visible is what you can see if you look up. It’s more than a coat of armor; it is a fortress built to insulate your heart.
You learn that when you are vulnerable and you allow yourself to let that wall down, even just a few bricks because you think, you hope, you pray and you want desperately to believe that enough time has passed and surely, you can come out of hiding, it is never really safe. Because the one that has been your tormentor has been lying in wait for you to re-emerge. And once eye contact has been made you know you were safer with that wall of bricks around you.
Years later you understand that the wall still exists. Oh, you have knocked out some of the bricks so that you can see out but no one has ever really been able to see inside the fortress, to see inside your deepest soul. Until the day you realize that the tormentor has been gone for a very long time and you have yet to meet anyone else like him whose sole reason for being was to keep you small. And you realize that you kept yourself small because you had never learned to or been able to believe in yourself. You had never stood up and said “I’m here and I have value and I am worthy” for fear that you would be ignored or worse, rejected.
And only recently did you begin to kick down the rest of the bricks and step forward from the fortress that was now just rubble and broken bricks. You threw handfuls of them in a show of victory, and just to be sure they were far enough away that you couldn’t begin to put them back in place. You let the sunlight warm your face and your soul. You felt empowered.
And you learned that vulnerability is not a weakness but can be your strength because you’ve decided to be bold, to stand tall and to assume all the space you deserve in the world. You realized that the possibility of being hurt still exists without that wall of defense but it’s worth taking the chance. You know that you can trust your heart and your intuition in that vulnerability and that you were never small, that you are worthy, and that the only path forward is to walk past the wreckage of the fortress you’ve left behind.
Visions of Sugarplums
From the first viewing of holiday specials in early December, every singing of Jingle Bells and Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, every watching of “White Christmas”, “It’s a Wonderful Life” or “Miracle on 34th Street”, my sister’s excitement for Christmas rose like the mercury in a thermometer that’s been warmed by a fever. By Christmas Eve she was almost levitating, unable to sleep because she needed to hear that sleigh and clattering of hoofs hit the rooftop. From the last day of November to the 24th of December my sister was on a single track to her destination, the engineer of the train taking her to visions of sugarplums.
It wasn’t about the toys or the gifts that we would ask for in our letters to Santa. It was the happiness and the joy she wanted. It was her perceived belief that this year, this particular year we were in, Christmas really was going to be just like a holiday depicted on a Hallmark Christmas card. There would be snow, and happy children. There would be prettily wrapped gifts with perfect bows that would glitter under the tree. The tree itself would be decorated while we sang carols and hymns while our father played the piano, and there would be hot chocolate and a tray of the sweet goodies that our mother spent weeks baking, brought out to us as we threw the last of the tinsel on the tree.
Except that wasn’t the reality. The holiday specials, the music and the movies were all possible and enjoyed. The rest of the dream was not reality. The tree was decorated with carols being sung, but the ornaments were never placed where our father thought they should be and the tinsel? He wanted it strung piece by piece, an exercise in futility for two children with small hands, trying to separate the tinsel that has a cling factor of 5,000 and impossible to reach the highest branches. We’d give up and just toss it thinking it looked like real snow on a tree. But without fail, he came back to it after we’d finished and did it the way he wanted.
Christmas morning began tentatively as we’d gauge the mood to see how excited we should be. A little too much enjoyment could cut off gift opening until a later hour, not enough and we were ungrateful and toys put away until he decided we had waited long enough or were grateful enough or he’d had a drink or two.
I learned not to care. I learned that you just played it by ear and Christmas would either be a pleasant enough day with a meal to be enjoyed or a day of yelling and fighting and recrimination and a meal you had to choke down and hope you’d be released from the table as quickly as possible.
My sister carried that Hallmark Christmas in her head her whole life. It was the nirvana she intended to achieve. She bought every magazine she could find that offered recipes, home décor, and outdoor scenes of families frolicking in the snow before sitting down to a meal that came straight from Betty Crocker’s kitchen. A mother whose hair was still perfectly coiffured, a clean apron and a beaming face as she brought that golden turkey to the table to be carved by the father in his tie and cardigan. But the reality of the holiday season for us was depicted best in “National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation” where mishaps occurred, too much time was spent trying to create perfection, the turkey was often overcooked, the tree fell over, and there were no sugarplums to be found anywhere.
We created some wonderful Christmas years after our parents divorced and life became calmer and quieter, our footing more secure. The best Christmas we might have had together was the last one here, in my home, with our mother. The one we didn’t know would be her last. We had older adult family here from out of town and it was utter chaos. Two small children trying to put together Lego and play mini sticks with the older adults (my mother was goalie that day), plenty of rye & gingers, rum & cokes, and wine, a Christmas tree that started to fall over, plenty of food and laughter, wrapping paper from one end of the room to the other, a table cloth ruined by spills. And those same two children who were on sugar highs from too many goodies and chocolate and had room only for mashed potatoes and stuffing. And I wouldn’t have had it any other way.
As for the holiday magazines my sister collected, every year, in her honour, I treat myself to just one. I don’t even need to read it. I just like to have it here, on the coffee table where I can see it. It reminds me of who she was in her deepest soul. It allows me to have hopes & dreams to believe in what magic might happen, and to have my own visions of sugarplums dancing in my head. They look just like my sister always imagined.
Feeling the Beat
The old piano sat in the dining room, taking up more space than there was room for, but when my mother’s cousin, having bought herself a new one, offered her old piano to us, it became a fixture in that dining room until my parents divorced. I have no recollection of what happened to the piano because I never gave it much thought after the age of 8 other than occasionally playing a duet of chopsticks with my sister.
My father was a gifted pianist who could play anything by ear. When our parents had parties, my sister and I would sit at the top of the stairs and listen as people shouted songs they wanted to hear, and he’d make that magic happen.
As a child I would sit on that piano stool, the kind that you had to spin to get to the height you needed to be able to reach the pedals. I was far too short to ever reach the pedals, but I could twirl that seat to get myself situated to put my fingers on the keys. I started tentatively, just one finger here, one finger there wondering what the ivory keys did, and what those long black ones did. Where were the high notes and where the low and what happened right in the middle.
By the age of four, I was able to play simple songs, still just one finger at a time but I’d learned that middle C will take you anywhere you want to go. I had no idea that it was called middle C until later – it was just where that key was placed. By the age of five, as soon as my father realized what I was doing, he insisted that I was ready for piano lessons and he knew just the man, the same one who had taught him and his sisters when they were children. Did anyone think to ask me if I wanted to learn how to do more than plunk out songs with my one finger? Did anyone explain to me what taking lessons would mean? One night a week sitting in a dimly lit room with an old man who would rap my knuckles when I made a mistake. But off we went. My mother and I of course. Not my father whose decision this was.
This piano teacher had the power to decide whether I was worthy of being his pupil. He listened to me plunk out “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star”. Then he gave me the names of other songs and instead of figuring out where the keys were for those notes, he asked me to tap out the songs on the side of the piano. This I later discovered was to determine if I understood tempo and beat (I had the same type of test in grade six when it was being decided if I qualified for the instrumental music programme at the junior high school I was to attend the following year – I did). After some deliberation, it was decided that, despite my young age, I was considered worthy of his time and attention. At a cost to my parents of course.
We progressed well, for the most part, until it came time to begin reading and writing music. I found it difficult at age 6 to make the shift from just hearing something in my head to being able to understand that those circles and semi circles, some with funny looking squiggles represented the places my fingers went on those keys, and for how long they stayed there. I memorized Every Good Boy Deserves Fudge and learned to draw a treble clef (I liked the art part). And let us not forget sharps and flats.
Practicing became a chore. None of my friends were learning piano and I was missing out on play time. My sister was too young yet to do anything but plunk her hands at random spots on the keys believing she was creating beautiful music. I wished I still had that option. The day came when I said “enough” that I was no longer enjoying making music. That sitting on that stool and having to spend hours playing the same song until I could almost do it in my sleep had stolen the joy. By the age of eight I had handed in my notice. I realize now, looking back, that there were other factors happening at that time in my life as well that affected my decision to abandon my father’s dream for me.
For three years in junior high school, I learned to play the clarinet. I was able to read the music; write the music for tests and play for every test I was given. Practicing was no longer a chore, and the love of music was reborn. For two of those three years I played in the school band and that included concert performances. My mother attended them all. My father never bothered to show up. And by grade 10 when I could continue music in high school, life had changed once again, and I dropped instrumental music.
I wish learning to play the piano had been my own idea, one born from an eagerness to do more than just play by what I could hear in my head. Although I no longer play an instrument, I still have the music in me. The love of music, of the songs I hear in my head, the beat, and the rhythm of the instrumentals always move me through my soul, my spirit and my feet.
Paper Chains
After a recent visit to the Winter Market in Toronto, seeing the decorations I expected I’d begin to feel myself embracing the spirit of the season. Not yet. It’s still too early for me to embrace those December feelings of excitement and anticipation. Too early to hear the music that always moves me in a way no other pieces of music can. Too early for carols and hymns of praise and gratitude. Too early even for my beloved “Feliz Navidad” that I can play on a loop to the dismay of anyone nearby, that I’ll dance down an aisle to in any store that has it playing over the speakers.
The walk through that market filled with holiday colour and sparkle triggered a memory. Of my sons when they were young children and the lesson one of them learned, that turned into a learning experience for me as well. Of a teacher who blessed their earliest start in education and learning through the kindergarten years.
Linda (she was Mrs. B. to them) had a way with children that encouraged them to try even when they thought they couldn’t. Her approach to learning, and to life, was that often, the blocks you face are the ones you place in front of yourself.
My oldest is the typical first born. The one who has high expectations of himself and who would stress over an assignment or a project, spending more time planning than actually doing. Procrastination has been the companion of his life, and I take my share of responsibility for his inheritance of that trait. Never one to use the allotted time for a project, an essay or a paper, I’d leave it to the very last minute and still produce something that was graded with high marks. Something I always told myself about doing my best work under pressure. This son is just like his mother in that regard. We can visualize the finished project, but it looms so large in front of us, forming a barrier to getting to where we need to be. So, daunting us, we turn our attention elsewhere and leave that barrier to another day, until there is only the day or the night before that deadline.
We both learned a valuable life lesson in his junior kindergarten year and it’s one that from time to time we’ve reflected on, reminding each other how to face that barrier, to be able to dismantle it.
Around this time in November, one of Linda’s curriculum projects had the students creating paper chains. They were to make two of these chains – one to drape on the tree at home and one to use at home as an advent calendar, one chain broken off each day to count down to Christmas Eve. Each chain required 24 strips of paper, and they would be glued together to form the chain. A very easy little project for 4- and 5-year-olds to manage (I should mention here that children are different – my younger son had no issues with this project when he was in that class). When I arrived to collect my son from school that morning, Linda took me aside to explain what had happened during their craft activity (which was less about crafting and more about dexterity and problem solving as it turned out).
Sat at his little table was my son with 48 small strips of paper facing him. He was completely overwhelmed by the task he was to complete because all he could see was the finished product. He wasn’t seeing the small steps necessary to achieve that final goal. He sat, staring at the desk without making a single chain. Linda sat with him and when she asked him why he was so hesitant my son replied, “I’ll never get it done.” Reassuring him that he would indeed get it done, she picked up the first strip, and she glued to the two ends together. Then she asked him to do one, looping his through the hoop she had just created and he did. Linda repeated the process with him a few more times until she saw that my son was able to continue by himself. As she moved on to another student, she reminded him that it was just one loop at a time, one step at a time, one piece at a time. She told him that you don’t just go from A to Z, you have to follow all of the letters from start to finish.
As we walked home that morning, my son and I talked about how we both learned something that day. Do we still follow that rule? I’d say not always given how this son managed assignments later in his school life. But it does come to the forefront at times of great challenge when it is really necessary. It kept me going through cancer treatment, knowing that as tedious and difficult as it was, everything had to happen in order, one step at a time.
That first teacher left a deeply lasting impression on that young boy for more reasons than just how to approach daunting tasks but that one lesson has had the most impact. He’s a teacher now himself, reminding his students how to do things one step at a time.
Rewrite
One of the projects I set for myself many years ago was to complete a written family history. I’m the last one of my maternal generation who remembers and it seemed important, no, imperative that I do this. Years of research have gathered much more information than I could ever have hoped to find. I’m still learning new things about the past. All of that information made writing a history a much larger project than it really needed to be and so I set myself this monumental task. The idea of it seemed doable but the actual completion felt like a mountain I was never going to be able to climb.
Many times, I thought of new ways to approach the task. And nothing ever came across as genuine or authentic. I’d give up in frustration and think I might just be wasting my time. I’d check in with my sons and ask them if this was something they’d like to have and they would encourage me to do it, so I would keep going.
A few months ago, my computer died. As all things must do eventually. The chapters I have written were backed up so I wasn’t too concerned, but as I discovered not all were. The ones I had written about my sister disappeared but for some unknown reason, I hadn’t backed up that file. I was bereft and angry with myself, but I knew I could write them again. And yet I haven’t done so. Something has been holding me back. As if she’s leaning over my shoulder, whispering in my ear, “That’s not it. That’s not the story I want you to share about me. Tell it all and tell it in a way that isn’t just how you remember me.” My sister’s death still haunts me. Her unexpected death of a pulmonary embolism at a young age is something that I still find hard to accept.
I wrote her eulogy and said all the words of love I hadn’t said to her as often as I wished I had. I let the people who came to mourn her hear the words they wanted to hear – of the person they knew. The bright, sunny, funny young woman who always hid from even her closest friends, the pain she carried in her heart. I thought I was protecting her. And maybe I did the right thing on that occasion. I want to believe that is true.
Recently I read a quote that has stayed with me:
“The first draft is just you telling yourself the story.”
Terry Pratchett
I didn’t lose what I’d written when that computer bit the dust. I gained the insight that I was missing. I can still tell the story of who my sister was to me and what she meant in my life. But the story is not about me. The story is about her and who she was in this world.
Final Instructions
No sooner had the door closed behind us as we were leaving the funeral home after the visitation for the father of my son’s close friend, than the conversation began as we walked towards the car.
My son looked at me in all seriousness and nodding his head backwards towards that cold, white building, said “So, would you want something like that when the time comes?” “That” meaning an open casket, people sitting in contemplation and then making small talk in a lounge, offering words of comfort, recalling the life of the deceased as well as the awkwardness of people who might not know the words to say.
The conversation continued in the car as we drove home just as have so many of the best, deepest, conversations he and I have shared over the years while driving to one sports commitment or another. Enclosed spaces, like the confessional, offer the opportunity for privacy, intimacy, and openness. Those conversations formed a bond that lasts and has deepened all these years later.
Talking about death was the kind of conversation we had not had years ago when he was too young to contemplate death or what happens afterward. This son was a young child when my mother and then my sister died within 2 years of one another. 5 years after that I was diagnosed with cancer and once again he saw loss looming on the horizon. Fear of death was a constant companion for many years of that young life. We did our best to work through that by talking about life and death in terms he could understand. As the years have passed, death and dying has come up in casual conversation, remembering funerals of family members, or a reference made that would prompt a comment from me like “do not when writing my obituary say I lost my battle with cancer or I will haunt you to the ends of the earth” followed by teasing and laughter.
I have written five obituary notices and I have written six eulogies. None of them easy to do and in most cases the deaths were so sudden that there was no time to have ever had any discourse with the person who died as to what they would like as their time on this earth reached the last page in their book of a life. To write someone’s obituary and their eulogy is a privilege. Summing up a life in a condensed essay is a challenge as you strive to do justice to what the person’s presence has meant to you in your own life, to the lives of others and to the world. How we wish others to remember us depends in large part on how we behave towards others and how we conduct ourselves in the world. The sad fact of any eulogy is that the person being honoured does not hear the words of praise, love, affection, and remembrance. We too often save our highest praise and our fondest memories about someone for others to bear witness. Sadly, we rarely share those thoughts with the individual to whom it would have such meaning. Why do we resist telling someone how we feel about them, how they make us feel, how they have inspired us or encouraged us? We need to do that and do it often.
I told my son that I really don’t want “all of that.” I would prefer no funeral. I hope to have my ashes spread in a body of water where I can gently float away, or in any location my sons select that brings them comfort and tranquility. If they feel better having a funeral, then so be it. If they would rather throw a party, surrounding themselves with the people who mean the most to them they could do that. I hope my children will tell stories about me that will make them laugh. I have done my best to provide plenty of those moments.
It was an important conversation to have – acknowledging that this will be a reality my son will at some point face. He may recall all of the things we discussed or, as can happen with grief, he may forget. We both hope this information won’t be necessary for some time to come, but as we have experienced far too often, life has its own agenda. Recalling that October afternoon conversation, I’m attaching a note with all the other important papers that will be needed when the time comes, with a reminder of my only important directive. To remember that this badass warrior did not lose any battles to cancer or otherwise, and that she lived fully the life she was given in the time she was blessed to be granted.
Hell of A Badass Warrior
As a child I had no idea how strong I was. I was raised by a narcissist whose sole aim in life was to keep me (and my sister but in a different way) small and under his controlling thumb.
By the age of 14 I’d had enough. And I spoke out. He’d have said I spoke back. Call it whatever you like – he had his perspective, I had mine. Ultimately, I grey rocked him and didn’t speak to him from the age of 17. That’s another “little” story of my life.
A bully crossed my path at the age of 7. She hid in the bushes on the route to school and when I’d walk by, she’d jump out and taunt me, push me and once even spit on me. I just kept walking. Did it bother me? Deeply. But I knew from living with a narcissist that you don’t give them fodder. You ignore them.
As an adult I met a number of bullies through my sons and their hockey teams. I was asked to be team manager by the coach on more than one team, and I did the job well. I was the buffer between the parents and the coach, and I took on the role to make sure that every player had a voice and opportunity, and that there were no parents seeking special treatment (some hockey parents are notorious for that). These bullies were men and there was one woman. I dealt with the worst of that while undergoing treatment for cancer. Bullies have no empathy (among other things) so in their eyes that only made me more vulnerable and an easier target. So they thought.
What I know about those who bully - they don’t like it when you are well liked by others, or you are confident or assured. They don’t like it if you care about other people and they definitely don’t like it if you are genuine and authentic. They would love to be all of those things but as they lack the capacity for self awareness and empathy it’s impossible. Their envy can consume them.
When cancer came along that’s when my true strength rose up on its hind legs. I became a hell of a warrior. I often referred to myself as David, cancer my Goliath. Bullies and narcissists fall into the same category as Goliath.
The only way to deal with these personalities is to grey rock in the case of someone in real life. Online, the next best thing is ignoring them. People who want to harass and bully want you to feel threatened, to feel fear and to see you cower. They like to play with you like a cat and a mouse. They want to bring you down. Ignoring them? It can be dangerous, but you don’t feed a troll whether they are invisible behind their keyboards, or you know exactly who they are.
Taking a Stand
“Fight for the things that you care about.
But do it in a way that will lead others to join you.
~ Ruth Bader Ginsburg
As a child my opinions were never asked for by my parents. It isn’t that I didn’t have any - I had plenty, but in my father’s house, children were seen and not heard and the reality that you were permitted to speak when you were spoken to. It’s the way he was raised and the way his father was raised. That stopped with me when I had my own children. As children we learn by asking questions and if you aren’t allowed to ask or to question something you’ve been told, you are bound to make mistakes. There were penalties for both of those things in my father’s house - questioning and making mistakes.
Until the age of 14 I thought that my opinions were insignificant and so I rarely offered one in class. I sat quietly at my desk and when it came time for questions about what we were learning I hoped and prayed that I would be invisible and overlooked, another more confident child called upon. On the occasions when I was chosen, I was always surprised when I either had the correct answer or said something that the teacher took on board and agreed with. The times when I made a mistake filled me with shame and embarrassment, reluctant to try again.
Life in our house took a turn for the better when I was 15 and when it did, I found my self-confidence which enabled me to begin to trust my voice and my opinions. I could be wrong and be corrected and while it was often hard to take criticism, I learned that if I respected and trusted the person giving the correction it was easier to deal with and another lesson learned. There was still timidity in choosing to speak out, to contribute to group discussion but with each teacher who encouraged that, courage began to take over.
I learned to debate at age 17 with my history teacher - in a class he also taught on politics - and to question his opinions when he seemed to be over enthusiastic (this man also oversaw the Student Parliament, so he was quite keen). If I tell you he was a staunch Conservative and I am not and at the time not even eligible to vote, it is easy for me to see where my political leanings began. In that class I sat in the front row, almost in front of the teacher’s desk, unusual for me, who always sat closer to the back of any classroom. I enjoyed that front row seat. To assess my ability to focus, when we would sit a test, this man would toss cheerios at me (no other student, just me) as I wrote, trying to break my concentration and to see if I could stay the course without breaking. I learned to gather the cereal on the desk and to his laughter, I’d either eat them, or toss them back, all while my pen continued to scribble.
I remember this after a day when I believed that an unseen person on social media wished to still my voice. Even with a small following, my posts sometimes go viral because of the algorithm, not necessarily because of what I have shared. I share my thoughts/opinions, and I encourage others to share their voices. It is always done with respect and discernment. I often use humour because sometimes things in political life are farcical.
I am not alone in feeling that my voice is small and might make no difference in the larger world. One voice is often unheard. Two or more makes a sound. Many voices create a roar that can echo around the world, and that can lead to change. I will never stop speaking up, speaking out and encouraging others to join me. Not only with regard to politics. There are so many areas in life where opinions matter and if you keep your thoughts to yourself, you might never know the difference you make — to yourself and to others who are listening, waiting to hear more.
Suspended - Again
Social media is a wonderful tool for keeping in touch, for sharing thoughts, for creating content.
When it works.
In the middle of the day today, suddenly I was denied access to my Instagram and by default, Threads accounts. Suspended I’m told.
Because I broke “community standards”. Of course they don’t tell you “which” standards you’ve broken and you wrack your brain trying to think what you might have said or shared that was declaring you “null and void”.
Anyone who has visited either my Instagram or Threads pages will know there’s not much to me. I’m polite, I’m respectful. I share positive thoughts and ideas. I crack a joke now and then — or to me they’re jokes, others might find them silly nonsense. But I doubt they’re offensive. I make it a point to try to never offend anyone else.
I don’t have a lot of followers, certainly in comparison to a lot of other accounts. I’m not a presence on social media because I want followers. I chose to be part of a collective to engage with other people, to share ideas and I have been lucky enough to have met some really wonderful people with whom I share laughter and life experience.
To have this happen to me twice within a short period of time indicates to me that someone might be reporting me. Maybe they dislike my content or maybe there’s a glitch in the system. Or maybe there’s a larger message here for me to take away.
I know this. I have survived much worse in this life than being told I am not welcome. There are bigger rooms and there is more to life than being “accepted or rejected”.
The Meta “gods” might decide to give me another chance. Or they might not. I know this. I’ll survive just fine. I always do.
Always Right
No matter how often my younger sister and I would argue over a point or a fact or an opinion, she was always right. And it was imperative to her that she let me know she was right and that I admit that I was wrong or if she was generous, that I hadn’t been quite correct. Why did I ever believe I would beat her at a game or a fact or superior knowledge I have no idea, but I stayed committed to the effort. I believed that sooner or later she would slip up, and I would appear victorious. Never happened.
From her youngest years, from before she could read to herself, she wanted to hear the same stories. “Blueberries for Sal” and “Harry the Dirty Dog” were the favourites. Trips to the library meant returning the books, going to the children’s section, having a look at the shelves and her turning to me to say, “I would like “Blueberries and Harry please.” The library had multiple copies but if one of those copies was missing from the shelf, she would ask me to go back to the desk and ask if we could have the book back, please.
When she was older books held little interest. I would have stacks of reading material and offer one to her and she would shake her head and say it took too much time to get involved in a story. She preferred poetry and magazines. It’s not that she had a short attention span, she just needed the space to cram in as much information as she could in as short a time as possible.
One afternoon I found her curled up in the big chair, engrossed in a very large book. Flipping the pages at speed, she nodded, smiled and flipped another page. I wandered over to have a look at what could be so fascinating to the girl who wouldn’t even read a Nancy Drew mystery. I did a double take, looked again and said “Are you reading the Guiness Book of World Records?” to a vigorous nod of the head and an exclamation that it was “fascinating.” That child absorbed information and filed it in a vault for future use.
Roll forward to the two of us adults, enjoying an evening with a group made up of family and friends. Someone suggested “Trivial Pursuit” (you can guess who that would be) and off we went to tangle with things we knew, things we thought we knew and things we didn’t know at all. One of the answers in the entertainment section was Carly Simon’s “You’re So Vain” which seems innocent enough. But this led to a discussion by the group about the lyrics of the song and an argument ensued that we all took part in, but my sister and I fought to the death. The others didn’t share our “I’m right and you’re wrong” history. The group – minus my sister – thought the lyric was “you had one eye in the mirror, as you watched yourself go by; And all the girls dreamed that they’d be your partner.” Why did we think that? A vain man would watch himself “go by”. It’s what we heard with our ears. To which my sister informed us all that the line was actually “you had one eye in the mirror, as your watched yourself gavotte.” Cue argument over the word gavotte and why it would be in a song about a vain man. The evening ended late and in a standoff.
Days after that evening I received a visit from my sister, dictionary in hand and a printout of the lyrics to the song. She simply handed both to me, page open to “gavotte” and waited the way that she had of a straight face and eyes that said “I’m waiting.” When I finished reading, she smiled and nodded as I choked out “I was wrong” but that wasn’t what she wanted – she wanted “you were right. I was wrong.” Massive throat clearing to get that out.
She was Taurus through and through and I’m a Sagittarius to the core. Earth and fire. We know what happens to fire when it is overpowered by earth. Fire doesn’t stand a chance. I’d give anything for the two of us to have another argument so I could quite happily say freely and breezily, “You were right. You were always right.”
Football, First Love and Fulfillment
How you speak to children from the youngest age sets the stage for how they see themselves, builds their confidence and allows them to grow into how they will fit into the world. Encouragement and praise foster confidence and a desire to continue to challenge and try new things. Disparagement and scorn keep a child small, fearful and unsure of their ability.
Every November during my childhood at Grey Cup time (Canadian Football League) my father would host a watch party for the neighbours. There was an abundance of beer and food that my mother continually prepared, and it was my job to serve it. The women stayed in the kitchen and the men were in the living room. That’s just the way it was. My sister, who loved football, always stayed to watch the game. One year I was asked to stay by one of the older boys that I had been secretly in love with for as long as I could remember. It was like a rite of passage. I had no interest in the game and found it confusing. But that didn’t matter because room was made for me beside him and that was enough. He tried to explain things as they happened, and I just nodded and looked like I understood. I was in a daze.
After the game, the older boys discussed their future education plans and hope for potential careers. Each of the boys present was asked by my father what he hoped to study with praise and encouragement from him after they spoke. When it came to “the” boy he said he thought he’d go into law (he did) and while he had a real chance at making a professional hockey team (he was drafted), he preferred something solid as his base. High praise from my father there indeed.
Sadly, “the” boy made the mistake of asking me what I thought I’d like to do with my life, and my future. While I was thrilled that he seemed genuinely interested I wished he hadn’t asked because I knew what might happen, but feeling it was safe and I could trust him, I said with such enthusiasm, “oh I’m going to be a writer.” He then asked in what way – did I want to write books, or be a journalist? I said I didn’t know for certain, but I just knew I had words that needed to be shared, a voice to be heard, stories to tell and told him of the stories I had already written and kept in a box. He smiled “that” smile at me and said he knew I’d be great. I was elated.
And then the hammer fell as I knew it would and I came crashing back to earth. Laughter, loud and long from my father. And comments that wounded for far too many years. In a room full of people who lived around me and had known me since my youngest years the shame was acute. And worse, the humiliation of it in front of “the” boy. Being told I could never do that and who would want to hear anything I would have to say. Better to think of something else I could do. The words pierced my heart. And a dream died a painful death. That night the box was opened and the words I’d already spilled on pages and pages were ripped up and thrown away.
The tragedy is that for far too many years I believed that I would never be good enough and would never measure up. I wrote in journals, and I found other outlets for all those words, but they were private and never shared with anyone else. Because I believed that they would not be well received or there would be scorn and ridicule. I believed I wasn’t enough.
Of course, years later, as an adult I realized why I was kept small. A parent who cannot live with a child having a gift or wanting to pursue a dream has issues of their own. The need to control and set limits stems from not wanting that child to have a better life than they have. It is competition. The fact that “the” boy seemed to take an interest in me was another factor. I might turn my attention elsewhere and see myself as other people saw me and the goal was to diminish me in the eyes of that young man.
I could have chosen to believe “the” boy, followed my heart and allowed a gift I was given to flourish. But I was too young, and he was temporary and out of my life longer than he was ever in it. My father was the constant and what we learn from our parents is what shapes us first and foremost.
Keeping a gift hidden and not shared is a disservice. I am writing and putting my words into the universe now because it demands it of me. Having no formal education in the field, I write casually, from the heart and my spirit. I write as I speak. It suits me. I told my children when they were young to follow their hearts and dreams. I still tell them to “go for it” when they think they have something to offer or want to experience. I’m famous for seeing gifts in others and telling them to write that book or create that art and to fulfill the purpose of their lives. It took me too many years to learn to parent myself, open the cage I’d been kept in, fly out and fulfill my own dreams and purpose.
Sometimes you must listen with your heart and not your head. Sometimes the right person will come along and say just the words you need to hear that remind you of your worth and your potential. Sometimes things work out the way you hope and sometimes they don’t. But if you only listen to and believe the negative opinions of others, don’t listen to your own heart and never try to fly, how will you ever know what possibility awaits?
Grief, Loss and Love
The first week of November is a bleak one for me, one of sorrow and sadness. The grey sky, lack of sunlight, constant cloud cover that often brings cold, damp rain, the branches on the trees standing starkly, vulnerable, and naked are the visual representations of the hollowness of grief and sorrow I feel.
My maternal grandfather was the world to me. He was the sun, the moon, the stars, and the person who loved me unconditionally simply because I was me. I did not have to perform or please or try to figure out the rules as they changed daily in my world. When he came to visit, I knew that calm days were mine and I could be silly and behave as any child under the age of eight would. We shared the same joke every time he came for lunch, and he laughed even though he knew what was coming. He reacted with clear surprise when the punch line came, as though it was a joke he had never heard.
Three weeks before my eighth birthday my world came to a crushing stop. This giant of a man died unexpectedly. My parents informed me that he was unwell before leaving my sister and me with a babysitter on the evening of the seventh. When I woke the next day, I asked my father how my grandfather was and he starkly told me “Sorry kiddo, he died.” The shock froze me in place for a moment and then I did what seemed natural. I hid in the closet in my bedroom with my springer spaniel where I could cry in private, not knowing how my vulnerability might be held against me. I could not understand how my grandfather could be here in this world one day and then suddenly just “gone.” My first experience with death and loss. Once I appeared from my cocoon no one had any answers for me that helped me to make sense of this moment. First loss of love, first feeling of abandonment, the first meeting with grief that would walk alongside me for the rest of my life.
The world seemed to end that day. My best friend and protector had left me. Who was I going to be without him? Who would laugh at my silly jokes or tell me I looked good in plaid? Who would teach me how to snap my fingers or whistle on a blade of grass? Who would call me by that special nickname? Who would make me laugh with his silly stories and silly songs? Who would lift me up and wipe the tears when I fell and say, “I’ve got you.”
The funeral was a few days later and despite begging and pleading with my parents I was firmly denied the opportunity to attend. Told that I was too young. Or I might be frightened. Or I might not understand. They wanted to protect me they said – people who thought they were protecting me denying me the opportunity to say goodbye. The guilt I felt for not being there for my grandfather when he had been there countless times for me. Just gone. Without me.
A little more than a year later my father decided that we were moving for his job. My sister and I were promised we’d be getting our own bedrooms – to soften and sweeten the blow of having to leave the place we knew best. There was one condition though. We couldn’t bring my spaniel (she was a gift to me when I was 7) because the man we were renting the house from did not allow dogs. Told to sacrifice at age 9. To take the bedroom to myself and give up the dog I loved as much as the grandfather I’d lost. To be put in that position with no say in the matter was heart breaking.
We lived in that new town for one year and moved right back to where we had started. Minus my dog, who I had been told the year before by my father was taken to the farm of a friend of my aunt’s. I was reminded that the spaniel needed room to run and a farm was going to be the perfect home for her.
When I was two or three years older of course I realized, my dog had never gone to a farm. Or I suppose you could refer to a place to be euthanized a farm. I questioned why my parents did not find a house to rent that did allow pets but was never given an answer. I was struck by how callously the life of an animal could be extinguished ultimately for nothing. And I felt once again not only loss and grief but the added feeling of betrayal.
Old grief when it rises to the surface is as fresh as new grief. It lives in your soul in a quiet corner it has carved out and waits for the moment when you hear it calling to say “hello, do you remember me?” It is love that has never died that has woven itself into your heart in tiny stitches that break open just a little as you remember and reflect on the love and the loss.
Sitting with grief is picking up a needle and thread and putting those stitches back together, slowly, and tenderly and whispering all the memories, the moments, and the love back in place. Until the next time grief rises to say, “Come with me. I’ve got you.”
On Fear. And Lost and Found
Recently I found a bracelet that I had long forgotten about. Tucked in a drawer I very rarely look in I was surprised to see it, along with another, that I had put away I suppose for safe keeping and as often happens with a safekeeping spot it becomes so safe that it has been forgotten.
This dainty, delicate bracelet with exceedingly small beads was the last Christmas gift given to me by my younger sister who died so unexpectedly exactly one month to the day post-Christmas. I might have worn the bracelet three or four times before deciding it might break, and I would be heartbroken to lose this last symbolic gesture from my sister.
When I opened the box and saw this delicate piece of craftsmanship, I did not fail to notice that each bead hung on the thinnest, stretchy, plastic wire. I knew that if that wire should break, I could take it to a jeweler and have the beads restrung. But then it would no longer be the bracelet that my sister had chosen, held in her hands, and wrapped so carefully for me. After her death, the bracelet went into the drawer and out of sight. Fear leading me to make that decision. Fear of further loss.
Could I break this delicate bracelet? Absolutely as I am not as graceful as my sister believed me to be. From early age with a hearing loss in one ear my balance has been off – I sometimes walk into the person I’m walking with, I can trip over my own feet and I often stumble in my hurry to get where I’m going. If there is a doorknob or a handle in my way, I will snag myself on it. I sometimes move with the grace of a hippopotamus while imagining I look like a gazelle. Not always, but often enough. I have never seen myself as delicate or dainty. But my sister did. She saw something I had never seen in myself. Until now.
Yes, I am strong, and I wear a suit of armour at times because it protects me from being vulnerable. But underneath that armour my sister could see “who” I really am and who I was to her. Her gifts, which were always of the ultra-feminine, delicate type, were a message to me to see that inner swan.
My sister would be shaking her head over me denying myself the pleasure of this bracelet for as long as I have done. But I wear it now and I’ll put the fear of what might happen aside and think more about the joy that I’ll feel as it slides along my wrist and it makes me think of her and all the times she stood on the sidelines, cheering me on, wanting me to the be the best version of myself possible. What if it breaks? Oh, but what if it doesn’t.
Let It Go
Whatever you are holding on to, whatever is holding you back, whatever feels like it no longer serves, maybe today is the day you let it go.
A new month on the cusp, and who knows what possibilities await if we’ve made space, and with open hearts and open hands, we are ready to receive and embrace what is truly meant for us.
Like a tree shedding its leaves, we too can let go to replenish and nurture the start of something that might serve us better than anything we ever dreamed possible.
Full Circle
We are a baseball family. From two boys who have played it throughout their lives, from t-ball to house league, to travelling select teams until reaching the age of moving on to higher education and studies assuming much of their free time. As parents we managed teams, functioned as score keepers and we drove them to wherever their games were scheduled. On nights or weekends when both boys were playing, we divvied up the driving and often acted as a surrogate parent, bringing other players whose parents were unable to get away from work to be there. As a family we watched on tv, we attended games and took vacations that centred around watching Major League and Minor League Ball games.
One such trip took us to California where we drove up the Pacific Coast Highway beginning with San Diego and a Padres game, to Los Angeles where we took in a Dodgers game and finishing with San Francisco and a Giants game. We took in all the other tourist spots as we did that drive up the coast, but the focus was always intended to be baseball. The boys sampled the hot dogs at each park and the oldest declared the best he’d ever had was at Giants Stadium. Not eating the things myself, I took him at his word. And to date, from all the other major league baseball stadiums we’ve visited (Skydome (it will always be such), the former Miller Park, Fenway, and Wrigley Field), that San Francisco hot dog holds the number one spot.
Baseball and life have come full circle this weekend for the youngest who was privileged to attend Game 2 of the World Series between the Toronto Blue Jays and Los Angeles Dodgers last night.
When we were in Los Angeles to see the Dodgers, it was Mother’s Day, and the team had players standing at the entrance handing a rose to every woman who entered. Before the game started they held a ceremony to honour those who were dealing with or knew someone who had breast cancer.
At last night’s game, to honour those who have been dealing with cancer or lost someone they love to the disease, those in attendance were given signs on which to write the name of someone they remember. During a Stand Up To Cancer performance these signs were held up throughout the Rogers Centre.
Baseball is not just a game. It not only offers the opportunity to create family memories it is a metaphor for life. You take a chance at an opportunity that is thrown toward you. You might hit that ball out of the park, you might hit it just enough to get where you need to be for the next part of your journey, or you might strike out. And if you’re lucky, you get another opportunity to swing that bat and who knows what might happen when you connect with the ball, hear that crack, and take yourself to places you might only ever dream of. The key is to remember you are not alone on the field. There are other players on your team who are cheering you on so you keep trying, keep swinging, slide if necessary but the secret lies in believing in yourself, in your potential and that you will connect with any number of possibilities thrown your way. Even if you get there by walking, one base at a time.